lost amid the intoxicating clouds of sweet opium, all the way back to her flight from England and, then, to the events that had forced her to leave.
There had been an operation in London. Group Fifteen had been tasked with eliminating two targets. They were given no information on the targets, which was standard operating procedure, but she later discovered that they were supposed to have been dealing contraband weapons to the Syrians. That was the cover story, but it wasn’t true. They were Russian agents and Control, the man Michael Pope had replaced, had been caught like a rat in a trap. He was corrupt and rather than face the choice of flipping or being burnt, he had ordered them both to be executed. The operation had been Milton’s first and he had frozen. She had killed one of the agents and a Spetsnaz bodyguard, but the other one, a man named Shcherbatov, had escaped. She retrieved intel from the wreck of the car they had sprayed with bullets and discovered the truth behind the hit. She confronted Control and he had reacted in the way that cornered rats most often react.
He had attacked.
That memory was especially fresh. She remembered the little details: the crisp day in early autumn; the bright blue sky with scudding clouds; the way the sunlight shone against the red of their freshly painted front door.
The five agents who had been waiting for her in her house.
Number Five: Lydia Chisholm.
Number Eight: Oliver Spenser.
Number Nine: Connor English.
Number Ten: Joshua Joyce.
Number Eleven: Bryan Duffy.
She remembered her husband on the settee in the front room, his arm around a three-year-old Isabella.
Chisholm shot Lucas in the face and managed to put a shot into Beatrix’s shoulder before she had thrust the point of a letter opener into her neck.
Beatrix would have killed every last one of them, but they had Isabella. It had been a stalemate: as long as they had her, there was nothing Beatrix could do.
She had escaped the country and stayed away for eight years. Isabella had been swallowed up by the foster system, her name changed, kept hidden from her mother. Milton had forced Control to give her up. Her grandparents had taken her until Beatrix was able to get into the country to be reunited her.
Now it was a question of settling scores.
How many of them were left?
Was Chisholm dead? That would need to be confirmed.
She had murdered Spenser in the grounds of a dacha in Plyos, north of Moscow. She had drawn a line through his name, etched his rose on her arm.
Three or four of them remained to be dealt with.
Plus Control.
Especially Control.
But Joyce would be next.
Beatrix used her memories. They were her fuel. She looked up at the second floor and the room where her daughter was sleeping as the fire she recognised so well took hold, scorching away her doubts and reservations. Her will was irrelevant. She had no choice. She did not have the luxury of the softer option. If any of those agents found out that she was still alive, they would come for her. They were all peerless killers. Machines that would keep coming and coming and coming until she was dead. They would have the advantage of surprise and there would be nothing that Beatrix would be able to do to stop them. Isabella would be in the gravest danger and that was something that she would not permit.
No.
Not again.
She had no choice.
She would invest the time that was necessary to wipe away every single threat that might threaten her precious little girl. She had been absent throughout her childhood and making her future safe would be her way of making amends.
A mother’s gift to her child.
CHAPTER NINE
BEATRIX AWOKE a little later than normal. She was usually up at five but it was six today. Her body preparing itself, perhaps, for the difficult task that was ahead. She showered, sloughing away the torpor of sleep, and then stood in front of the mirror to inspect her reflection. Her life in Hong Kong had been unhealthy and she
There had been an operation in London. Group Fifteen had been tasked with eliminating two targets. They were given no information on the targets, which was standard operating procedure, but she later discovered that they were supposed to have been dealing contraband weapons to the Syrians. That was the cover story, but it wasn’t true. They were Russian agents and Control, the man Michael Pope had replaced, had been caught like a rat in a trap. He was corrupt and rather than face the choice of flipping or being burnt, he had ordered them both to be executed. The operation had been Milton’s first and he had frozen. She had killed one of the agents and a Spetsnaz bodyguard, but the other one, a man named Shcherbatov, had escaped. She retrieved intel from the wreck of the car they had sprayed with bullets and discovered the truth behind the hit. She confronted Control and he had reacted in the way that cornered rats most often react.
He had attacked.
That memory was especially fresh. She remembered the little details: the crisp day in early autumn; the bright blue sky with scudding clouds; the way the sunlight shone against the red of their freshly painted front door.
The five agents who had been waiting for her in her house.
Number Five: Lydia Chisholm.
Number Eight: Oliver Spenser.
Number Nine: Connor English.
Number Ten: Joshua Joyce.
Number Eleven: Bryan Duffy.
She remembered her husband on the settee in the front room, his arm around a three-year-old Isabella.
Chisholm shot Lucas in the face and managed to put a shot into Beatrix’s shoulder before she had thrust the point of a letter opener into her neck.
Beatrix would have killed every last one of them, but they had Isabella. It had been a stalemate: as long as they had her, there was nothing Beatrix could do.
She had escaped the country and stayed away for eight years. Isabella had been swallowed up by the foster system, her name changed, kept hidden from her mother. Milton had forced Control to give her up. Her grandparents had taken her until Beatrix was able to get into the country to be reunited her.
Now it was a question of settling scores.
How many of them were left?
Was Chisholm dead? That would need to be confirmed.
She had murdered Spenser in the grounds of a dacha in Plyos, north of Moscow. She had drawn a line through his name, etched his rose on her arm.
Three or four of them remained to be dealt with.
Plus Control.
Especially Control.
But Joyce would be next.
Beatrix used her memories. They were her fuel. She looked up at the second floor and the room where her daughter was sleeping as the fire she recognised so well took hold, scorching away her doubts and reservations. Her will was irrelevant. She had no choice. She did not have the luxury of the softer option. If any of those agents found out that she was still alive, they would come for her. They were all peerless killers. Machines that would keep coming and coming and coming until she was dead. They would have the advantage of surprise and there would be nothing that Beatrix would be able to do to stop them. Isabella would be in the gravest danger and that was something that she would not permit.
No.
Not again.
She had no choice.
She would invest the time that was necessary to wipe away every single threat that might threaten her precious little girl. She had been absent throughout her childhood and making her future safe would be her way of making amends.
A mother’s gift to her child.
CHAPTER NINE
BEATRIX AWOKE a little later than normal. She was usually up at five but it was six today. Her body preparing itself, perhaps, for the difficult task that was ahead. She showered, sloughing away the torpor of sleep, and then stood in front of the mirror to inspect her reflection. Her life in Hong Kong had been unhealthy and she
Similar Books
