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mustache. “We took all the necessary precautions.” He shone a torch on the ground between them.
    Wolfe shrugged. “Okay, from five hundred meters, then.” He glanced down at his victim. “You all right?”
    Rommel nodded. “Take more than that to break any of my bones,” he said, glaring at the taller man.
    “Good. The Special Air Service is proud of you.” Wolfe slipped his knife back into its sheath. “Well, slightly.”
    “Can we get back to the Land Rover now?” Geronimo asked.
    Wolfe’s expression grew more serious. “You must be joking. We’re staying on the moor for another night. Don’t worry. It’s only a six-mile hike to the bivouac.”
    The other two exchanged glances and then grinned.
    “Better get going, then,” Rommel said, picking up his blade.
    Wolfe nodded. “Good. I reckon you two are just about ready for our little jaunt to the big city.”
    They took a bearing and started walking northeast.
    “How did you do it?” Geronimo asked after several minutes of rapid movement over the sparsely covered plateau. “How did you creep up on us?”
    There was a long silence as their leader sniffed the wind. “I used all my experience and fieldcraft.” He looked down a long valley, apparently sensing something in the dark. “And I had a purpose. You know that training ops like this are useless without a purpose.”
    “And the purpose is to track down the bastard who you reckon did for one of us,” Rommel said.
    “Correct. No one, repeat no one, fucks with an SAS sergeant, even if he’s retired like Wellington was. Whoever it was is going to die in agony.” Wolfe cocked an ear and raised his right arm. “They’re down by the stream. Two of them. They must have got separated from their little friends.”
    Rommel and Geronimo drew closer.
    “Exmoor pony for dinner again?” the latter asked, his voice level.
    “Unless you’ve got a better idea,” Wolfe replied.
    The three men whose combat names had been chosen from warriors of old moved silently down the track in search of prey, their eyes reflecting the moon’s cold light.

6
    I looked at Sara, my lower jaw dropping. The five grand. What the hell was I going to tell her?
    “I’m waiting, Matt,” she said, her eyes locked on me. Sara had a disconcerting way of going from very loving to dead serious in a split second.
    “Ah, right.” I went over to the bed. “It’s…it’s money.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Very funny. Is it yours?” She glanced down. “There must be thousands here.”
    “Um, five,” I said, racking my brains for a credible explanation. “Five thousand.”
    “Five thousand pounds in cash?” Sara picked up one of the bundles and sniffed it. “What did you do? Rob a bank?”
    “No, of course not. It’s…it’s a down payment.”
    “On what?”
    I had it. “Actually,” I said, sitting down beside her, “it’s a bit embarrassing.”
    “Don’t worry,” she said with a laugh. “I love embarrassment.”
    “Bloody journalists,” I said, receiving an elbow in my ribs. “Ow. Bastard journalists.” I gave her a playful push.
    “I’m waiting,” she said, her expression serious again.
    I looked her in the eye. I’d read how FBI agents were trained to do that, how it put them in a position of strength. “Well, I’ve been asked to ghostwrite the autobiography of a gangland enforcer.” I’d also read somewhere that, if you’re going to lie, you should keep as close to the truth as you can.
    Sara seemed to have bought it. “Who?”
    “I can’t tell you that. I’ve been sworn to secrecy until the book’s finished.” I clenched my fists and raised them. “And you don’t want to mess with this guy, know ‘wot’ I mean?”
    A smile spread across her lips. “I might be prepared to pay for the information,” she said, sliding a hand across my thigh. “Up front, know ‘wot’ I mean?”
    “That is an atrocious attempt at Cockney.”
    She slapped my leg. “And yours was better?”
    I