The Hunter

CHAPTER 85

Falls Church, Virginia, USA

Saturday, three weeks later

22:49 EST

Curtains rippled. The breeze from the open window was light and cooling. William Ferguson lay in his bed, hair damp from the shower, a Scotch and water sitting on the bedside table, a copy of his favourite daily open across his lap. If he hadn’t had the chance to read it fully during the day, he made a point of finishing it before going to sleep.

His house was quiet. It had been a long time since anyone else had lived with him, and he preferred his own company. On rare occasions, though, he missed hearing the noise of others. The small green light caught his attention. It meant everything was okay. Ferguson’s house was fitted with a state-of-the-art security system supplied and installed by the agency. The light would flash red if anything, person or otherwise, broke the perimeter. He’d never yet had to hit the panic button.

It seemed a very long time since Sykes had come back from Tanzania with his hat in his hands. A simple operation had turned into a huge mess, even Ferguson had to admit that, but it was over now. So he wouldn’t get rich, not yet anyway. There was still enough time for one last scheme before he retired. He had managed to prevent his country from getting their fat undeserving hands on Oniks missiles at the very least. It wasn’t much, but it was some small revenge for the way he had been ignored and unappreciated. Ferguson would let things settle down before he considered his next move.

Sykes, lucky SOB that he was, had somehow managed to avoid being murdered by Reed but thankfully had no idea he had ever been a target. Reed had dropped off the grid, and the only explanation for his disappearance was that he had been killed, incredible as that may be. Ferguson had no way of finding out more about events in Tanzania without raising suspicions.

Ferguson knew that he was in the clear, though. Alvarez was no longer hunting for clues, and Procter and Chambers had more pressing issues to deal with. So long as Ferguson kept his head down, he was safe.

Sykes still needed to be removed. The metrosexual wimp just didn’t have the wits or the stomach for this kind of work, and he was now nothing more than a walking liability. He was the final link between the failed operation and Ferguson and couldn’t be allowed to stay alive. Ferguson would have to find someone else to do the job now that Reed was dead. He would even do it himself if he had to. He would probably enjoy it.

The veteran CIA officer turned the page of his paper and took a sip from the whisky, savouring the taste in his mouth before swallowing. He put the glass back down and frowned, noticing that he was chilly. Blasted open window.

He tried to ignore it, but by the time he’d turned the next page he acted. Ferguson threw back the duvet and marched across his spacious bedroom and into the adjoining annex. Huffing in annoyance, he slammed the window shut, trying to remember when he had opened it in the first place. He prayed to the god he had never believed in that his mind wasn’t going.

Back in bed, he finished off the Scotch and dropped his newspaper on the floor. He settled himself into his usual sleeping position and flicked off the lamp. He searched with his cheek for a smooth area of the pillow. Ferguson sighed, contented.

Cool metal pushed against his temple an instant later.

He gasped.

A man spoke to him from the darkness. It was the last voice he ever heard.

‘It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.’