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Prologue
CRACKED LEATHER TOUCHED rich soil. Knee in the dirt, the man thought of what was to come, and smiled. A broken nose took in the smell of the damp earth, memories carried in its dank scent. Memories of digging spades, pleading eyes and shallow graves.
The owner of the gloves wiped them against his camouflage trousers, his memories cleansed as easily as the leather. To him, the image of those graves was as inert in his mind as the way a postman views the mail. It was his job to fill holes in the ground, and with pride—the man knew that he was good at it. Better than good. He had been born as just another shitbag on the estate, but now he was a hunter.
He was a killer.
He’d tracked in forests, stalked in deserts, kidnapped in jungles and killed in cities. He had done these things for service, for his country and for his brothers. Sometimes, he’d done it for money.
Today he did it for pride.
He did it for justice.
The hunter-killer turned his eyes up to the sky. Rain was beginning to fall, bouncing from the thick green leaves of summer. The hunter-killer welcomed it. It was his ally. It would cover him as he slid and crept his way closer to his target. Closer to justice.
He could see his prize now, and the proximity caused his heart to beat against his scarred chest, endorphins flooding his body as he pictured his kill and the satisfaction it would bring.
It had been a long stalk, but the prize would justify the suffering and the cost. This kill would come at a price—a great price—but he would not shirk it. The butcher’s bill would be paid in full, and then there would be justice.
Fifty yards away now, and the hunter-killer begged his heart to still, despite the thrill of what was only moments away. Wet branches pulled at him as he moved forward, checking his pace. He forced himself to slow, too close now to fail.
He looked down at the pistol in his hand, checking it for dirt. There was none, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Inside the weapon in his hand, a bullet rested snugly in the chamber, ready to shatter on impact, and to tear out a great chunk of flesh in the body of his prize.
The hunter-killer smiled as he pictured that carnage.
Then he brought the pistol up into the aim, and centered its sights on the back of his target. A target that had caused pain and misery and suffering.
With a smile on his face, the hunter-killer pulled the trigger.
Chapter 1
One day earlier
JACK MORGAN WAS alive.
For a former U.S. Marine turned leader of the world’s foremost investigation agency, Private, that could mean a lot of things. It could mean that he had survived knife wounds, kidnap and helicopter crashes. It could mean that he had survived foiling a plot to unleash a virus on Rio, or that he had lived through halting a rampaging killer in London.
Right now, it meant that he was twenty thousand feet in the air, and flying.
