A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel by Matthew Dunn Page A

trying to spot him driving up the solitary road that led to the Granges’ property.
    “He’ll be here soon.”
    The matter was settled. Will Cochrane would be arriving any moment, ready to be their guardian and guide them through life.
    Both boys’ faces lit up when they saw a police cruiser in the distance.
    “He’s here!”
    “The police found Uncle Will!”
     
    T he tall sixty-three-year-old gentleman—a slender figure with silver hair, green eyes, a smooth visage that suggested refinement and vast intellect, and a voice that was soft and beguiling—was today jettisoning his usual formality of wearing a suit during the working week and tweeds on the weekend. Right now he didn’t need to be anywhere other than on the deck of his large berthed yacht; the sea air was balmy enough for him to be wearing slacks and an open-collared shirt.
    But he was still working, always did, sitting at a table with numerous cell phones, a laptop, and a copy of the Washington Post . He was deep in thought, his fingertips pressed together, around him Long Island’s Montauk Yacht Club and its dozens of moored luxury vessels, possessions of the wealthy who frequented the harbor for onshore rounds of golf while their wives flocked to the Hamptons to spend thousands on designer clothes and jewelry.
    He wasn’t like them, though his fortune was now considerable. Wealth brought many advantages, but he had little interest in whether he could buy the latest Ferrari or upgrade his Andreas L motor cruiser to a Sycara V. What mattered to him was that money bought people and power, though his hand was for the most part invisible and unknown in the work he did.
    His business was influence—steering political decisions in new directions, assisting major corporations with acquisitions they previously deemed impossible, deflecting potential damage and making it a potent force for his customers, arranging the disgrace of the most stubbornly resolute opponents.
    To do this, he would use whatever tactic was required. Instead of specializing in a particular field, he had a general knowledge . If a problem presented itself, the man would close his eyes and let thousands of thoughts race through his mind; then, when he had logically deduced the correct solution, he would open his eyes and smile.
    His current vocation was in many ways as far removed as it could be from his previous job of battlefield surgeon, a role that had taken him to nasty parts of the world where he would act as God in a makeshift operating theater strewn with wounded soldiers and their screams. That said, it was his role as a surgeon that had prepared him to be so formidable in his current line of work. A surgeon must find the correct solution to the manifold conditions that can afflict the human body in war. In business, he was no different, though he used his skills to punish and damage, not heal.
    His name was Edward Carley.
    It was soon going to be lunchtime. His crew was inside the vessel, cooking him salt-baked cod, parsley sauce, mange-tout, and herb mashed potatoes. As usual, he’d be eating alone. His wife had died a few years ago of a condition that even he couldn’t reverse, and neither of them had ever had children. His work as a colonel in the army had precluded any inclination to settle down to a domestic family life. He didn’t mind that he’d be partaking of his meal in solitude. He was at his most content when left in peace to collect his thoughts.
    A guest arrived on his yacht, one of his associates, though the man had absolutely nothing in common with his employer.
    His name was Viktor Zhukov, a medium-height Russian with jet-black hair. His body was lacerated with scars and was as strong as high-tensile steel. Most of the scars came from his brutal training and deployment in Spetsnaz, Russia’s special forces. The rest were gained in the streets of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and other cities where he’d turned his skills to crime and had gained a reputation