Ultimate Weapon by Chris Ryan

place on the spot. The first rule of surveillance was always the same, whoever you were working for:
Don’t get bloody caught.
    Nick picked up the phone. There had been almost twenty-four hours now since he’d realised he was being watched. Enough time to plan his response down to the last detail. He called Sarah’s mobile again, waiting for the voicemail to click on. ‘It’s me again, love,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be in all evening, so give me a ring.’ Next, he called Ken’s Pizza Delivery in Hereford. ‘One large pepperoni, and a beer,’ he said, then gave the address. ‘For about ten, please.’
    That should convince whoever is listening I’m staying in for the evening.
    For a few minutes that morning, Nick had wondered if he should call Jed and get his help. He could stay in the house, while Jed could stalk the men in the bushes. He’d decided against it. I can handle this bymyself.
I don’t need that arrogant little tosser buggering things up.
    Nick flicked the TV on. It was already pitch black outside. He glanced out of the window but could see nothing, only darkness. He pulled the curtains together, then bolted the front door. Taking off his shoes to stay as quiet as possible, he walked upstairs to his bedroom. The cottage only had one entrance, at its front. The back door that led into the kitchen had been bricked up years ago. His bedroom looked out on to the side of the house, and was protected by a large oak tree which, even in winter with its leaves down, effectively camouflaged the window. Stopping by the cupboard, he pulled out a tin of boot polish, and started to smear some across his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing black jeans and a black sweatshirt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Nick flashed a menacing, malevolent smile: the smile of a man intent on beating his way to the truth. It feels good to be back in action, he told himself.
This is who you are.
    Swinging open the window, Nick climbed gently on to the ledge. He’d owned this house for more than a decade, but until this evening he’d never thought how to turn it into a fortress. A gutter ran down the side of the house, a yard from the window. Nick reached over, gripping the pipe tightly into the palm of his fist, then started to lever himself across the side of the house. The stone from which the cottage was built was pitted with crevices, perfect for climbing. In a few seconds, he’d secured his grip, and slid effortlessly down the drain-pipe on to the grass below.
    Keeping low to ground, with his back bent double, he moved across the stretch of lawn towards the adjoining field. There was a gap in the hedge through which some sheep sometimes broke and ate whatever few flowers Nick had bothered to plant in the garden. He pulled himself through, and started to walk across the field, keeping himself close to the hedge. Glancing up at the sky, he could see it was still pitch black; the cloud cover was heavy, and a few light drops of rain were starting to fall. A biting wind was blowing through the mountains. Perfect, Nick thought. The worse the weather is, the harder it will be to spot a man coming towards them.
    He reckoned the observing post was where he’d spotted the movement last night. It would be nothing special – if they had any brains, they’d keep themselves as mobile as possible. A sheet of green tarpaulin to cover themselves, and a pair of binoculars, plus whatever kit they needed for listening to the bugged phone calls. So long as their clothes were camouflaged as well, that should be enough to stop them being spotted. Nick’s plan was to skirt around the front of the house through the fields, then crawl up on them from behind. Keep it simple, he could remember one of his instructors yelling at him during his training courses for the Regiment.
If you can stab the fuckers in the back, that’s as good a place as any.
    Nick paused. He’d moved about three hundred yards now: two hundred yards up from