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more than two years inside on manslaughter charges – just, in his mind, for doing his job – and the burning anger he felt at his treatment was authentic.
    Tiger, a typically Aryan Dane who’d received extensive shrapnel injuries while serving in Afghanistan and walked with an aggressive limp, also had plenty of ruthlessness, but Fox was a lot less sure of his reliability. A one-time member of a neo-Nazi group, Tiger had grown up with an almost psychotic hatred of Jews, and after his experience in Afghanistan had added Muslims to his list of sworn enemies, along with politicians and, as far as Fox could tell, pretty much everyone else who didn’t agree with him. He was also a violent sadist and bully who’d stripped and tied up his ex-girlfriend the previous year and burned her repeatedly with cigarette butts. He’d only avoided jail because she dropped the charges against him after threats to her life. The other men didn’t know about this, or they probably wouldn’t have agreed to work with him.
    And then there was Bear, the so-called ‘man with the face’. Of all the men involved in the operation, Fox trusted Bear the least. And yet he owed him the most. Bear had once saved his life when they were serving together in Al-Amarah back in 2005 by spotting an IED half-buried in an irrigation ditch just as the platoon was passing by on patrol. Fox had been closest to it and would have taken the brunt of the blast, but Bear had shouted a warning and jumped on his back, sending them both sprawling into the dirt just as it was detonated by the insurgents. Fox had been temporarily deafened by the blast but was otherwise unhurt. Bear had been less lucky. A jagged, burning piece of shrapnel the size of a baseball had struck him on the side of the face. Alerted by his screams, and the sizzling, Fox had managed to pull it free, burning his fingers through his gloves in the process. Although the heat had cauterized the wound, the shrapnel had burned away most of the flesh just beneath the eye to the jaw line, leaving him permanently disfigured, and bitterly resentful of the politicians he’d always blamed for it.
    Bear had worked with Fox since those army days, and Fox knew that he was a proven killer, but he was still concerned that, when it came down to it, Bear wouldn’t be able to murder an innocent person in cold blood.
    They caught each other’s eyes, and Bear gave him a long, hard look to demonstrate that he knew what was expected of him.
    Fox acknowledged it with a nod before turning to the sixth man in the room, standing next to him. ‘Now, I’m going to hand you over to Wolf, who you’ve all met before. I just want to reiterate that he’s the client’s representative, and in overall command of the operation on the ground, while I’m acting as his second in command. You refer to him, as you refer to me, and each other, by codename rather than rank, and never, at any point, use real names. Understood?’
    The men nodded, and Wolf took a step forward. He was a short, squat man, well into his forties, with dark skin and a pockmarked face which, combined with his lacquered, dyed-black hair, gave him more than a passing resemblance to the former Panamanian dictator, General Noriega. He cleared his throat loudly and let the cigarette he’d been smoking fall to the warehouse floor.
    ‘In the next fifteen minutes, you are all going to be half a million dollars richer,’ he announced in a clear, strong Arabic accent.
    Fox saw all eyes light up at this. After all, whatever their political affiliations, this was what they were really here for.
    ‘As soon as I give the word, the money will be sent to your nominated bank accounts. The remainder, one and a half million dollars, will be paid at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, on successful completion of the job. Before I give the word for the first instalment, however, I need proof that we are all committed.’
    Wolf reached into his overalls pocket and produced a