Prologue

There was a man standing at the pier. He was tall, thin, with piercing green eyes and a long, crooked nose. He wore a hood – his clients found it easier to talk to him if they couldn't see his face.

There was no one there when he arrived. He looked at his watch. The flashing green numbers told him it was 00:03. His associate was late. He could not work with someone who did not appreciate the busy schedule he had. He opened his long coat, and removed a package. He was not in a good mood. He dropped it into the sea, and then thumbed the nearest taxi. He'd be long gone before the explosion...

Chapter One

Hunter

It was quite dark in California. Alan Blunt's call came at 9:00am, but in California, it was still only 4:00am. But the Businessman's Club was awake. They had been awake since 2:30, discussing everything you'd expect. Politics, local events, their own very important businesses. And of course, their most recent topic – James Byram. He was an American, like most of them. He had been with the businessman's club for some years previously. But then there had been the fallout. He had wanted to invest a lot of the club's earnings. He was kicked out.

Of course, every now and then he did something irrational – but this was stupid. This was going too far.

"He can't get away with it," said Alex Van Russelt. He was Belgian, but spoke perfect English.

"He's got murder in his eyes, blood on his hands and a knife in his back," stated James Ford, an Englishman.

"What does he think he's doing? Setting up these little 'accidents' that keep happening. He knew Chery was afraid of heights. He didn't fall out of that window – we all know it. This whole business has gone way out of hand."

Everyone was immediately quiet. They all knew that Edward Hall was referring to the recent death of Adam Chery – the lowest member of the club, but nonetheless a worthy one. They all knew he hadn't fallen from a 20th storey window – he was scared of heights. He had been called to an important meeting; otherwise he would never have even set foot there.

"Look – You said you think he's got someone watching us, yeah?" Michael Salathiel, the last group member, was from Texas. He was the traditional cowboy. "Well, if that's true, they can hear us right now, yeah? So they know what we're saying. Catch my drift. Why, even that telephone-"

And that, as chance would have it, was when the phone rang.

Van Russelt, nearest the phone, and the leader of the group, picked up the phone.

"Hello, the Businessman's Club – Who, may I ask, is speaking?"

"You may ask. This is Alan Blunt, in London. You asked to speak to me earlier?"

"Yes. What a wonderful secretary you have, doing 24 hour work. Does she do that every night?"

"Mrs. Jones? No, she was just there tonight. Filing papers for a new mission. But, onto the point. About what did you need to speak to me?"

"James Byram. You know the club member who left last year."

"Vaguely. Continue."

"And you heard about the death of Chery, our finance executive, a few weeks ago?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, the businessmen think they are connected."

"Any reason?"

"Well, yes. We faxed you the suicide note."

"Yes, I have it here."

DEAR BUSINESSMEN,

I FEAR I MUST LEAVE YOU. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR ME IN THIS WORLD. YOU HAVE THE CLUB. I HAVE NOTHING. I DID NOT WANT TO DO THIS, BUT BELIEVE ME; THIS WAY WILL MAKE YOU TRULY UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. I AM NOT BLAMING YOU, BUT WARNING YOU. GOODBYE.

ADAM CHERY.

Blunt looked at the letter.

"I have read it. But what proof is it that –"

"I'm getting to that!" The voice on the phone insisted. "Did we also fax you Byram's leaving note?"

"No, I don't believe I received that one."

"Well, we'll send it now." The phone went dead.

Blunt turned to his computer and tapped away for a minute or two. Suddenly, there was a buzzing sound and the message shot out of the fax machine.

Blunt read the letter when it left the machine.

DEAR FRIENDS,

I FEAR I MUST LEAVE YOU. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR ME IN THE CLUB. I HAVE TRIED, BUT YOU HAVE PUSHED ME ASIDE. I HAVE NOTHING. I DID NOT WANT TO DO THIS, BUT BELIEVE ME; THIS WAY WILL MAKE YOU TRULY UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. I AM NOT BLAMING YOU, BUT WARNING YOU. GOODBYE.

JAMES BYRAM.

Blunt knew instantly. It was as if they had been drafted from the same original copy. Blunt knew he needed a man on the job. Or rather, a boy.

Back in California, the meeting was dispersing. Hunter watched from the ground floor of a restaurant. The chef had been feeding scraps to a small brown cat when he sprung his attack. The chef now knew what oven cooked food felt like. His gloved hands grabbed a knife. He had been employed for all of them, but over a three-week period. So tonight, his target was the Texan.

They didn't have names. To him, they were not people. They were things. It helped him with his job. Not that he needed help – Hunter was the best.

The Texan saw the chef approach. He saw the knife, but guessed the guy was just making something to eat.

"I wonder if you can help me?"

The guy spoke with an Italian accent. It was strange to see him there, but Salathiel was a guy you could depend on.

"Sure – what kind of help."

"Well my life would be much easier if you could die"."

His accent was no longer Italian – it was sinister, and American.

"What–" Michael began to protest, but soon his ribcage had cracked and his heart was pierced. Hunter removed the knife and opened his pocket. Inside was a note. A suicide note. As the body slid to the ground, staining the motorbike with a stream of warm, fresh blood, Hunter pinned the suicide note to the body with the knife. Then, he walked off, into the distance. No one saw him. No one heard him. Hunter was the best.