Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Thank you.

In reality, I know very little about hacking websites. So apologies for any oversights or errors in Ruth and Malcolm's methods here.

Chapter Nine: The Guardian

Ruth had never been inside the bunker before. The last time they needed to avail themselves of its facilities she had been in Cyprus, living a different life altogether. It all seemed so long ago as she remembered that blimp of time. Longer still, as she descended the spiralling stairwell that led into the cold steel and concrete box beneath the farmhouse. Her footsteps echoed, making the place even more ominous. Nor was there a light switch in any obvious place. But light emanated from beneath a closed door, just enough to guide her as she made her way over.

They may have forgotten to feed the pigs after Connie left, but it looked as if the MoD had been methodical in stripping the place bare. She found Malcolm alone in a bare, grey-walled room with a large glass window looking into another grey room identical to the one they were in. He was working at a laptop he had had to bring from home. Her own desktop PC was sat nearby, idling now that Malcolm had finished setting it up for her some thirty minutes passed. He glanced up briefly, greeting her with a muffled "hullo there."

"We have bandwidth?" she asked, sitting at her new station.

"An endless supply of it," he confirmed, cheerily.

Ruth nodded, raising a pained smile. "That's good."

I have no idea what I'm doing, she silently confessed to herself. She stared at the blank screen, still in sleep mode, and jerked the mouse to wake it up again. A moment later, her dark reflection vanished and her desktop appeared, decorated with its brightly coloured icons. Double clicking the Tor browser, she accessed the deep web with a sense of growing foreboding. She could go anywhere and no one would ever know but, out of habit more than anything else, she found herself returning to the home page of the assassin. She still had his Onion address on a scrap of paper, tucked away in her shirt pocket.

These websites may be untraceable on a normal browser, but they weren't unhackable. For the moment, she clicked around the menu of his website. She always thought they were fakes. But the more she thought about it, the more she realised she was being complacent. The dealers plying their trade of meth, crack and heroine were all real enough. The paedophiles trading videos and images of child abuse as though they were nothing more than football cards were all too real. Why shouldn't the assassins plying their trade also be real?

She leaned back in her chair and thought about it all again. There was a reason why the deep was called that. It was buried by the people who wanted it to stay buried. It was a snake pit of criminality being sucked into humanity's darkest hole. Now, she was willingly venturing inside in the hope of getting a bite.

"There's a payment in here of almost $100,000 paid to an off-shore bank account on the Cayman Islands from another suspect account from a bank in Saudi Arabia." Malcolm's voice jolted Ruth out of her reverie.

"From whom to who?" she asked, leaning to the left so she could see his screen.

Malcolm's gaze was still fixed on the screen, eyes narrowed as he scanned over the text. "It doesn't say exactly. But the payment was made by Sharaf Suleiman to someone else. It's a company name."

"It's probably a shell company, too," Ruth added. "But it's still possible to find out who really owns it and what else they're using it for."

She looked at the record on the screen, then jotted down the account number. It was something she would look into later. In the meantime she wanted to focus on her new friend, the assassin. She emailed his site at the address given, an email account that was also buried on the deep web. In her email, she copied and pasted a link that was transformed into a hyperlink buried in her casual text message. Once clicked, the link would unleash her remote code execution attack – offering her a precious way in to the site.

Malcolm was watching her as she worked methodically. "Let's hope he checks his emails frequently."

"It's a bit like going fishing really, you just have to wait for the damn bite," she replied. "But, if it doesn't work, could we organise a distributed denial of service attack?"

Malcolm grimaced. "Between the two of us, not likely. The best we could do is bounce URL requests from all over the world on remote servers and hope for the best."

Ruth sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The easiest way of attacking her new friend's website all seemed barred to her, making her frustrating wait inevitable. After giving the screen one final despairing glance, she got to her feet and returned to Harry, who was waiting in the kitchen. She found him alone, composing a report bound for the Home Secretary eventually. Once they had all their evidence compiled, it would be sent. To her, it still looked depressingly slender.

"We think we might have found one of John Carlton's shell companies," she informed him, sliding into the seat opposite his. "And I'm fishing for an assassin. If I can access that website, I can access the messages and commands that were sent to him. It could contain everything we need there, in black and white stored in messages and transaction histories. We could even dig out the real person behind the site – if there is one."

Harry's brow creased as he set aside his report. "I thought you said they were all fakes? You were pretty dismissive, if I recall rightly."

"I was," she admitted. "But someone killed Sharaf Suleiman and they must have come from somewhere. We can't just ignore this lead."

Before Harry could reply, however, the sound of movement outside the kitchen backdoor caught them both off-guard. They whipped around, Harry almost reaching for his seat as he reached for his gun at the same time. Without saying a word, they met each other's gaze and silently, slowly, got out of their seats and moved towards the door. Before opening it, Harry paused and met her gaze again, pressing a finger to his lips. Ruth nodded, also listening intently to the sounds of whoever was out there.

"We've been compromised," she whispered, low enough for only him to hear.

Harry made no reply, he just rested one hand on the door handle and eased it slowly open. His gun was trained on the courtyard outside the small open porch. At first, Ruth couldn't see out and the door was blocking her view. Harry's face was lit up by the afternoon sun, his expression a mask of crippling tension and confusion. After a pause that seemed to Ruth to last an age, he stepped into the open and looked left and right. Ruth soon followed, her heart still in her throat. She could see for herself that there was nothing out there.

"I definitely heard that," he said, now several paces away from the door. "I heard it and I know you did, too."

Ruth nodded, scanning all around her. Empty fields, a few leafless trees bent by the wind. The old tractor rusting in the paddock out the back. Next to the house was the old derelict barn. "I heard it," she confirmed. "Definitely not imagining things this time."

Abandoned churches were once worth a fortune on the property market. But the one Ros woke up in had holes in the roof, falling masonry from the north transept and random busted floorboards that seemed divinely engineered for breaking ankles. Useful under a lot of circumstances, but positively hazardous for them. Clearly used to his new surroundings, Lucas slept on long past sunrise. Through the noise of the birds chirping in the dawn and the rain pattering on – and through – the roof. None of it seemed to bother him.

But, as hide outs went, theirs was close to perfect. Lucas' laptop was set up in what was once the chancel, on what was once the altar. It was keyed in to cameras that were rigged up around Lucas' father's old house. Motion sensitive, they would only come on if someone set them off and the footage saved to the hard drive ready for their inspection whenever they were able. It was Tariq they had to thank for all the technological chicanery. The techie who was, at that moment, catching some much needed shut eye before returning to London.

Just to get a feel for the software, Ros fired up the laptop and started flicking between all the different cameras. Full colour images popped up on the screen. If she pressed a certain set of keys she could split the screen between up to four different cameras. As she experimented, she found herself homing in different parts of the exterior and interior. Out the back was all fields, with nothing to see but the old pony still cropping at the grass. But on the road outside the house, she found a brand new Land Rover parked beside a high grass verge. She zoomed in on the number plate and noted it down. Using remote access to the national database, she was able to trace the vehicle back to the local farmer who owned it.

"Excellent," she said, happier now that she knew she could get results.

"You're happy with it, then?"

While she was playing with the new features, Tariq had woken up. She turned in time to see him stifle a yawn as he lurched over to her. Clearly not a morning person, he lacked his usual zing.

"Jesus, how can anyone sleep in this ruin?"

Ros tutted. "You're in the house of God, Tariq."

"Yeah, well I'm not a Christian. Jesus will just have to deal with it," he replied. "Anyway, have you found anything yet? There's cameras inside too, don't forget. Just in case anyone feels like making themselves at home in there."

"Only the local farmer illegally parking outside Lucas' dad's old house," she explained. "Other than that, it's still early days. If they follow our paper trail, the agents would only arrive here today at the earliest."

Although not holding her breath, the wait wasn't excessively long. Ros had left the church that afternoon to walk Tariq back to the train station, leaving Lucas in charge of the surveillance of his old home. By the time she got back, he was hunched over the laptop, taking screenshots and backing up filmed data.

Quickening her pace as she strode down the aisle, hurrying to his side. "Anyone we recognise?"

It was a longshot, she knew, but worth a try.

"No, I have no idea who these people are," he replied, still transfixed by the images on the screen. "I wish we'd gotten some listening devices in there now."

"Don't worry about it. Just take me through the footage, from the start, and we can get it sent down to Harry and Malcolm. They'll know what to do next."

"Yes, but then what?" he asked, turning from screen to her. "Do I have to hide up here until this mess is sorted out? I feel like I'm on the run and I don't even know what for."

"I don't see why you can't come down to Connie's old bunker with me," she assured him. "Just as long as neither of us go anywhere near Thames House."

It was hardly reassuring, but better than being left to fight it out far from the rest of the team. To take his mind off things, she diverted him back to what their cameras had picked up. Another car, a four wheel drive, had pulled up outside the house. Its number plates clearly visible. Only now, she was able to wind the footage back and get shots of the men in the vehicle. They watched in silence as they jemmied a board off one of the ground floor windows and climbed inside the house. Then they were able to cut to one of the interior cameras, where the same men could be seen searching the lounge and kitchen before vanishing upstairs.

"Tariq didn't put in any cameras upstairs, did he?" she asked.

"No, but that's enough to go on. We have solid proof that someone's been snooping around my old house."

"True enough," she concurred. "At least they know you're not there, now. It should be safe for you to go back."

"What if they come back?" he asked. "We can't rule it out."

That was also true enough, but she didn't dwell on it. Instead, she took copies of the footage and shut down the laptop. "Whatever happens, there's no point in us hanging around here a moment longer. Let's just go."

Once they had cooked up a feast of scrambled eggs on toast, they gathered in the bunker again. Harry, Malcolm and Ruth all vying for space around their limited comms equipment. All the listening devices, phone taps and bugs they could muster had been handed over to Jo Portman that afternoon. Now, she and Nathan would be starting another cleaning shift at Securitech HQ. Harry watched the clock on the wall nervously.

"What's the new boy like?" asked Malcolm, eye raking over Nathan Fraser's name on the list.

"Young, naïve and idealistic," Harry replied, starting to pace.

Ruth sighed. "What Harry means is, is that Nathan is keen to make a difference, dedicated and quickly learning the ropes."

"Oh dear," said Malcolm. "I'm sure you'll soon knock that out of him, Harry."

"I won't need to; life will find a way to do it for him," Harry retorted, forcing himself to come to a rest again.

He was always tense before an Op, but the pressure was greater now than on most occasions. After checking the clock again, he decided to relieve the tension by pacing again. He could feel Ruth's eyes tracking him as he passed to and fro, but he felt himself impervious to her silent implorations now. Now that they were finally starting to get somewhere, and a dossier of evidence was slowly being stacked up against John Carlton, he wondered how to go about presenting it to the Home Secretary.

He had given William Towers numerous opportunities to listen. The consequences of it were that he was now conducting his operation in the bunker of an old traitor, instead of on the Grid basking in the glow of full departmental support. He had half a mind to by-pass Towers altogether and leak his dossier of evidence straight to the press. Some ultra-liberal, left winger type guaranteed to have the Government pissing blood.

"The Guardian," he said, now smiling at the clock on the wall.

A warm, fuzzy satisfaction closed over him as he pictured the front page in his head.

"What?" Ruth and Malcolm chorused.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, rejoining them at the comms equipment.

But Ruth had known him at too close a quarter and for too long. "Harry, what are you up to?"

Before he could answer, the radio crackled into life. Jo's voice was distant, barely audible. But Nathan's concealed mic calibrated itself much quicker.

"Hey," he said. "It's me. Can you hear me all right?"

Malcolm winced, as though he had been slapped in the face. "Please use proper call signs in future!"

Ruth stifled a laugh, drawing a scandalised look from Malcolm. "'Hey' was never a valid call sign in my day and I doubt very much that it is now," he informed her.

Not having blocked his own mic, Nathan thought that the rebuke was aimed at him.

"Yes, okay. This is Alpha One, or something like that."

"Just get on with it," Harry called out, even though he knew he wouldn't be picked up by the mics. However, Ruth relayed the message just as Jo was able to tune into their frequency. He drew a deep breath to steady his nerves as the Op finally got under way. "Good luck," he added, before settling back down again.

Nathan made his way straight to John Carlton's floor, shrinking back against the wall as the man himself passed him in the corridor. But to Carlton, Nathan was just another cleaner. The MD's gaze passed straight through him as they levelled with one another. When they were finally walking away from each other, Nathan did not look back and quickened his pace. A move made tricky by the large yellow mop bucket he was dragging behind him. Knowing this would be his last night posing as a cleaner, he lost the equipment as soon as was convenient and went about accessing various offices and rooms. After just a cursory sweep of the external office area, he let himself into Carlton's private office with a lock pick supplied to him by Harry.

"I'm in," he murmured under his breath.

An acknowledgement came from the other end while he surveyed the office again. It wasn't especially luxurious, for a Managing Director of a large and up-coming company. Although, it did have the mandatory plastic plant in a pot shoved into the far corner, where Nathan decided a hidden camera could be concealed in the stalk.

"Tap the phone first," Malcolm advised.

Not daring to cross the affable Welshman, Nathan complied. First, he drew the blinds on the office window and locked the door from inside – ensuring no interruptions from other cleaners. Jo was on the second floor, searching for a paper trail in other departments.

"Nathan, we have records of financial transactions using a shell company. See if you can find anything to do with that," said Ruth.

He tried to keep up with the instructions sounding through his ear piece. Working rapidly but carefully and always keeping an ear out for the sound of Carlton returning. Something that played at the back of his mind as he bugged the office as much as he could. By the time he was finished, they would be hearing the lice crawling through the carpet fibres. Before leaving, he booted up the computer on the desk and by-passed the password with a hacking tool on a pen drive supplied by Malcolm.

"I'm on the PC," he informed the others listening in. "Send the email, Ruth, and I'll click on the remote code link."

It only took another minute, but once Ruth was in he shut the machine down and opened the top desk drawer. There were scores of letters, ledger books and receipt dockets in there. So many he barely knew where to begin. But he rummaged through them anyway, finding nothing.

"I have to go," he informed the others. "I've been in here too long."

Receiving confirmation from the other end, he left the office as he found it – except with an empty waste paper bin. He crossed the floor of the open plan office, heading for the double doors that led to the exit. Jo was still searching the first floor, he signalled to her that he was heading outside – a gesture met with another gesture. They didn't speak, he continued towards the exit and out into the cool night air.

By now, the car park was deserted except for the van belonging to the cleaning company. A single streetlamp lit the ramp that descended through the perimeter wall and the tarmac glittered after a recent rainfall. After a brief breather, Nathan took out his earpiece and slipped it into his back pocket. Finally alone again, he moved away from the front of the building, towards an underground area where he assumed the boiler room was stored. He hadn't gone more than a few feet when footsteps rushed up behind him.

Assuming it was Jo, he turned back, ready to get a briefing. But the approaching man cut him off. He was dressed in the cleaner's uniform and looked as if he was just going for a smoke.

"Hey," he said, by way of greeting.

Nathan raised a hand, not exactly keen to be drawn into conversation. "All right."

The man took him by the arm, leaned in close to his ear. "I know who you are. I know you're looking for information that will clear Lucas North."

Nathan's breath hitched in his throat, his attention suddenly grabbed by the newcomer. "Who are you?"

"A friend," he replied, vaguely. "Come with me. I have information that could help you."

Nathan made a note of the man's appearance. Tall, stronger than him and dark haired. That was all he could make out in the poor light; the light from the office windows that spilled into the darkness outside. Still, Nathan followed him down the small flight of concrete steps he had been heading towards anyway. It would be worth it to get even a small clue about the mess they were in.

"What do you have for us?" he asked, apprehensively facing the other man.

"Just this," replied the stranger.

He was so close Nathan could feel the man's breath on his neck. A warm tingling closely followed by the pain of a punch right in the stomach. Winded, he gasped and tried to double over – failing as the other man held him upright. Another blow came just above his groin and he could feel the blood running down the inside of his jeans. He just caught the flash of the blade as the third thrust of the knife caught him in the chest and he finally realised what was really happening. There was no pain, just shock and the heat of his blood. He was slumped in the man's arms as he was stabbed for the fourth time, helpless with his head against his killer's shoulder.

Finally, Nathan managed to say something as he met the man's gaze. "They're going to hunt you down."

The other man finally let him fall to the ground. A jolt of impact causing a great spasm of pain and blood from every injury he'd suffered. But still his consciousness wouldn't let him go. He rolled onto his back with one hand plugging the worst of the knife wounds and closed his eyes. But still he bled out. He could feel it pooling beneath him. In the end, however, it didn't take long.

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