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Three years ago Matt Browning was thrown out of the unit for questioning an order – and he was on his way out of the SAS. Now, just when he thinks he has put military life behind him, he finds himself dragged back into action.
MI6 are demanding he helps a giant drugs company destroy copies of its medicines being produced by Eastern European gangsters. But the mission is not what it seems.
An old friend from the Army has turned into a homicidal maniac – and so are soldiers from around the country. Suddenly Matt finds himself thrust into the centre of a deadly mystery.
As the answers start to unravel, Matt finds himself the only man in possession of a terrifying secret. Alone and on the run he is up against The Increment – the most ruthless, lethal killing machine on earth.
From the Paperback edition.
A corpse was lying face down on the pale beige carpet that ran down the length of the carriage, a pool of blood oozing from his wounded gut. Apart from that they were alone. Matt took the Glock from his pocket, jabbing it forwards. How many enemies are left on the train? he asked himself. He hauled Eleanor to her feet. ‘Ready?’ he whispered. She nodded, wiping away some of Keith’s blood that was still splattered across her T-shirt. ‘Let’s go make a deal.’ The helicopter took off again,
yards away, he could hear the roar of the burning factory: there was a crashing that sounded like a wall coming down. But here inside the admin building, it was still quiet. Matt motioned to the others to follow him, and within a minute they had all landed inside the room. ‘We’ll take the corridors,’ said Matt. ‘Ivan and I will go right.’ He looked towards Malenkov. ‘You go left with Andrei. Nikita and Orlena can stay here.’ ‘We should go back for the wounded man,’ said Malenkov. ‘Forget him,’
London towards the new high-speed link starting halfway through Kent. In the last thirty-six hours, they had driven back across the border to Kiev, grabbed a few hours sleep, said farewell to Malenkov, then headed straight for the airport. There was no BA flight to London, so they caught the LOT flight to Warsaw, then connected there on to a plane into Heathrow. Ivan had been paid �20,000 in cash by Orlena, and gone back to his family. Matt and Orlena had been summoned to a debriefing.
head, crashing open his skull and sending a cupful of blood splattering against the side of the chair. A tear in the side of his cheek opened up, as if you had ripped through an old and rotten sheet of paper, and his head slumped forward. His eyes had already closed. A young man sometimes survives a bullet to the head. An old man has no chance. Matt lunged forward. Orlena was standing ten yards from him, the Marakov still in her hand. His own pistol was tucked into his jeans, impossible to get
plastic hosing jammed into the tap from which a trickle of rusty water emerged. Only one razor had been left lying in the cupboard, and it had last been used several years ago: the blade was rusty and clogged with dirt, biting into Matt’s skin as he dragged it across his face. He washed away the two smears of blood it left on his chin, and looked at the face staring at him from the mirror. He looked older. There were lines around his eyes, his skin was rough, his complexion blotchy, and his hair