Striker looked at the duck for a long moment and felt some of the pieces fall into place. ‘They’ve been leaving one of these ducks for each victim.’

‘Like a calling card?’

Striker nodded. ‘Calling card, signature, taunt – call it whatever you want. The point is they’re doing it to let the victim know why this is happening.’

Rothschild shook his head. ‘But I was part of that squad and I still don’t fucking know why.’

Striker took back the duck and stared at it for a long moment.

‘Doesn’t matter if you know why or not,’ he finally said. ‘Oliver Howell thinks you do.’

One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

The memory of losing his leg was so vivid to Oliver, like it had just happened yesterday – or to Oliver’s messed-up mind, like it had happened ten years ago, or ten minutes.

It made no difference.

The tall beefy black cop from the Afghan National Police had led them to the site of the IED, and it was in the worst possible location – down a narrow strip of dirt, flanked on both sides by canals and high sweeping hills. As Oliver made the long walk towards the bomb, the unusual tension from his squad was palpable.

He absorbed it right through his skin.

He reached the bomb site and felt himself sweating on the chilly valley plain. He scanned his eyes across the hills, east and west, searching for any sign of the enemy. But all he saw was cold blue sky. Sweeping rocky hills of unforgiving terrain. And crevice after crevice, cave after cave.

The favoured ambush spots of the Taliban.

With time running thin, Oliver dropped low. Opened his case. And pulled out the tools required for the job – wire-cutters, alligator clips, and a paintbrush of fine horsehair. He lay prone across the dirt and rock, and used gentle sweeping motions to brush away the pebbles and dirt until the rectangular form of the pressure plate became visible.

This was the first bomb, and that was a good start. But the wand had picked up two signals. So he angled himself to the right and performed the same actions once more until a second plate was uncovered, this one a pressure-release pad.

Finding the plate was always a relief. And a smile broke Oliver’s lips. The operation was going smoothly thus far. And he felt good. Positive. Optimistic, even.

And then he saw the line – one long piece of dead wire snaking off to the east canal.

It was a goddam trap.

Oliver shoved himself back, spun about, and scampered to one knee in an effort to run. But the blast came. Light exploded, followed by a swelling of darkness as the earth rose up beneath him like some giant creature breaking out of hell. An invisible force tore through his body, and was followed by a thunderous wave. Suddenly he was airborne. Floating, spinning, rolling through the sky. When he finally landed, a wave of agony ripped through his body. He lay there, on the dirt of the path, feeling every inch of his being throb and spasm as he stared out, not thirty feet into the field, and saw the ground being torn apart by gunfire rounds and mortar.

‘Sandman down – SANDMAN DOWN!’ Someone was screaming. One of his men.

Oliver could barely hear the man.

He managed to turn his head. To look back down the trail. And he saw his squadmates running his way.

High-calibre rounds rained down from the rocky terrain above. East and west. AK-47 fire. Mowing them down. In the constant drone of gunfire, half his men were ripped apart. Shreddings of meat and tissue and blood exploded from their bodies. The few who survived the assault grabbed him. Lifted him from the ground.

‘The path,’ Oliver whispered weakly. ‘Stay on . . . the path.’

But no one could heard him, and suddenly more bombs were going off. Loud, thunderous booms. One explosion to the east – a one-pounder that tore off the bottom half of his point man’s legs. And one to the west – a definite two-pounder that obliterated two other men completely.

And for Oliver, everything just sort of sloooowed down.

Greyed out.

Muted.

Even the high-powered chain guns of the Black Hawks seemed soft and distant as the rescue birds came sweeping in from the hills and rained fire on their enemies. To Oliver, none of it mattered now. There was only pain and spasm, and a deep dark hollowness that was sucking him down like an animal in a tar-pit trap, covering his head in suffocating blackness.

He couldn’t breathe . . .

Back in the command room, Oliver’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for air.

His mouth was dusty dry, his tongue felt too large. Sounds from the monitors hit his ears. Talk of bombs and police. And for a moment, he thought it was the ANP cop again, and he reached for his assault rifle. When he found no long gun there, he forced himself to sit up. And all at once, reality spilled over him like a cold wave.

The news was still on.

Molly was not there.

And she would never be coming back.

Oliver let out a wail.

A mixture of emotions hit him. His squadmates, gone. His friends, gone. His father and mother, gone. And now Molly . . . she too was gone. Molly. He wanted nothing more than to break down and give up.

But he did not. The soldier in him would not allow it.

Thirsty, exhausted, throbbing with pain and fever, he forced himself to his feet and shuffled like an old man across the room to the costume Molly had created. Her last one. He grabbed the uniform, then a SIG P224, because it allowed for the attachment of night sights, a tactical light-laser attachment, and above all, a sound suppressor – which would definitely be needed for this job to be successful.

Hot yet cold, and slick with a chilly sweat, Oliver placed the compact SIG behind his waistband, then stumbled and had to grab the wall for support. The fever – and perhaps the infection – was still going strong. A microscopic symphony in his veins. But so what?

Oliver knew sickness; he had been ill many times before. Been deathly ill. And he knew that without rest, this injury would kill him. But that was okay. He had the uniform. He had the gun. He had the plan. After that, nothing really mattered any more.

He didn’t plan on surviving the day.

One Hundred and Thirty

Striker pulled Felicia from the house.

‘We’re going,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere but here.’

‘But Laroche—’

‘We have a bomber to find.’

Felicia looked at him curiously, almost cautiously, then smiled.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

Moments later, they were marching up Trafalgar Street towards the undercover cruiser. As they went, Striker explained what Rothschild had told him about the toy duck. Felicia listened intently, biting her lip with every detail. When Striker was done speaking, Felicia made a point:

‘So that gives us one more connection to Williams,’ she said. ‘She was the toymaker who gave Koda the duck.’

Striker agreed. ‘It’s how she was connected to the squad, yes, but I think her main role was hiding Harry and Koda’s drug money through her accounting practices.’

‘But why kill her? The drug crimes are only indirectly connected to the shootings. Unless . . . maybe Oliver doesn’t know that. Maybe he thinks it’s all connected.’

Striker shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t matter anyway. From everything we’ve seen with this man, it’s obvious his mind is fractured. His belief system is polarized. He treats everything as if they were absolutes. There are no degrees of right or wrong here, no grey areas – only black and white. Either you’re culpable or innocent. There is no in-between. So for Keisha Williams to be funnelling away the money, she was involved. Period.’