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manoeuvre, and accelerated onto the road.
        Behind him, the farmer had not moved.

    From outside the café was blue and white, the Zak's Kaff sign bright yellow, like every other ZK in the country. Each parking space had sockets to plug into, the recharge "free", meaning it was factored into the cost of food. Three other cars were parked. Josh pulled in, hooked up the cable, and lugged his carryall inside.
        "Table for one, dear?" The waitress didn't glance at his sodden tracksuit. "Where would you like to sit? There's always plenty of room at this hour, specially Saturdays."
        "I'll pop to the loo first. Can I sit there, against the wall? And I'll have a large cappuccino."
        "All right. It'll be a few–"
        He went through to the disabled toilet, because there was plenty of room and no one who might need to use it. He took out his washbag, everything neatly in place – a symptom of military OCD, Maria called his neatness, not knowing how seconds late for a rendezvous could spell death, how equipment organised and to hand made all the difference, and if that was obsessive-compulsive then he could live with it. Sponging himself in front of the sink, he remembered how quickly he had learned these habits, for every soldier – not just special forces – can wash and dress in eight minutes flat.
        Refreshed, enjoying the clean clothes against his skin, he sat down at the table and sipped from the waiting cappuccino. Scalding, even though it had been sitting there.
        "You ready to order food, love?"
        "Large OJ, beans on toast, another large cappuccino."
        "Blimey, you'll have the wind behind you."
        Josh looked up at her and she stepped back, raising her touchpad like a shield. Shit . What was wrong with him?
        "Sorry. Bit of a family situation, and I'm in a mood, you know?"
        "Oh." A near-laugh. "I know how that goes."
        "And I feel better already, with the coffee. Thanks."
        She smiled, meaning it now, and went back behind the counter.
        Lofty Young used to advise against life-changing decisions made on an empty stomach, saying: "Low blood sugar equals suspect thinking." Good advice, hard to follow given the missions Ghost Force often faced, yet based on sound understanding. Last night seemed to signal a sundering from Maria, a severing with no going back, and he pulled out his phone but did not call her, for Lofty was always right. As he waited, he watched the waitress bring food to another table, a family of three looking up startled when she put the first plate down, because they had not seen or heard her coming. How could people be so unaware and yet survive?
        Perhaps because others fought their wars for them, keeping the place safe and peaceful and far too soft, but that was an old thought and far too simplistic, and wasn't it time he put it out of his head? Encircling his neck with a narrow cord – a throat mic for subvocal speech – he plugged it into his phone, thumbed through his contacts and chose Tony Gore. He pushed a bead into his ear as Tony's face came to life.
        "Hey, Josh. It's a bit early to call. You all right, mate?"
        "Flying green, and I knew you'd be awake. Everything still on for next week?"
        "Uh-huh. Hang on." The phone showed Tony turning away. "Hey, Am? You hear the kids screaming?" A distant answer sounded, then he turned face-on again. "Sorry, yeah, the course is on plan. You sure you're OK to teach?"
        "Definitely. So is the basha free tonight, by any chance?"
        "I didn't expect anyone before tomorrow, but yeah, it's booked since the beginning of the month, because of the programme."
        It was an eight-week training programme for Quantal Bank, and Tony had booked a Docklands apartment, cheaper and more homely than a hotel. Most of the trainers called it a basha, because Tony hired only exmilitary.
        "Thought I'd settle in, get my