death on the move.
CHAPTER SIX
10.51, MAYFAIR, LONDON W1
The VT Media van parked at the end of the small junction off Piccadilly had false plates that matched phantom records inserted into the two supposedly impregnable databases of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and VT Media Inc.
This was all thanks to ‘the Kid’, Danny Shanklin’s regular tech support, who’d last night hacked both systems to ensure that his white Ford Transit appeared to be part of VT’s engineering fleet, here on legitimate business. In case anyone cared to check.
Danny and the Kid were now sweating side by side in the windowless back of the van, wedged in a nest of comms kit and wires.
London was in the grip of a heatwave. According to the Kid’s copy of the Sun newspaper, this was set to be the hottest day of the year.
But the van’s air-con was broken. In spite of the fact that the same off-grid chop shop where the Kid had paid an extortionate sum to get its stencils sprayed and plates switched would most likely have fixed it for free.
The Kid’s IQ was off the scale. But when it came to the mundane facets of day-to-day living, he had a tendency to let things slide. Meaning he’d not got the air-con fixed, because – quite simply – ithad just seemed like too much hassle at the time. Or to use his own south London vernacular, because he ‘couldn’t be bloody arsed’.
Danny peeled the lid off the Starbucks cup the Kid had just handed him and took a swig. Then winced. The coffee was lukewarm, oversweet and stale. Something that clearly wasn’t an issue for the Kid, who now drained his own cup in one before belching loudly. Twice.
The Kid was thirty-five years old, six two and sixteen stone, but baby-faced with it, and pretty much wrinkle- and stubble-free. Hence his nickname.
He was British army and GCHQ trained, and smart enough to have lectured in encryption or coding at either MIT or Imperial College, if he’d so desired. Lucky for Danny, he preferred being out in the field, running his own show, for a few select, well-paying contacts.
Right now he stank of smokes and last night’s booze, and was wearing a pair of blue VT Media engineering overalls with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the legend GOD IS A PROGRAMMER in fancy Gothic tattoo lettering across his ham-sized right forearm.
‘You want one?’ he said, offering Danny a brown paper bag stuffed full of doughnuts.
‘Thanks, Kid, but I already ate.’
Anna-Maria had fixed Danny an omelette up on deck before he’d left the barge. Catching a trace of her perfume on his shirt collar now, he felt a pang of regret, and wished himself still there.
But just as quickly, the feeling faded. Like a beautiful dream he’d just woken from, which here in the daylight no longer made sense.
The Kid rummaged through his paper bag before selecting a doughnut covered in chocolate icing and multicoloured sugar flecks, from which he now took an enormous bite.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, mate,’ he said, sugar snowing down from his lips. ‘This here’s manna from junk-food heaven. I’d have thought a Yank like you would have appreciated as much.’
This Kid’s voice was gravelly, like he had a perpetual cold. Danny had always joked that he could have been a late-night radio DJ, if he hadn’t been so busy going out and getting wrecked.
Danny had first met him in Basra five years ago, where they’d both been involved in training Executive Protection Units. Back then, the Kid had been able to run a mile in under five minutes and could bench-press twice his own weight – the same as Danny still could now.
But these last few years, working the private sector in Europe, mainly out of the back of surveillance vans like this, much of the Kid’s muscle had turned to fat. It was a metamorphosis he embraced, rather than resented, though. His appearance didn’t bother him one bit.
Most of the work I do could either get me killed or land me in prison,
CHAPTER SIX
10.51, MAYFAIR, LONDON W1
The VT Media van parked at the end of the small junction off Piccadilly had false plates that matched phantom records inserted into the two supposedly impregnable databases of the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and VT Media Inc.
This was all thanks to ‘the Kid’, Danny Shanklin’s regular tech support, who’d last night hacked both systems to ensure that his white Ford Transit appeared to be part of VT’s engineering fleet, here on legitimate business. In case anyone cared to check.
Danny and the Kid were now sweating side by side in the windowless back of the van, wedged in a nest of comms kit and wires.
London was in the grip of a heatwave. According to the Kid’s copy of the Sun newspaper, this was set to be the hottest day of the year.
But the van’s air-con was broken. In spite of the fact that the same off-grid chop shop where the Kid had paid an extortionate sum to get its stencils sprayed and plates switched would most likely have fixed it for free.
The Kid’s IQ was off the scale. But when it came to the mundane facets of day-to-day living, he had a tendency to let things slide. Meaning he’d not got the air-con fixed, because – quite simply – ithad just seemed like too much hassle at the time. Or to use his own south London vernacular, because he ‘couldn’t be bloody arsed’.
Danny peeled the lid off the Starbucks cup the Kid had just handed him and took a swig. Then winced. The coffee was lukewarm, oversweet and stale. Something that clearly wasn’t an issue for the Kid, who now drained his own cup in one before belching loudly. Twice.
The Kid was thirty-five years old, six two and sixteen stone, but baby-faced with it, and pretty much wrinkle- and stubble-free. Hence his nickname.
He was British army and GCHQ trained, and smart enough to have lectured in encryption or coding at either MIT or Imperial College, if he’d so desired. Lucky for Danny, he preferred being out in the field, running his own show, for a few select, well-paying contacts.
Right now he stank of smokes and last night’s booze, and was wearing a pair of blue VT Media engineering overalls with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the legend GOD IS A PROGRAMMER in fancy Gothic tattoo lettering across his ham-sized right forearm.
‘You want one?’ he said, offering Danny a brown paper bag stuffed full of doughnuts.
‘Thanks, Kid, but I already ate.’
Anna-Maria had fixed Danny an omelette up on deck before he’d left the barge. Catching a trace of her perfume on his shirt collar now, he felt a pang of regret, and wished himself still there.
But just as quickly, the feeling faded. Like a beautiful dream he’d just woken from, which here in the daylight no longer made sense.
The Kid rummaged through his paper bag before selecting a doughnut covered in chocolate icing and multicoloured sugar flecks, from which he now took an enormous bite.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, mate,’ he said, sugar snowing down from his lips. ‘This here’s manna from junk-food heaven. I’d have thought a Yank like you would have appreciated as much.’
This Kid’s voice was gravelly, like he had a perpetual cold. Danny had always joked that he could have been a late-night radio DJ, if he hadn’t been so busy going out and getting wrecked.
Danny had first met him in Basra five years ago, where they’d both been involved in training Executive Protection Units. Back then, the Kid had been able to run a mile in under five minutes and could bench-press twice his own weight – the same as Danny still could now.
But these last few years, working the private sector in Europe, mainly out of the back of surveillance vans like this, much of the Kid’s muscle had turned to fat. It was a metamorphosis he embraced, rather than resented, though. His appearance didn’t bother him one bit.
Most of the work I do could either get me killed or land me in prison,
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