A Very Personal War

By Sean Rider

NATO's most wanted Taliban terrorist is set free by a double-dealing US President. He needs eliminating.

ASIS sends in Sam Weston, their top covert operator. He nearly doesn't make it back.

Then tasked to rescue two hostages held by militants in Libya, the gruesome result sends Sam on a mission of deadly revenge.

Sam's nemesis, rogue CIA elements, are now after him, so he must strike first. He needs unofficial help. A Russian oligarch needs a favour done, and so he gains their assistance. It nearly costs him his life. He can now trust no one.

It's now become a very personal war, and it takes Sam to Berlin and the backwoods of Maine. He's on his own secret mission. Can he finally win in the end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Rider
• Release date: Sep 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645203325

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The boy lay still in the shallow depression made by old creeks that had stopped running long ago. The drought was in its third year, and he was into the second week of his stint in the most northern, one hundred square mile paddock, of Paroo Station in remote, Outback western New South Wales. It was on the edge of a merciless desert that stretched uninterrupted for two thousand miles west across the barren wastes of Australia, and it did not stop until the Indian Ocean. Early explorers landing on that coast 200 years before the British, took one look and walked away. Today, locals still call it the Dead Heart and for good reason.

His Ag bike was a mile further down the gully. He had left it hidden there before dawn so that it was well out of view, and the smells of its oil and petrol did not give away his position to the animal he was stalking. He had been schooled in the art of concealment, patience and accurate shooting by his dad, an ex-Special Forces Warrant Officer, who had returned to the family property at the end of his enlistment. He looked forward to his annual visit from his mother’s home and fishing business in Hawaii. The contrast with the lush vegetation back there could not have been starker. But he loved it for its purity and sheer immense space.

His dad, Andy Weston, had dropped the twelve-year-old off at the outstation hut in the corner of the paddock, so he could learn the land, and how to move sheep from one marginal patch of grass to another. They had to eke out an existence until the next load of fodder could be trucked up a rough dirt track from the station homestead, forty miles to the south. The drought was devastating the region and there was no sign of rain. But he loved the isolation and he was given important responsibilities, just like the older men.

The hundred square mile square paddock had two artesian bores, originally sunk back in the 1930s with government funding. One of these had run dry as the water table dropped and the other, four hundred yards from where he lay, was now a mess of twisted pipes and trampled fencing. It would cost a lot of money to repair. He had found it the day before, during his patrol along the top fence. The animal had burst through in a desperate attempt to find water. The hooves that made the depressions around the machinery and now broken water trough, belonged to a huge feral water buffalo.

There had been reports from neighbours that a group of them, led by a large bull, had escaped through fencing further north a month ago, and were raising havoc at neighbouring properties. Now they had reached Paroo.

The boy raised his head slowly from the depression and looked across the red sandy and rocky ground towards the distant bore. The bull was standing amongst the wreckage and was trying to scrape away with its front hooves at the slightest moisture. It was a fearsome beast, bigger and more aggressive than its African counterparts, and capable of easily catching a man trying to run away and then killing him. They had no fear of humans.

There was no help available to the boy. He alone had to eliminate the risk to the precious water infrastructure, and the fences that kept their breeding stock contained. He could not run to his bike. The bull would see him as a threat and trample him down as it had done to a station hand next door. He was still in the hospital and lucky to be alive.

The boy had carefully approached before dawn so he was downwind from the bull and partly hidden by a stunted mulga bush. He thought he had a chance. He slid his dad’s precious 1928 7mm Mannlicher hunting rifle up to his shoulder and looked through the old four-power Zeiss scope. The 7mm round was only marginal against an animal that probably weighed more than a ton. Up in the Northern Territory, hunters went after these bovines armed with twice as much firepower. He would have to place the shot very accurately. He thought of the legendary African hunter, W.D.M. Bell. If that man could take big game, including elephant, with a similar 7mm, then so could he. His dad had taught him the art of handloading custom rounds, using special powders and tough bullets that were necessary when used against large animals.  

He slowly worked the smooth action as it pushed the long cartridge into the chamber. He would aim at the two-inch space where the bull’s skull and backbone joined at the top of its neck. It was the only choice available to him that would take this animal down. At over 400 yards it was a challenging shot indeed. He pushed the trigger forward until it clicked, setting it to need only a half-ounce of finger pressure to fire. He did as his dad had taught him. In his mind he had to take into account the bullet drop, the wind across its flight path, the humidity and temperature. He looked for little indicators like tufts of grass moving, the shimmering mirage and the variation of the heat as the hot ground undulated in front of him. All contributed to his decision that took only a couple of seconds.

He waited for the bull to pause in its movements and turn more side on, settled the cross hairs on the point of aim, slowly breathed out, held it and pulled the trigger. The rifle boomed and the recoil slammed into his shoulder, but he quickly worked the action again whilst still keeping aim through the scope, ready for a follow up shot. There was no need. The bull had instantly dropped to its knees, with the spinal cord severed. To be on the safe side, he quickly aimed at a point in front of the ear and fired again. The brain shot was backup. The animal was dead.

He stood up, walked back to his bike, and with the rifle slung over his shoulder, rode it to the bore and the dead buffalo. He sat and waited but the risk was gone. It had been a good shot from such a distance. He would repair the nearby fence temporarily, then get on the radio tonight and report. The carcass would have to be buried well away from the bore and where any future rains could spread pathogens as it decomposed. A man would drive the truck up in a day or two and they would repair the bore trough and piping.

The boy walked to a low hill and used his superb eyesight to scan for any more of the bull’s small herd. He saw nothing. He returned to his bike and got out the fencing tools and spare wire and got to work.

Nightmare in Paradise.

1

Gina Felton looked out of her office window over the Bay of Hana, on the Island of Maui. She had made it her permanent home after she retired from active duty in US Special Forces some thirteen years before. Her last operation had been on home soil in the USA, and was against a threat to national security and an act of personal revenge.

It had all started years before in the Vietnam conflict. Her Air Force husband and his B52 crew were murdered by a rogue CIA mission after their bomber was downed by a NVA SA7 missile in Laos. In that rogue operation the next day, the CIA killed them as they awaited rescue, supposedly to prevent their possible capture, and to destroy evidence of secret equipment on the plane wreck.

The extraction team sent into Laos comprised a small group of Australian Special Forces. Their leader also lost his life in the attempt. A few years later, Andy Weston, his NCO, was to join her in a covert operation on US soil to kill the retired General responsible. They were successful, but were betrayed. In the melee, Gina had saved Andy’s life and he and his partner escaped out of the country. But a bond had been formed and she hoped that they might be able to build a life together after the dust settled. However, the distance and the life they each led were so different, that it could not work. But there was one thing that locked them together. She bore him a son. And Sam Weston was the most important thing in her life.

Just as she would never forgive those responsible for what happened, she also realised that there may come a day of reckoning at the hands of others who had escaped the investigation net, and who still felt threatened with exposure. Some people just never did let go and admit defeat. She feared a revenge attempt every day. She had taken complex precautions over the years, even befriending and becoming a co-investor with the Islands’ biggest crime boss. She sought his assistance and even the sympathetic FBI had gone along with it.

She heard someone running up the stairs, and her son Sam walked in. The 14 year old was a strapping mix of Mexican, Hawaiian and Australian genes. Big for his age, he spent a lot of time on his uncle Chuck’s fishing trawler, and deep diving around the reefs of the islands. He also excelled at school, but Gina knew there would be an unconventional life ahead for him. She saw a lot of Andy, his father, in him.

Sam spent every northern summer down on this dad’s, huge sheep ranch, Paroo Station, in Outback Australia. Andy often came to stay in Hana when there was a break after shearing. It was the best they could do to make Sam feel he was part of a nuclear family. It seemed to work pretty well.

Mom, Chuck wants me to crew tonight for a crack at the tuna that are moving down the outer reef. Is that OK? He is down one crew and needs the help. It’s Friday night, so I won’t miss any school!

Sure, Sam. Just be careful. There’s a big sea running so do what Chuck says, and come back safe.

I will, mom. Thanks. I’ve got my harness and foul weather gear, holding up his sea bag.

OK. Be careful. She knew he would be fine. Chuck was almost like a second father to him. Sam paid attention to him and did what he was told. Chuck actually liked having him on board. He was strong and smart beyond his years. They were very close.

Sam made his way past the fish-processing factory building. He waked down to the jetty where the line of trawlers were berthed, getting ready to head out at dusk. He came to Chuck’s boat, Esmerelda, and jumped aboard. She was a state of the art, net and long line fishing trawler, built only seven years ago and a good, stable, sea boat. She had twin MTU diesels that could push her at over 20 knots and had a range of over two thousand miles on full tanks. The crew were rigging the 300-pound long lines and baiting up the two-inch hooks with fresh squid.

Sam jumped down to the deck, went forward into the wheelhouse and saw Chuck looking at the satellite weather screen. Hi, Chuck. Mom says it’s fine to come along.

Great. Get you gear stowed, kit on, and help the boys.

He went down the companionway to the crew’s quarters and galley. Five minutes later he was on the rear deck doing his share of the work.

They departed at 7pm, headed out through the gap in the reef and headed into a rolling swell in the company of two other trawlers that were in their fleet. They would take about four hours to reach the outer shoals, and just beyond that was where they sought the tuna.

Gina had heard reports over the radio in the past few days that big tuna were in the school. A single four-hundred-pound tuna, gutted and chilled, and then quickly air-freighted direct to Japan, could fetch ten thousand dollars in their big fish market. It was quite possible that Chuck’s boat could pull in fifty such fish in a night, even with the strict size limits imposed by authorities.

2

That evening, Gina was packing up her papers and getting ready to drive home. She and Sam had moved from a bungalow to a more secure, top floor apartment in Hana. She felt safer there amongst prominent members of the local community who also appreciated the security.

She left the building and walked around the corner towards her car. A dark, masked figure stepped out of the shadows. He said one word, Sorry. He levelled a silenced handgun at her and shot her once in the head, and once in the chest. She fell to the ground. He dragged her body around the corner into the building’s shadows. A nondescript sedan pulled up quickly. The shooter got in and the car drove off. Police could later find no witnesses.

FBI Deputy Director for the State of Hawaii, Tricia Goldsworthy, was at home with her husband and twin girls. It was time for bed. Her cell phone vibrated with a message. Her husband understood that it would be important. She was diligent in not letting her career ruin her family life.

I better take this in the study, Ned.

Sure, Trish. Come on girls, it’s bedtime. He knew that it was quite possible that he would not see Tricia for a while. She had a massive job, had risen fast through the ranks and now at age forty, she was destined to become State Director. He made sacrifices for her and she appreciated his support.

She went into the study and closed the door. She picked up the secure handset on the desk and dialled a number. It was answered immediately.

You called?

Yes, said the voice of her assistant. Sorry to disturb you. I just got a call from the Sheriff of Hana Country Police. There’s been a shooting near the harbor.

That’s a local jurisdiction. Why contact us?

It was a professional hit. The victim was Gina Felton. The Sheriff knows a bit about her history, so he called us. She felt a chill run through her.

What can you tell me?

Only that the gunman seemed to be waiting for her to finish up in the Co-Op office. It was about 8pm. He got her as she was walking to her car. Another employee found her body at 9pm. It was partially hidden, away from passers-by. Whoever did this had at least one hours start. The Sheriff’s office has sealed the vicinity and locked down the airport and the harbour. He’s also put in roadblocks on the coast road to the west and north. But if this was professional, then it’s a long shot.

OK. Get back to him. Put an embargo on any announcements and keep the press away. I’m on my way in to the office.

I sent a car for you.

Thanks.

Tricia came out of the study and her husband got up. He followed her into the kitchen.

I’m sorry, Ned. This is really important. I have to go to the office and I’m not sure when I’ll be back...Maybe tomorrow evening. I’ll call you tomorrow.

No problem, honey. Do your thing. We’ll be fine.

A few minutes later she was in the back of a silver sedan as it made its way to FBI Headquarters in Honolulu. It swept into the basement car park. She caught the lift to the top floor. When she stepped out into the foyer, her assistant was waiting. They went straight to her office.

Has anyone else been brought in on this yet?

No. When I called up Gina Felton on the computer, it was secure, your eyes only. That’s why I called.

Good. Get on the phone to the Sheriff and tell him we will have a CSI team there by midnight. Get Hank to lead it. Get him in first to see me pronto. This has to stay quiet.

He left to go to his cubicle. The rest of the night shift on her floor were busy. She picked up her phone and called the Director.

"It’s Tricia. Sorry to disturb you. Sitting down? Gina Felton’s been murdered...No, it’s secure for the moment. The Hana Sheriff knows the sensitivity...Yes. I’ll take Hank Willis and get the plane over with the CSI team.

She hung up. She went to the safe in the corner and worked the combination. The door opened and she fished for a file under a number of others. She closed the safe door and put the file on her desk. Only she and the Director had access to this category of file. She buzzed her assistant.

Find Willis and get him here. Yes, I know its Friday night. Send a car. Lights but no sirens.

Half an hour later a tall man in his fifties, her most senior and astute investigator, stood at the door.

Sorry Hank. This is serious. Close the door.

He sat down.

Please read this file while I wait.

She pushed the file over to him and he sat back and quickly read it.

Wow, Tricia. I’ve only seen one of these once before. This was, what, fourteen years ago.

Yes. She was just murdered by a hitman at about 8pm tonight.

Shit. You called the Director?

Half an hour ago. It’s my baby. We are on a plane to Hana at 11.15pm. The CSI team will be with us.

The Sheriff got his people together. Listen up, people. No leaks. Do this by the book. The FBI will be here a bit after 12. Refer any press to me. This is way beyond our pay grade as you will discover. He walked over to his Deputy.

Where’s Sam?

I checked. He’s at sea on Chuck’s boat. They are not due back until tomorrow.

Ok, it’s best to leave them alone. Find the night radio officer at the Coast Guard Station and give him a heads up. They are not to be told any details yet. This has to be kept secure for as long as possible.

He walked around the cordon. They had sealed off the whole building, the jetty and the car park as well as the driveway out to the street. Tell those officers to switch off the flashing lights. No one goes in or out. Go down to the 7-Eleven along the way, and tell them to give you their CCTV footage. And secure the CCTV for the carpark too.

The Deputy went to his cruiser and headed down the road.

The Sheriff had known Gina and her family for years. He had been told some information that she was on a secure, protection program, but not why. He was also aware that as such, if anything happened, there was a number to call. So that’s what he had done.

3

Esmerelda was laying out two long lines of baited hooks, in a rising swell. The crew were in their full, foul weather gear, and with safety harnesses securely clipped to the stainless-steel safety cables that ran around the deck. The lines flew out over the big rollers that were craned out from each side of the trawler. Every couple of hundred yards, an orange float was attached. In all, they would pull the two-mile long lines through where the sonar showed the school of tuna to be. The other trawlers were running in parallel a few miles apart doing the same thing. Once through the school they would winch in the long lines and using gaffs, pull the hooked tuna onboard. The hooks would be removed and the silvery fish would be slid down the shutes on each side of the chiller hold where other crew would gut them and pack them in ice. It was hard work, but with a well-practiced technique, not difficult.

One hour later the sensor in the wheelhouse detected many vibrations coming back up the lines. Bingo, thought Chuck. The drag was heavy on the dial and that meant that they had a lot of tuna hooked up. He would continue for another hour then slow and pull the lines in. They would be back in port by late the next morning.

The Falcon 500 jet was filling with the FBI CSI team and their gear. Tricia and Willis walked up the steps and took their seats. It taxied out to the runway, was given take off clearance and headed out into the night, on the short flight to Hana.

When they landed, they were met by local police with two vans. Ten minutes later Tricia stood with the Sheriff as the CSI team got to work. Due to the late hour, they had not been forced to turn many people away from the complex. The trawlers were not due back soon, so they had the whole place protected for least another six hours. Tricia went through what they knew so far with the Sheriff. Willis talked to the employee who found the body. He was sent home, told to stay there, and to say nothing to anyone.

Hank approached Tricia at about 3am.

What have you got so far?

"Well, not much at this stage. He was waiting in the shadows and there was no struggle. He pulled her body around the corner of the shed over there. He was wearing socks or booties and probably gloves. There are no hard footprints in the gravel. Whoever drove the car took it easy so there are hardly any tire tracks. But assuming it was the last vehicle to drive out, we are photographing all the top tracks in the dust. The CCTV shows a plain, dark grey sedan driving in at 7.45pm. The plates were removed and the windows were tinted, including the windscreen. It left at about 8.10pm. The CCTV from the 7-Eleven shows it driving past at normal speed. It will probably turn up tomorrow, burned out somewhere. This was a real pro job. They knew where she would walk and they chose a spot out of sight of the cameras. So there had to be some earlier surveillance of her work habits and we are going back a few days in the CCTV. We might get lucky.

Ok, thanks Hank. What about the body?

One shot above the right eye and one into the chest. Small calibre. Maybe a 25 or even a 22. Close up. Both slugs are still in the body. Where do you want her taken?

Keep her here at the local hospital facility for now. But file it as a Jane Doe. Get the Sheriff to mount a guard there. She was well known hereabouts and employed a lot of locals. We’ll fly her to Honolulu for the full autopsy.

By 7am, the CSI team was finished and released the scene back to the Sheriff’s Department. Gina’s office door was locked and sealed. Tricia left with the CSI team, but left Willis behind with the Sheriff, to meet the trawler when it returned.

Tricia was back in her office at 8am. She called the Director and updated him, and then she had two more calls to make. She picked up the phone and dialled a number.

John speaking.

John, it’s Tricia Goldsworthy. Are you able to speak?

Sounds serious, Tricia. Yes, I can speak.

John, Gina Felton was murdered last night in Hana.

There was a silence on the line. Then he answered.

I see. They took their time, didn’t they?

It seems so. It was a professional hit. I wanted you to know.

Thank you, Tricia. Do you want me to make enquiries?

Only quietly, John. And be careful.

I will.

John Milke was now in his early 80s, but still firmly in control of the underworld family that dominated the resort business in Hawaii. He had changed from mobster to businessman and had worked very hard to legitimise his enterprises. He did not traffic drugs, but the FBI did know he occasionally washed money for the Gambino crime family in Las Vegas. They had a truce. He had helped Gina get established, and he had been her financial backer for a long time. He sold his share in her business to a Government Teachers Super Fund, and made a good profit. He was close to Gina and this hit him hard. He also knew that this was a very serious and stupid thing for Gina’s old enemies to do. He would put the word out quietly and see what he could find out. There would have to be a trail. There always was.

4

It was 10,30am when Chuck guided Esmerelda into the small bay. The chiller was full. It had been a very successful catch. As the boat neared the dock, he saw the Sheriff and a man in a suit standing waiting.

He got a bad feeling. Police never bring good news. He was about to climb up the steps but the Sheriff held up his hand. They climbed aboard.

Where’s Sam?

Down below, getting changed.

You better go and get him and bring him to the wheelhouse, Chuck.

He turned and went down the companionway. He emerged with Sam with him. They went into the wheelhouse and slid the door shut.

The Sheriff said, Chuck, Sam, there is no easy way to say this so I just will.

Sam and Chuck looked at each other then back at the Sheriff. Willis did not know how this would go. He didn’t know what to say. It was better coming from the old family friend.

Gina is dead. She was killed by persons unknown at 8pm last night, as she was walking to her car. This here is Hank Willis from the FBI. We, and they, are all over it.

Chuck had to sit down. He said, She always thought this might happen. She lived in fear of it all these years.

Sam was standing there like a statue. His head was bowed and tears were welling in his eyes. He said nothing. Did nothing.

Chuck, Willis said, we believe that Sam’s life is also in danger. I need to contact his dad and make some arrangements.

Sam looked up, now with a cold look and clenched jaw. Mom told me a year ago about what happened back then. Everything. She and my dad sat me down and explained that this might happen. He pulled out his cell phone. He pulled up a number from the directory. That’s my dad’s number in Australia. Can you ask Tricia to call him and to come and get me, please? I’m sorry, Chuck, I want to leave this place."

He reached out to Chuck and hugged him. Chuck wept. Sam said to him, Can I stay with you until dad comes for me? Chuck nodded. Sam knew that Chuck would surround his place with willing, protective friends.

Willis would later say that he thought something inside Sam broke that day, and it could never be put back together. He was right. Sam was now, from that moment, on a journey of revenge.

The Sheriff called Tricia. He reported what had occurred and that he would also station someone at Chucks. She updated him on their progress but said they had not made much headway. She said she would call Sam’s dad in Australia. He gave her the number.

5

It was still Friday evening at Paroo Station. Andy was about to go to bed when the phone rang. He looked at the screen and the ID was blocked. Strange.

Paroo Station. Andy Weston speaking.

Mr Weston, my name is Tricia Goldsworthy from the FBI in Honolulu. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But I have some bad news.

Andy’s blood had turned cold. Yes, I know who you are. You helped Gina. What is it?

Gina has been killed.

He swayed and nearly collapsed. He couldn’t speak...or even breathe. She waited patiently. He finally got a grip on his emotions.

What happened? Was it an accident? Tell me!

No accident. She was gunned down in Hana last night as she was leaving work to go home. We are pulling out all stops to find out who did this. But I want to ask you about Sam. He is at Chuck’s tonight, and under guard. But we will move him somewhere safer. He wants you to come here and take him into your care. He said it’s what he and Gina would have wanted. I’m not sure how he is taking this. Something has come over him. He’s gone all quiet...He’s just waiting for you.

Andy had sunk into the chair. Thank you, Tricia. Tell Sam I’m on my way.

He looked up to see his old friend es Special Forces friend, Brad, and his sister Julie, standing in the doorway. He looked up at Brad, tears in his eyes. Gina’s dead. Murdered. Last night. Sam needs me. I’ll bring him here.

Julie burst into tears and Brad held her. Mate, go and tell mum and dad. I’ll get on the computer and file a flight plan and fly you to Sydney.

Andy went down the corridor and knocked on his parents’ door. He went in and closed it behind him. Outback families were used to dealing with death and heartbreak. Tragedy was always nearby...drought, floods, fires, accidents. It was a hard life. But they came together for each other. Andy told them what had happened. They knew Andy would bring Sam to live with them.

Andy came back down the corridor.

Brad came out of the study. He had an approved flight plan and a landing slot at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, for a one-hour window which he could update on the way if necessary. Andy went into his bedroom and packed a bag.

Julie drove them to the hangar beside the dirt air strip they had completed two years before. Planes were the cars of the Outback. They rolled back the hangar doors. Their Piper Twin Comanche was always ready to fly. It had long-range tanks and could reach Sydney in three hours.

Julie kissed them both.

Brad told her, I’ll lay over for twelve hours and be back here on Saturday evening.

Brad, you’ll need to plan another pickup in about three days. I’ll call from Hawaii.

They climbed aboard. Brad took the left seat. They went through their checks and ran the turbocharged engines up to temperature and taxied out to the runway. Brad turned on the nav lights and with the landing lights bathing the strip ahead, they took off and turned east. Brad then got the flight plan and set the autopilot for the route and height they had been approved to take.

After half an hour of uncomfortable silence, Brad said, They got her, mate. They might come after us.

Yeah, I know. But who?

I have an idea. It’s a cunt of a country they have there. It can only be old associates of that Senator bastard we blew up in Georgia. Gina hurt them bad."

It was 3.30am as they saw the lights of Sydney in the distance. They had to follow air traffic control and followed a big UPS freighter into the glide slope and touched down. Brad taxied to the Private Executive Terminal and did his final checks and powered down. They lowered the steps and walked into the small terminal. Brad asked them to file another return flight plan for the next day after his mandatory rest. Then they caught a cab to International Departures.

At 8am Andy was on a United Airlines flight to Honolulu. He had a lot on his mind. He had lost Gina. He loved her desperately, despite the distance and time apart. Neither had given thought to get into another relationship. He now had sole care for his son. How would Sam adjust? Would he be affected by what had happened? Undoubtedly. Only time would tell by just how much.

6

Acab brought Andy to FBI Headquarters in downtown Honolulu. He reported to reception and they gave him a visitors’ pass. He caught the lift to the top floor and Tricia was waiting as he stepped out of the lift. She took him to a conference room where Willis was also waiting.

I’m sorry to have given you this terrible news, Mr. Weston.

Sure. Call me Andy, ok? You were the person who helped Gina originally, weren’t you?

Yes, I was. I have a personal stake in this. I’ll tell you what we know so far.

She went through the events as they unfolded and what the facts were as they stood right then.

Chuck, Gina’s brother, did the formal identification yesterday.

Can I see the ballistics report and a photo of Gina’s wounds, please?

Willis said, I’m not sure we can do that Mr Weston. You were not married, were you And what purpose would it serve?"

Andy narrowed his eyes, looked at him and said, Firstly, under Australian Law, she was my common-law wife. After three years you have the same rights and obligations as a formally married couple. And that makes me next of kin too. Second, I spent twelve years in Special Forces and I know something about ballistics and wounds.

Tricia said, Show him.

Willis handed over the report. Andy read through it and looked at the images.

25 calibre, subsonic, and suppressed, right? Shot at a distance of about six feet?

Correct.

One through the right eyeball and one into the heart. This was a very professional hit. No discarded casings?

Yes, it was, and no, the shooter didn’t leave any behind.

He looked at Tricia. I appreciate that you are doing your best on this. It’s not my aim to interfere. And anyway, what could I do? But a 25 is not so commonly used these days, right? You might be lucky with ballistics. You have all the information Gina had, so you knew all the people who might want her dead. That’s a big task to check. Lots of people would have a score to settle. They also might be after me too. How do you propose filtering them into suspects?

Tricia answered, "Right now there are plenty of people with a motive. But we do have some leads. We were able to get an image of a guy who visited the car park twice in the three days before the attack. He did not enter the building, nor did he go