The Sleepers

By KM Kelly

“Once you start you just have to know what's going to happen next . . . totally thrilling!” —Goodreads reviewer, five stars

A time bomb is ticking—but what if that time bomb is you? A chilling novel of intrigue, terror, and one man and woman in a race against the clock . . .

Sylvie is running. Running from the memories of a terror attack in London she experienced as a child, a catastrophic event in which her brother died. Running from her abusive boyfriend. And running from a warning, given to her on a station platform in Nantes: Someone is trying to kill her.

Corran isn’t really Corran. He’s working deep undercover to infiltrate the political organisation that looks set to win the upcoming British election—a group that doesn’t appear to have existed a few years ago. Corran has been sent to find out who’s behind them and what their true agenda might be.

But he messes up. All he has is a list of names, Sylvie’s included. Only with time does he begin to see the connections. Are those on the list, who were caught up in the London terror attack ten years ago, now being systematically taken out? The hit list will force Corran and Sylvie into a reluctant partnership, and into the centre of a looming threat that could explode at any moment . . .

“Sucks you in from page one and doesn’t let go. Packed with tremendous action.” —Rob Samborn, author of The Prisoner of Paradise and Painter of the Damned

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504075206

Book preview

1

GERMANY

He’s dying.

It’s quiet in this corner of the park, just him and you. His fingers dig into the short turf, grinding dirt underneath his nails, as he struggles to take his last breath. A violent twitching sets up in his left Lycra-clad leg, then stops. Breath gurgles and chokes. His body relaxes, then slumps.

He’s gone.

All you can hear now is birdsong. There’s a pale dawn lighting up the eastern sky and a bitter spring chill in the air. The ground is faintly frosted. Your breath forms pale clouds and you look down at your prey.

Six down, more than twenty left to go.

You check the lid is tight on your aerosol and slip it back into your pocket. Cyanide spray. One of your favourite methods. They won’t find any trace of it unless they are looking for it. A runner collapses. They’ll suspect natural causes. Of course, the post-mortem will be inconclusive, but there’ll be nothing to suggest foul play. Nothing to suggest that he might have been murdered.

Yet you linger, looking down on his now still form. His running kit is cheap, high street stuff. The Fitbit on his wrist will confirm his time of death. His headphones came out in the struggle and lie tangled around him. His phone is still strapped to his upper arm. The playlist will continue, with no one to hear it. The sound is tinny but you recognise the tone. German folk rock. Well, what else?

You should be gone now. Leave this place, leave his body for the next runner to find. There’s no CCTV in this part of the park. Nothing to capture the moment he fell. Nothing to show the figure that stepped out beside him, aerosol spray in hand. Nothing to show you approaching this place.

And nothing to show you leave.

Should you feel something? Standing there, looking down at this morning’s work. Has killing become so routine? An art form – a skill to take pride in? Perhaps. And yet here you are, savouring the moment, a faint thrill tingling its way up and down your spine.

A blackbird calls, a trill warning. Probably just a cat, but it’s enough to stir you out of the moment.

You slip away between the trees, a shadowy figure. You were never here.

2

SYLVIE

He started following me at the airport, of that I’m almost certain. At least, that was where I first started feeling that something was wrong – a jittering of my nerves, a shadow half glimpsed from the corner of my eye.

Turn and look.

There’s nothing there.

Only the baggage carousel lumbering its steady circuit, bags scattered along its length, and travellers in clusters, waiting to drag those cases towards customs and the armed soldiers who watched us with suspicious eyes.

There was a time when travelling felt safe, when we didn’t feel threatened at every turn. But times have changed as countries and unions fragmented and now people tend not to go very far. I’d rather not have made this trip, leaving Pierre alone in the farmhouse, but my mother lives in England, and sometimes she misses me. Skype won’t suffice.

So there I was, at Nantes airport, desperately wishing I was back home, and now I was certain someone was following me. And where was my bag?

I twisted my fingers together and edged closer to the carousel, weaving between the few people whose cases had yet to arrive, eyes fixed on the emerging baggage, willing mine to appear. The hairs lifted on the back of my neck, my skin prickled.

I flinched and looked round.

This time I thought I saw him, a figure in dark clothes, staring at me. But then he was gone. And there was my bag. At last.

I hauled it off the carousel and dragged it towards customs, towards the soldiers clasping their automatic guns, eyes calculating. One of the wheels had bent on the way here, probably being manhandled by the airport staff, and I struggled to keep it straight, dragging it behind me by the handle. The wheel creaked and almost jammed. A cold sweat broke out across my back. Don’t let them search me. All I wanted was to get out of this place, to be home, safe in Pierre’s arms.

I quickened my pace and then forced myself to slow. No point in drawing attention. My jitteriness must be showing. There were footsteps behind me, coming up fast. I fought the urge to turn and look as a soldier stepped forwards, hand out, pointing. He was slender, tall. In another place and time I might have dared a smile. But the sight of the uniform was enough to make me want to run. My step faltered and I fought the urge to flee and dared to glance up. His eyes were impassive, not meeting mine.

The steps behind me stopped and the soldier walked past. Slow breaths, deep relief. It wasn’t me they wanted to stop but the owner of those footsteps. Someone else would spend the next few hours being strip-searched by those sadistic brutes, but I was clear. I pulled my case behind me into the arrivals hall. There were more soldiers here but I didn’t feel so threatened. These were unlikely to cause me any delay. Not unless I did something really stupid. I wasn’t about to do that.

Head down, eyes fixed on where I was going – the bus to the station.

I started to feel more at ease on the station bus. A crush of people, the familiar sound of French being spoken. Their breath started to steam up the windows, a thin drizzle falling outside. There wasn’t much to see through the rain-smeared windows and the close proximity of fellow travellers was strangely comforting. I closed my eyes and thought of Pierre. I hoped he would have lit the stove. I yearned for the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread. The bread in England is awful. But home was only a train ride away.

I tipped my head from side to side to ease the crick in my neck; to push away the tension of the past few hours; to rid myself of the creeping paranoia. Nobody was following me. Why would they be? I was just an ordinary girl, heading for home. Nothing special at all.

Of course, I knew why I was nervous, why the fear and unease wouldn’t leave me. That terrible day in London had left its scars. How could it not? But that had been years ago. The counselling had helped me move on.

Now wasn’t the time to dwell on such things.

I glanced round at my travelling companions, trying to imagine where they were going and where they had been. It was a good distraction, think about things that are, not things that have been. The middle-aged man in a suit – he’d been away on business. The old lady – visiting her grandchildren. The man in shorts – he’d been somewhere sunny and lost his suitcase so wasn’t able to get changed on his way home. I suppressed a giggle. Losing a case isn’t funny really.

I looked round. There was a man in a dark-coloured fleece sitting at the back of the bus – looking straight at me.

I flinched and the panic was back, constricting my throat. I snapped my head back round to face forwards but I could still feel his eyes on me. I couldn’t breathe, the bus suddenly a trap, the people around me no longer a comfort but malevolent. I pressed my hands together and closed my eyes, as if that would make it go away.

I had to get off the bus. I had to get away.

‘Are you okay?’ said a voice beside me. I opened my eyes and gawped at the middle-aged woman sat beside me. Her brow furrowed, eyes filled with concern. I tried to speak but all I managed was a thin croak. I swallowed hard and tried again.

‘Yes, I mean no. I don’t know.’

‘Panic attack?’

I shook my head and then nodded.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re almost at the station. Do you have far to go?’

‘Not far. Tours. My boyfriend…’

‘Ah, young love.’ She looked wistful all of a sudden. No longer thinking about anyone other than herself.

I gave her a faint smile. She had that spinster look about her, a certain primness, grown out of years of being alone.

The bus swung into the station and lurched to a halt. The woman got to her feet.

‘Good luck, dear,’ she said as she hauled her case off the bus.

I followed with my own. The bent wheel squeaked and caused it to snag in the door. When I had freed it and set it down on the pavement I looked around for her to say thanks, but she had gone. I couldn’t see the man in the dark fleece either. Not that I really wanted to look too hard. If I saw him again I’d probably freak out completely.

Not for the first time on this trip I wished I had never left. Pierre made me feel safe in an unsafe world. I hated going anywhere alone. The sooner I was back home the better.

I took a deep breath and stretched out my hand in front of my eyes. There was a faint tremor but nothing too serious. I clenched my fingers into a fist and felt stronger.

The rain had stopped and the clouds started to clear. A patch of sunshine passed over me as I reached the entrance to the station. My mood started to lift.

Everything was fine until I reached the ticket machine, my bag by my feet and my card and ticket being disgorged into my hand. That was when I felt a hand on my arm.

I flinched and turned as panic surged inside me. It was the man, the same man I had seen staring at me on the bus, the same man I had thought was following me. Now I knew for certain that he was. This time he had his fleece hoodie pulled up to cover his head. His eyes were haunted and hollow, probing into mine.

I pulled away and he let go immediately.

‘Sylvie,’ he said.

I froze. I could barely speak and I opened and closed my mouth like a stranded fish. There was something about him, something half remembered, that I had pushed to the back of my mind, but I knew him from somewhere, and he knew me.

‘Do you remember me?’ he said. ‘I was there. It was a long time ago. You were just a kid.’

‘Where?’ I asked, although in my heart I had a horrible feeling that I knew; that awful day that I had spent my whole life trying to forget.

‘You have to get out of here, now,’ he said. ‘They’re coming for me. They’re coming for all of us.’

‘All of whom?’

‘Everyone who was there.’ He took a step back, away from me, looking past me. Now I saw real fear in those hollow eyes.

It was the shout that caught my attention first. A cry of shock and rage. The shout was followed by the running. A surge of people on the platform to my right. Shouts of alarm and annoyance as people were barged out of the way. I pocketed my ticket and reached for my bag.

The crowd parted and a figure was running towards me. A new level of fear pushed out the old and I couldn’t move. I wanted to run, my mind was screaming at me to run, but my body refused to respond. It was as if I had been embalmed in glue.

He reached me, a man, young, gaunt, hood pulled up to hide his head, a woman’s handbag clutched to his chest as he dodged through the crowd. Somewhere behind him from the melee of people the word ‘Thief!’ rang out. Then more footsteps, more running, a man in police uniform sprinted past, the crowd parting to let him through. Up ahead was more commotion as members of the public intervened, halting the thief’s flight.

My heart was racing and I looked back round to the man who had spoken to me, just in time to see him fall. He dropped to his knees and then slumped forwards, face first onto the platform. I heard the smack as his face hit the floor and saw the red stain spreading through the fabric on his back. My breath choked in my throat as the crowd pressed forward, obscuring him from view. Some reached for their phones. A woman started to scream.

I was shaking, my arms, my whole body. My legs felt like grass blades, too weak to bear my weight and I swayed and wobbled. The world was spinning. People were milling, stunned and silent, crowding round. In the distance the faint wail of sirens sounded.

I started to back away. I knew in my heart what had happened. Whoever that man had been, he and I were connected. The sooner I got out of this place the better.

I found the strength to move and wound my way between stunned bystanders, towards the platform where my train was waiting. It was about to leave and I leapt aboard just as the doors were about to close. I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted now was to be detained by the Gendarmes. I found a seat and sat, trying to steady the shaking, and watched the countryside unfold as we sped past. It was going to be fine. I was heading towards home.

Towards Pierre.

Towards safety…

3

CORRAN

This time I am Corran Munroe. You don’t need to know my real name. Nobody does. I breathe Corran, think Corran, immerse myself in that character that I have become. And it’s working. They’ve invited me in.

The entrance hall is wide, high ceilings, sweeping staircase, all glass and chrome. It could be any other office building in Canary Wharf. I look around from the immaculate receptionists, polished nails and matching lipstick, to the sharp-suited businessmen rushing to and fro, the heels of their patent leather shoes clicking on the stone tiles. I stand still, soaking up the enormity of this place. Corran would be nervous, excited. So I am nervous. Excited.

I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on the handle of my briefcase. There’s nothing in it, a pen, a sandwich wrapped in cling film that I may or may not eat. But it looks good. It makes me feel the part. And who knows what I might need to bring home with me.

One of the girls behind the reception desk is looking at me and when I catch her eye she smiles. Her lipstick is just a shade too pink, the make-up caked on, and she doesn’t need it. She’d be much prettier without. I return her smile and stride over to the desk.

‘Hello,’ I say in my best English accent. I put the briefcase on the table between us and fiddle with the handle. ‘I’m here to see Eva Morgaine. Corran Munroe.’

Her eyes open ever so slightly wider at the sound of Eva’s name, but beyond that she shows no reaction. Her smile is reassuring. Her eyes businesslike. She checks the computer and picks up the phone. It must have been answered immediately and she tells whoever is on the other end that I am here. She replaces the handset and I can feel her eyes scanning me, up and down.

‘They’ll be right down for you, take a seat.’ She gestures towards a green plastic chair set to one side of the desk. It’s tucked out of the way so as not to inconvenience any of the suits dashing back and forth, always trying to appear busier than they really are. It’s modern, like the building we are in. Sweeping lines suggesting comfort has been sacrificed for looks.

‘I’ll stand,’ I say. I meet her gaze and hold it but I think my attempt at suave comes off as a bit pervy. She blushes and looks away.

‘As you wish, they won’t be long.’

And they’re not. Almost as our conversation ends the lift doors on the opposite side of the entrance hall slide open and I know it’s them. Two serious-looking men in dark suits with security passes clipped to their lapels. They both have matching haircuts, cropped so short as to almost be skinheads, and matching ties in the party colours of ice-cold silver. It seems to reflect their mood. I pick up my briefcase and turn to face them, smiling in greeting.

They don’t return my smile. I offer my hand and they accept the shake. Both men have a firm grip. Assertive.

‘Corran Munroe. I’m here to see Eva Morgaine.’

The two men exchange glances.

‘You can’t see Eva,’ the taller of the two says. I realise I’m tipping my head back ever so slightly to look up at him, and I’m not a small man.

‘Oh.’ Corran would be flustered by this. I glance from one to the other. ‘I thought…’

‘You’re to come with us,’ the tall man says.

He turns to lead the way while his companion falls in beside me. I have no choice.

The lift door sighs open and we step inside, the two men flanking me, one on either side. I’m not going anywhere though. I’m not about to run. And it’s weird that I feel this way, as if I’m a prisoner, when I came here on purpose. This is where I want to be, and it’s taken me the best part of a year to get this far, to earn the trust of the people that matter, to convince them that I would be an asset to their campaign.

Seeing Eva on the first day would be too much to ask. But I’ve made it this far. I’ll soon be able to worm my way further in.

And then I can start asking questions.

What are they really after? Who is funding them? They must have backers, and wealthy ones at that – the whole set-up reeks of money. This smart office they’re using as campaign headquarters. I watch as the floor numbers increase. We’re going right to the top. The penthouse. Now they’re really starting to intrigue me.

Do they really think they can take power, win the election? A tiny party nobody had even heard of five years ago?

But then, stranger things have happened. After the breakup of the UK and a decade of coalition governments, England is ready for something new, and Eva’s party could be just what the electorate has been waiting for.

The lift lurches to a halt and we wait for the doors to open. It occurs to me that neither of my companions have told me their name.

We enter a reception area. The man behind the desk looks innocent enough but I can tell from the way his jacket sits across broad shoulders and the tension on his shirt buttons across his pecs that he’s more than simply a receptionist. This man is hardcore, he’s security and I’d like to bet that there’s some sort of weapon concealed behind his desk. To be honest I’d have preferred it if he was more like the armed guards you get outside military establishments; smart uniform and sub-machine gun. They make no effort to hide their weapons and, with my military past it’s more what I’m used to. This guy makes me uneasy.

‘Passport?’ he says without a smile. I hand it over and stand still for the camera as my mugshot is taken. Once furnished with my security pass he gestures that we’re free to proceed. There is a door to the side of his desk, and I follow my escorts through.

I’ve made it. Campaign headquarters at last.

I’m in a vast and open space. The whole of this floor appears to have been set up as one huge open-plan office, desks in clumps of four, bookcases around the walls filled with files and piles of newspapers. Over on the far side is what looks like a row of private offices and meeting rooms. I hazard a guess that Eva’s office is one of them. The walls are glass and even from here I can see that the view is stunning. I’d like to go over and look out, soak it all in, but my escorts are showing me to an empty desk in the middle of the room.

‘This is you,’ the tall one says. ‘Fiona here will explain the ropes.’

A plump blonde woman at the desk opposite glances up at me over the top of a pair of pink reading glasses. She looks quite young, maybe late twenties, maybe thirty, but her clothes are frumpy. I can see cat hairs and I guess that there’s just the two of them.

‘Hi,’ I say as I pull up my chair and sit down. ‘I’m Corran.’ I take my sandwiches out of my briefcase and place them beside the computer.

‘Welcome to campaign headquarters,’ says Fiona pushing her glasses back up her nose. ‘Shall we start with the tour?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

She’s short and rounder than I’d realised, reminding me somewhat of a football. She pushes her glasses up into her hair. A few strands drift down across her face.

‘Shall we start with the kettle?’ she says. ‘Do you fancy a brew?’

I smile at her. ‘That’s always a good place to start.’

The tour is over very fast. Apart from the kettle and the meeting rooms that I’d already clocked, there isn’t much to see on this level.

‘The offices are upstairs,’ Fiona tells me in answer to my question. ‘That’s where you’ll find Eva. She rarely comes down to this level. But this is where all the real work goes on.’ She dunks a biscuit into her tea and grins at me.

‘So what else is upstairs?’

Fiona shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been.’ She points to my computer. ‘Do you understand what your duties are to be? You’re part of the media monitoring team. You’re scanning the blogs and columns that deal with anything to do with us.’

‘Scanning for what?’ I ask.

‘Anything defamatory. Anything that we need to nip in the bud.’

‘Fake news you mean?’

Fiona doesn’t laugh. If anything her eyes narrow slightly. I make a mental note to avoid humour with her. She’s clearly a party devotee. And I have to appear to be the same.

‘Okay, I understand.’ I turn my attention to the terminal. I’m starting to find Fiona’s strained joviality a bit like hard work. She’s already introduced me to loads of people and I jot down their names and a rough map of the office and where they are sitting before I forget or get swamped with another lot to remember.

One thing is clear. The really interesting stuff is all happening on the top floor.

That is where I need to go next.

I wait until lunchtime, making a show of trawling the various media outlets and asking Fiona lots of questions. She seems glad of the chance to chat. I guess her cat isn’t much of a conversationalist. Shortly after noon I lean back in my chair and stretch.

‘Lunchtime,’ Fiona says in a cheery voice. I have a nasty feeling she’s about to suggest something. But I have other plans.

‘Half an hour?’ I say.

She nods. If she’s disappointed she doesn’t show it. I guess there’s going to be plenty of time to be sociable.

‘No more than thirty minutes though,’ she says, ‘or they’ll dock your pay.’

I laugh although I can tell from the look in her eyes that she isn’t joking.

‘See you later,’ I say and make my escape.

There is a group of people waiting for the lift so I have to join them and make small talk all the way down to the ground floor. They’re all chatting about the campaign and I listen in to try to pick up any useful information, but they’re being careful, even if they do know something they’re not letting anything slip.

When we reach the foyer they head off out into the sunshine. I loiter behind, pretending to be studying the noticeboards, but really I’m waiting