Seven Degrees: Seventh Wave Trilogy

By Lewis Hastings

Their power is unprecedented

An Eastern European crime syndicate has appeared on the radar of the British authorities.

The Seventh Wave has arrived in the heart of the most important financial centre in the world – their target – London's biggest banks.

Their leader, a man known as the Jackdaw, has sent a clear message. Interfere with our operation at your peril.

 

Their ambition has no limits 

The group carries out one last task – striking at the heart of London's jewellery centre. What they leave with is worth more than any jewel and capable of impacting on the future of Europe.

 

Only one man can stop them

John 'Jack' Cade is recruited as the Metropolitan Police's answer. Newly promoted, out of his depth but quick-witted, skilled and surrounded by a dedicated team, he faces two choices, both of which he knows will lead to serious harm.

 

Protect the city or protect his team

He cannot do both

Seven Degrees is the second part of Lewis Hastings' acclaimed trilogy of international thrillers, The Seventh Wave featuring Jack Cade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobeck Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781913793159

Book preview

Prologue

I knew as soon as I saw her that things were going to be difficult.

With a recently-estranged and at times God-awful wife in my wake I had set out to press the reset button only a week after a career-altering event with a senior officer. I had friends in high places it seemed. I had earned their respect and in turn, they had gained mine. Take the opportunity and go they said. It wouldn’t be the last time I heard that statement just when I thought things couldn’t be any better.

I walked into a regional British airport, a few hours north of London and knew within a few paces that I had made the right decision. You do. Your heart tells you so. Policing does that to you, makes you cynical. But as cynical as I had become, because of the way I had been treated, I knew I had to embrace change and start from scratch. A change, I was told, was as good as a rest.

Day One is a mixture of handshakes and moments of mental chaos, akin to drinking from a fire hose. You know how to do it but it isn’t quite as simple as it looks. Looking back now there was really only Day One.

Day Two was a blur. She saw to that, with her incredible eyes, that shock of red hair and a body that would look good in a hessian bag, she had it in spades. And she knew it too. But that was what I fell for – she was sexy and arrogant and beautifully naïve all at once.

Nikolina Petrov drove a stake into my heart and planted a seed deep in my mind that day. Over many hours I interviewed her, checked and cross-checked her account. I allowed her to amble, then pinned her down. Not once did I find fault in her story, because it was true.

She had arrived, under the guise of a normal passenger – albeit she had training, confidence and a false travel document. That apart, yep, she was normal alright, right up until the moment she started to confess and play with my mind.

By the following morning I knew her life story and she knew me as Sergeant Cade.

Her story was both intriguing and harrowing. As a young woman she had left her home in Bulgaria – capable, educated and pretty, she was the archetypal perfect field agent for a soviet-inspired country trying to make its way once more into the world.

Her task was simple – on paper. Track down a Romanian master criminal; a sociopathic individual with a narcissistic flare for the finer things in life and a level of violence rarely seen within the four walls and secure files of a criminal profiling unit.

She found him quickly, placed herself at his mercy and waited for the moment to strike, injecting Ricin deep into his thigh with one well-placed jab was all she had to do. One task to end the life of one of the key targets of the Bulgarian government. He led a group of men, all with a solitary agenda, reward. He drove them to create commodity lines across Europe that no other syndicate could match. If you wanted drugs, you spoke to someone else. If you wanted high end vehicles, jewels, documents, lines of credit or women you were in the right place.

The group, who called themselves the Seventh Wave were identified by an azure blue tattoo, placed inside the right wrist. All who swore allegiance to the team bore the mark which was only ever removed in a mortuary or buried never to be seen again.

All wore the mark. Except its leader Alexandru Stefanescu. If they found him alive or dead he would be identifiable by his own tattoo, black as night, hand drawn during a longer night in a hideous prison cell. A simple black wave.

By killing him she would rid her country of a locust, sitting at the head of a plague. Her country was desperate to rid itself of its criminal history and Alex was a legacy of the past. By joining forces the Romanian government had also signed his death warrant. No footprints. Not even a letter, shredded or otherwise. Words alone had carried out his planned execution.

As deniable operations went I could see it was cast iron. It was the stuff of crime thrillers, but real.

---

She waited but the chance never came. I could sense the disappointment, it was palpable. For all her intense training – every element of which was instilled into her by the very best trainers that the Bulgarian Intelligence Service had ever seen – she couldn’t do it. The knowledge was there, but the desire had evaporated. As much as she despised him for his arrogance and displays of financial vulgarity she was attracted to him.

He drugged her, abused her and slowly wrapped himself around her, an invasive species throttling the life from a perfect native flower.

She had fallen for him. Part Stockholm syndrome - part genuine physical attraction. Watching him kill another female by immersing her under a frozen lake – but worse still placing monetary bets on how long she would survive had finally broken her.

In time she had given birth to a child, a girl, pretty like her mother, he named her Elena and swore to protect her with his life and from the evils of the same society that he moved within, exploiting, collaborating and if the need arose, removing anyone that opposed him. Only he would have the right to also take her life. I didn’t understand that having never been a father. It was his way, the way of his people – he would point to his Romany heritage with endless talk of pride and history and oppression and whilst he was right in many ways nothing could forgive him for his past offending.

I had finished my interview with her on a Wednesday morning, it may have been a Thursday, life had a habit of compressing things. As I wrapped the exhibit label around the interview tape she put her hand across the table and held mine. Her hands were strong but soft, her nails needed cutting but I could sense that this was a lady who had recently experienced the things that only serious money could buy. She held my land a little too long. It was a deliberate act and something told me to allow it.

As I signed the labels she carried on with her story – now off the record. Packing her basic human needs into a simple bag she had finally carried out the act that had taken her to Spain years before. With an aging delivery system she drove the tip of the device deep into his skin. Hours later, under a pseudonym and skilfully disguised she had boarded a plane for England. She had left a lucrative new life and a dying, deadly partner behind her. She had left her beautiful daughter in a boarding school in Eastern Europe. Everything she knew was in that bag, everything else had been left behind. She had shredded her life just as they had taught her. I could learn a lot from Niko – as she liked to be called.

She told me her plans were to return to her daughter once it was safe, guide her to Britain and start a new life. Just the two of them. She needed my help, that much was obvious but she also had the help of someone else, someone in a position of authority. But that, she said, was a strict need to know. As curious as I was, I decided not to ask.

What she offered in return was her knowledge of a group that were spreading across the city of London, leaving a trail of financial annihilation. Once she had told me what she knew she stopped and began to cry. And she cried for hours.

That was all she ever told me. It was as if she had run out of life. My years of instinctive policing offered me two clear choices; believe her, or not.

I believed her of course. Her story was too convincing not to. And she had gained my complete attention from that moment on. All I needed to do was protect her.

Tell me what I need to know and I will do everything I can to help you.

You have my word Sergeant. She held my gaze for four seconds.

I think we have known each other long enough now Nikolina. Please, call me Jack.

She did. I hated myself for falling for her, those eyes, that hair, that exquisite little figure. It was the most unprofessional feeling I had ever had.

She became my source, I prevented her removal from Britain – probably bent the rules, at the very least adapted them for the first and only time in my career. I extended her life and gave her hope. John Jack Cade, police officer and defender of the weak. It felt good to be a knight in shining armour once more.

Thank you Jack. I trust you. It meant the world to me to hear those three simple words. I had also had my faith restored and it felt remarkable. I slept well, for the first time in years. She approached me in a dream that night, the first of many times. I could literally feel her next to me, she smelt of vanilla and evening orange groves, her hair shone, her skin radiated pure wellbeing and above all she sensed hope.

Within days she was dead.

Chapter 1

New Scotland Yard London 2004

The team had been stood down, many were surviving on adrenalin but typical of teams like them around the world they never knew quite when to give in.

‘Another ten minutes guv and I’ll be out of here…’ which was normally followed with a swift call home. ‘It’s me. I’ll be late.’

Detective Sergeant Jason Ginger Roberts was saying goodbye to them in the car park, it was something he always did, thanking his staff, every day, for their hard work and dedication. He was an exception to the managerial rule.

It was mid-afternoon, most of them had been on the go for thirty six hours, grabbing disturbed sleep when and wherever they could. One of the small group was walking away from the Yard when he received a text message. He stopped, digested the contents twice then dug deep into his reserves of energy and ran back to the car park.

Boss, stop the team, I’ve got some news and it’s not good.

Detective Constable Del Murphy handed his phone to Roberts.

I’ve read it three times.

Roberts stared at the words and managed to form them into a cohesive sentence.

Gather everyone together at The Sanctuary Del. I’ll be there in twenty.

Roberts was walking across the car park when he met an equally weary male walking towards him.

Good looking, in a salt and pepper hair, just-awake fresh blue eyes and always smelling of something exotic it was his partner, and technically his boss, John Jack Cade. Cade had arrived from a small but demanding international airport two hundred miles north of London. His exact reason for being on the team was best described as fate. Or luck, good or bad hadn’t quite been established. Either way, he had impressed the right people and at risk of falling into a stereotypical trap, favoured by crime writers, had taken the offer of a permanent job in the city of London – or technically, according to the locals the City of Westminster. This somehow added to the mystique of the place for a man who was born in the south of England, gravitated north and had never spent any formative time in the capital.

It was either take the opportunity or remain in Nottingham, live separately from his openly adventurous wife and end up before a Custody Sergeant on a charge of attempted murder – of his boss, not his estranged wife. With any luck, Penelope, for that was the bitches name would contract a hideous social disease and simply fade away.

Carrie O’Shea, Roberts’ brightest analyst and a female with a bittersweet relationship with the Metropolitan Police was two steps behind Cade.

I know you are both knackered but I need you to support me at the pub. The team’s re-grouping as we speak. We need to meet…to have a drink to….

But boss I’m exhausted, Jack needs to get to a doctor to have those wounds looked at, he’s struggling to walk for God’s sake, this had better be important!

Roberts spoke quickly. Staccato words, trying to create a sentence. Clive’s dead Carrie. Took his own life. Hung himself with his regimental tie. His missus got home an hour ago. Found him. A local unit is holding the fort. I’m heading there with the boss after we’ve toasted his memory. I know you two didn’t…

She cut him off.

I’ll be there boss. Clive was an arsehole who couldn’t keep his hands to himself but he was a bloody good Detective and I won’t denigrate his professional memory. The team needs to stay strong. I think what we witnessed in the last twenty four hours was only the start. I will be there.

Me too. That is if I’m now part of this sorry bunch of misfits you call a team Jason? Cade shuffled awkwardly, trying to find somewhere comfortable to stand.

Roberts slapped Cade across the backside. Course you are, you muppet!

Whilst Cade stifled a cacophonous scream worthy of a Stephen King novel now was not the time to shed a tear. His injuries were very much in the pre-healing phase, seeping, as raw as the news that had just been delivered about the demise of long-term member of the team, former Paratrooper-turned-Detective Clive Wood.

How Cade had sustained the injuries was relatively easy to explain – if explained quickly, he found that preferable.

He had leapt from the rear door of an iconic red, double decker London bus during a high-velocity-round-firing pursuit that had ended with a public servant dead, a police officer in hospital, a young, as-yet unidentified male in a mortuary and two more on the run, one with an obvious wound – the work of a single 5.56mm round unleashed by the leather-wrapped index finger of its tactical operator. It was all in a day’s work, if that work happened to involve crime and the people that perpetrated it.

---

Wood had never been able to get to know his new boss, but the fact that Cade had leapt from what appeared to be a perfectly serviceable bus would have appealed to him greatly.

The fact that the bus was at the time on its side, sliding gracefully along a comparatively-quiet city road was neither here, nor there. He had leapt from it and had endured the almost interminable slide along the carriageway, its abrasive surface shredding the clothing, a defiant leather belt and the primary layer of skin from Cade’s backside and hip.

Respect indeed. And now, in time-honoured fashion a number of people had gathered to pay their respects to Wood, a man who had more friends than enemies, but like most hardworking police officers had a few of the latter – and one, ironically, in the same office.

O’Shea had stated without hesitation that she hated him since the night when he had taken the liberty that he had. Alone in an office with the ‘girl-next-door’ that was Carrie O’Shea, in the doyen of British policing – New Scotland Yard.

He thought that things were going well, until she tried to take control. Wood, being a full-blooded Welshman and former soldier felt intimidated, impotent almost, so pushed things just a little too far.

Hindsight would tell O’Shea that ramming a highly-sharpened pencil into the back of his hand, into the web between his thumb and forefinger and through to the other side may not have been ideal.

Thoughtfully wiping the condensation off a scotch glass in the dowdy English pub she reflected upon that night and couldn’t help but smile.

Leaving him in the office naked without so much as an excuse as she made good her escape, dumping his clothes in the foyer of New Scotland Yard was, in the Welshman’s eyes, unforgiveable.

She smiled again now – for the first time she had found a place in her heart to forgive him, the dirty old bastard.

---

Roberts was beginning a speech, like he did all of his speeches.

Team. I assume you know what has happened? Like you I’m gutted. I’m too tired to bloody cry and too angry to go anywhere right now. So ladies, gentlemen, supporters of Welsh rugby, people who have never leapt from a perfectly serviceable aircraft, or bus for that matter, and the rest of you that simply didn’t fit into a category that Clive considered honourable…

He stopped. Paused and looked around the private bar at The Sanctuary, the adopted, nicotine-stained London pub and default choice of the section. It was a conscious decision to look at every face in the room. That morning and for the first time, for the first time ever, he began to worry about who might be next and unlike some bosses, he genuinely cared.

Whilst the group that called themselves The First Wave were not directly responsible for Wood’s death they had, Roberts felt, somehow played their part in it. Their presence alone meant that he had found himself guarding precious cargo, in the form of a perfectly-shaped Bulgarian female, from a long line of beautiful girls, each with a history of survival. He only hoped her value was going to mean more to the team than office eye candy.

The girl in question, Nikolina Petrov had arrived into the lives of the Metropolitan Police team led by Roberts. Alongside, and guarding, or rather what he referred to as ‘nurturing her for intelligence’ was Sergeant Jack Cade. They had arrived as a pair, inseparable and yet entirely unconnected.

Cade’s professional connection was actually very clear even though he had repeatedly questioned why this wasn’t a task carried out by the Home or Foreign Office, or even the security services.

‘Jack. On behalf of the British Home Office find out what this girl knows. We need a breakthrough in the area of criminal syndicates targeting this country. This is not a job for any of the teams you have alluded to. End of. These are travelling criminals and unless we act, they are here to stay. We need a break, an opening and this may be the chance we have been looking for. It matters not that you are a ‘mere’ Sergeant, this girl trusts you and you alone must exploit this trust. That is the reason why. Within reason you have our support and we will make whatever you need available.’

---

When Cade had first met her, a hundred miles north of London at a regional airport near the city of Nottingham she was broken; both her heart and her body were fractured. But her mind was as sharp as one of Carrie O’Shea’s much-favoured pencils. Petrov had a story to tell and when she had first looked into the azure-blue eyes of her interviewer through her own bloodshot, but equally piercing green eyes she had found him to be both physically attractive and more importantly, trustworthy.

It wasn’t what he said that gave her this assurance, but the way he said it.

Petrov had escaped from a relationship that centred exclusively on a male who considered himself, via dubious gypsy folklore, to be her husband. The marriage was self-governed and binding. He had chosen her. And that was the end of the courting phase.

‘Do what I ask and your life will be filled with material things. Accept that I will have other women and that occasionally I may respond unfavourably towards you.’ This was how she had interpreted their relationship.

‘Your bruises will heal in time my dear…’ was how he wrote off his incessant appetite for brutality.

She had met him in a bar, a place called Byzantin, apparently alone, naïve and completely unaware of his status in a part of the city that he arguably ran, practically owned. He certainly owned a number of palatial properties, more vehicles than he could ever drive and a plethora of local government officials, all too eager to be his friend, were nestled comfortably in his back pocket.

What the male, Alexandru Stefanescu did not realise was that his new-found, lithe yet immature lover was there with a precisely-defined goal. Whilst still in her teens she had been groomed, trained and almost indoctrinated by her wonderful father’s employers – the Durzhavna Sigurnost – the Bulgarian Intelligence Service.

The aim was simple enough. Kill Stefanescu – who was also referred to by the self-imposed nickname of the Jackdaw, due in part to his familiar cackling laugh but equally because the ornithological world considered the inquisitive bird of the same name to be an expert thief.

Stefanescu had embarrassed the Bulgarian government once too often and had taken to mocking them via his well-crafted criminal syndicate, who were as adept at hurting people as the businesses they targeted. Moving high-end vehicles around Europe was enough to keep him on Interpol’s radar, the agency having at any one time at least two staff monitoring his progress from their headquarters in Lyon, France.

As far as they could see he had successfully avoided trafficking drugs around Europe and further afield. His reputation had been won by virtue of his love for money, preferably cash but electronic transactions would often suffice – and as his techniques had been enriched, so had his enviable offshore bank balances.

As skilled as the Interpol staff were they were always three steps behind him, chasing their own tails, acting upon informant information that more often than not was provided by Stefanescu’s own network of people.

His avaricious nature meant that sooner or later someone, somewhere would catch him, but on the rare occasions he was produced to a judge, he would either walk away, having discreetly enhanced the prosecutors’ own account or escape using a network of associates. There was simply no denying, he was a very gifted criminal with a network that was growing and potentially viral in nature.

And it appeared that in mainland Europe in 2004 criminal syndicates were beginning to realise that there was more to gain from cooperation than conflict.

---

Nikolina’s plans had changed. She had probably failed to kill Stefanescu, despite waiting a painfully-long time to do so. Contrary to her external feelings she had grown to love him – Stockholm syndrome had played a part. Her captor had become her lover and in time he had provided for her, in ways she could only have dreamt of in her former home. He had fathered a child too – a child that had become the first person he had ever truly wished to protect.

The issue though was that as compassionate as he was becoming, he still had a ruthless, spiteful streak, and that scared her. She needed to leave, to formulate a plan for the future, one that provided for both her and her daughter Elena.

Until she was able to create that platform she had to go, to leave her, safely in another part of Europe and deal with him either to the letter of the mission, or as best as she could.

But in order to carry out the mission she had to first say goodbye to her little girl – and that would prove to the single, hardest decision of her young life.

Stabbing a Ricin-laced mechanism into his thigh and escaping from their opulent Spanish home was supposed to be simple, but the poison had diluted over time, and whether it had done its job remained a worrying unknown. She daren’t go back or enquire. She needed to vanish.

Petrov could not look back, she had neither the opportunity nor the courage. She left Spain during the night, having changed her appearance and her identity, praying that he would die a slow and rather exquisitely-painful death, or at best leave her alone and continue to love and protect their daughter until the day came that she could reunite with her and allow her to make her own mind up about the truth, about her father and importantly about why she left.

She had put things into place; written Constantin, left messages with a few people. They were selected as they were people she both loved and trusted and hoped that the stories she had told her baby – about their beautiful homeland and her heritage – would act as an umbilical cord for the future.

---

Whether he knew it or not, for now, Jack Cade was her plan. Every minute piece of it.

---

Roberts stood in the middle of the close-knit team and continued with his eulogy.

It is my honour to raise a glass to our friend and our colleague, Clive Wood. May his memory live on within the team, and for all the right reasons…

Roberts paused, beginning to feel emotional at the sudden realisation that for the first time in his career he had lost a staff member. He stopped, took a moment to control himself and then quoted from an anonymous poem, in time reaching the last line.

"…Come walk a beat on Heaven’s streets, you’ve done your time in hell." 

He let out a profound sigh.

Team. The Thin Blue Line just got thinner.

He glanced at O’Shea.

She was the first to raise her glass.

Detective Clive Wood, a proud man, and forgiven for his sins, especially being Welsh. May you always rest in peace?

The team all followed Roberts’ lead – even the barman Roger Walsh raised a pint in the officer’s honour, it was the least he could do given the amount the team spent in the place.

Roberts took a long glug of his drink before placing the glass on a stained and peeling beer mat and asking for silence once more.

Guys, forgive me. Be upstanding, I have another toast.

The team stood and held their glasses ready for the next announcement. They were used to adulation among their close-knit group. To quote their boss, who they adored, ‘no other bastard will praise you!’

To Jack Cade, the Northern Monkey. Part of the team!

Jack Cade! Part of the team!

Cade, unused to such camaraderie took a long and slow gulp of his drink before placing his glass onto the counter.

Jason, if I may?

Mon pleasure.

Team, and I’ve worked with a few…I just wanted to thank you for your hard work, your commitment and for embracing everything I have said, and agreeing to everything I have asked for. He looked around the nicotine-stained room, its walls and ceilings a shade of ochre only reserved for such buildings.

It’s not always easy when a new boss arrives and most of us despise change, but trust me when I say be the best you can be and I will back you all to the hilt. Now, if you would flatter me for a few more seconds I would like to quote my Shakespearean namesake Jack Cade?

A few staff raised their eyes to the ceiling, surely now was not the time to quote the Bard himself?

At his theatrical best Cade entered the middle of the crowd and climbed onto a bar stool. It wobbled causing a few sharp intakes and then he settled, turned around from his new lofty position and commenced what many thought would be a long, drawn-out and painful adaptation. He waited for silence then adopted a character voice, pretty effective too, at least O’Shea thought so.

I thank you, good people: there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score.

It took a few seconds, but what followed was a genuinely appreciative cheer.

Roberts seized the moment.

Right you lot take up Jack’s most generous offer then bugger off to your loved ones. Rest well and remember, look after each other. I don’t want you back to work until ten o’clock tomorrow, earliest…

He scanned the room and noticed John Daniel had arrived.

Guys, guys, I’m sorry. At risk of being lynched – one, last thing. He received a combined moan of disapproval.

I promise this is the last toast…Our new boss had arrived to buy us all a drink for a job well done before Sergeant Cade’s most indecent proposal. Therefore it would be rude, no outrageous to turn down such a benevolent offer. Everyone meet Detective Chief Inspector John Daniel. JD to his friends, but he assures me I can call him Detective Chief Inspector!

Daniel moved to the front of the group, leaned on the back of a worn, green velvet upholstered chair and allowing the room to settle spoke from the heart.

Thank you Jason. You’ll go far, I’m thinking Essex…Listen team it’s always hard when a new boss arrives, you worry about what they will do to the group? What they will change? The speech was familiar. Well, let me assure you, having seen what I’ve seen in the last few days only a fool would make any substantial changes and I hope you’ll quickly realise that whilst I’m many things, a fool, I am not.

There was an approving sound around the bar. He was saying the right things.

Cade looked at a man who he felt he could trust, something tangible told him to.

Finally, and yes, unlike your boss here, I do mean finally. I’d like to add to the toasts if I may be so bold?

Nods of endorsement occurred around the bar.

I never had the pleasure of meeting them, and I hear Detective Wood was a fine man and he will, I know, be sorely missed. But there is someone else, if I may?

There were signs of encouragement from the group.

I never met her either, but I heard she was a true warrior, a brave young woman in a foreign land whose life was cut short all too soon. It is incumbent upon every man and woman in this team to ensure her legacy is achieved. We need to find out why she came to Jack and then to us. This young lady left behind all she knew, including her daughter. I want to know what secrets she carried and I believe you are the people to reveal them. May she please not die in vain? Rest in peace Nikolina Petrov.

The team stood for the last time that day, emptied their glasses and one by one left the bar after shaking the new boss’s hand.

Tomorrow would be another day.

Chapter 2

Jack, do you have a minute?

Of course sir, what do you need?

Daniel was forthright and honest. He also liked what he saw in Cade.

Jack, I want you to consider a permanent transfer to this force, see it as a promotional opportunity. Jason is going places and won’t be with us forever. Come down here and try something different, we could certainly do with your skills and it seems as though you have been a lone voice on the issue of Eastern European crime, until now. Forget the fact that we are the best force in the country – this stuff is new, developing, unchartered waters and like it or not you have unwittingly become the subject matter expert in a field of probably a dozen people. So?

Daniel let the offer hang in the musty room, his words clinging to the walls and joining a thousand lost conversations.

Cade pondered the offer.

Is it as easy as that sir? Just pick up and come here, accept a promotion I haven’t even applied for? Seems a little passé to me. It just doesn’t happen that way. There’s stuff to do, things to consider. There’s the application process, HR, interviews…referees…

Daniel held his hand up.

It is that easy or I wouldn’t have asked. And before you ask, yes. I’ve run it by Malcolm Johnson and he’s one hundred percent behind it. I think your circus analogy hurt him a little but he liked your honesty. We’ll have to interview you of course, but you appear to be the only applicant. We’ve taken the liberty of speaking to your force for references and they accept on your behalf. It would appear that you have a few notable friends up north. So, what’s it to be?

Putting it like that boss I have little option, besides, there’s very little back at home for me these days. If you can accept the overly-clichéd movement of a brass-necked, gritty, northern copper into the metropolis, then I accept.

This is reality old son not some dog-eared paperback you’d find in a bargain bin. And I’d hardly call you gritty, except for the bits that the doctor has yet to pick carefully out of your arse. Good man, come round to my place for dinner tomorrow night if you are not too tired? Be good for you to meet Lynne, Mrs Daniel, great cook and all round general bon vivant.

Again, an offer one cannot easily turn down. Do you have comfy chairs to sit in? My aforementioned arse feels like a championship dart board.

We do! Oh and Jack…

Boss?

Bring the girl with you too, help balance the numbers a little. He winked, grabbed his jacket and left.

Girl boss?

Oh come on Jack you are surrounded by bloody coppers, do you really think your secret is safe? Everyone knows that you and Carrie are an item. She’s a lovely girl, you could do a lot worse and I suspect she will be loyal… He paused. Sorry. Too soon?

Not anymore sir. It’s evident that my old force let you read all of my personal file. Did the part where I almost knocked out a uniformed inspector not bother you?

Hardly. Good call. If he’d done that with Mrs Daniel his days as a marathon runner would be over.

Cade frowned.

I meant he’d be competing in a wheel chair Jack.

But he could still compete…

Not if I slashed his tyres.

---

Cade walked out into a brighter day. O’Shea was waiting for him.

Come on you, let’s head back to my place for some sleep. It’s been an incredibly long couple of days.

He smiled and started walking, after a hundred paces he put his left arm out and nodded to it, O’Shea took his lead and linked her own arm through his.

What if anyone see’s us Jack, you a Sergeant on the team and all that, aren’t you worried about your reputation?

"Ah, you see that’s where you are wrong Carrie, up until ten minutes ago I was a Sergeant, but I am afraid I am no longer."

Dear God man don’t tell me you’ve resigned?

No, of course not, do you think I’m mad girl?

Sacked? Her voice was almost pleading him to say no.

No Carrie. But thanks for your confidence. I just got promoted, and there’s another thing…

Do go ahead Inspector, I’m all ears…

And great breasts too, so I recall…

She pulled her arm back and was about to slap him on the backside but seeing his eyes widen, she stopped millimetres from her target.

I hate it when you keep secrets from me. Go on, please, tell me.

I’m moving to London Carrie, turns out my skills are finally of some use.

She beamed, placed her arm back through his, rested her head on his shoulder and allowed him to pull her closer to him. It was getting chilly but she felt a sense of genuine warmth for the first time in years.

They got to her flat, kicked the door shut behind them, closed the curtains, undressed and fell into her bed. Within ten minutes O’Shea entwined around her newly-promoted man and drifted quickly into a deep sleep. Cade was five ahead of her.

---

It was later in the day when Cade found himself deliberating, long enough to change his mind twice, possibly more. Should he accept her offer?

They had only been acquainted for such a short amount of time. Yes, there was a tangible sense of chemistry – albeit he didn’t quite understand its exact place in his current jumbled I-just-need-a-few-days-to-myself and most recent lifestyle.

"It’s up to you boss. If you are not comfortable with the offer then by all means turn it down. I’m a big girl, I don’t make offers like this without thinking through every aspect of risk. I’m a female, you are a male, you are the boss and I’m a subordinate. OK, perhaps an element of risk exists, but really, I suspect the last thing that will be at the forefront on your mind when you arrive home and walk into the apartment will be ‘I really must seduce my best analyst, after all the last person to do that became impaled on a piece of sharpened graphite...’

It took the rest of the day for him to accept. Quietly she shook inside and forced herself not to smile. She looked out of the window. It was her safe haven. Why give away her non-verbal’s in front of an expert?

I accept Carrie, but only because I have nowhere else to go other than the shoddy motel that the Met have housed me in, and for now I hear HRH’s place across the road is full. When shall I move in my one suitcase and tawdry belongings?

Tonight?

Tonight it is. I shall cook, my treat, but don’t get used to it. My Spag Bol is one of my three signature dishes.

And the others?

If you are a good girl you may find out.

The flirting had started.

Cade made good on his promise, his worldly goods were placed onto the bedroom floor of the smaller of the two rooms; he closed the door too behind him and entered the kitchen, forced O’Shea to take a seat at the small breakfast bar, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir and poured two glasses which were clinked together.

Cheers. And thank you.

For what? You’ll be rewarding me handsomely for a room with a view and in such close proximity to work – I can assure you of that Mr Cade.

To the uninitiated she was cool, frigid almost but he sensed something more, a far greater depth that he already wanted to explore. Keep your distance Jack.

The meal was as described, seasoned perfectly and complimented by a third glass of the Central Otago classic red. She knew she had to set the tone of this relationship – if indeed that is what it had become – if it was to work.

Thank you Jack. Lovely. Unnecessary but lovely nonetheless. I need to head to bed, we both have an early start and I’m a little drunk if I’m honest. She leaned towards him and stopped herself.

Goodnight.

He smiled. It would have been all too easy. Goodnight Carrie and thank you again. I will finish clearing up and head to bed myself. I will make sure I get some money tomorrow as a down payment. You need to let me know what you want each week.

Why Mr Cade, I can assure you I am far from cheap…

His eyes gave away his true feelings, bluer than normal, his pupils dilated slightly and he could feel himself responding physically to her.

Indeed Miss O’Shea. Indeed. Notwithstanding we have a syndicate of bad buggers to pursue I will find an ATM – if there are any left in this fine city – and put the money on the worktop this time tomorrow.

O’Shea waved her hand as she entered her room, a failed indication that she wasn’t that worried about the money. She closed her door, clicked the handle to ensure it was shut and started to undress. A minute later she heard Cade enter his own room.

She sat for ten minutes in an antique white French buttoned-back chair that was positioned at forty five degrees to her bed. Her curtains were open and she stared through the window, across the inner-city parkland and smiled as she heard Cade moving around in her guest room. She waited a further ten minutes for him to get into bed.

She got into her own bed, pulling back the immaculate 700 percale thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and enjoying the feeling of their coolness on her body. She lay in the half light of the street lamps and listened to Cade moving around. She tried to remove him from her thoughts but he returned, again and again. The sheer thought of having him in such close proximity aroused her – she knew it was wrong – but it felt incredibly right.

Cade was wide awake, listening for sounds in a foreign house. She was asleep, a pity, he could spend hours talking to her, perhaps he should knock on her door and ask if she wanted a nightcap. ‘No! Far too clichéd Jack and besides she’d probably kick you out onto the streets and make a complaint first thing in the morning.’

But she continued to invade his thoughts.

Cade had closed his eyes again but soon found himself thinking about her, her eyes, those darting looks that she thought he hadn’t observed.

---

An hour later he was awake. He had woken with an enormous jolt, the type that normally indicates the dreamer has fallen from a great height, and struck the ground. His heart was audibly pounding.

He had found himself on a boat, drifting along a major river system. He was hunting for something or someone but was unable to steer the dream in a direction that suited him. He was going with the tide. The boat slowed and then stopped.

Cade was the only passenger on board. He looked around for guidance but he was definitely alone.

The boat became stuck fast on an obstruction.

He knew he somehow needed to free the vessel, but was powerless to move it. He lacked the required skills and couldn’t, despite an overwhelming desire, be in two places at once. He walked aimlessly around the deck, peering over the edge into murky brown, fast-flowing, eddy-filled water. All he saw was his own face, a vision of dread.

Stopping at the stern he found himself drawn to the edge once more. The boat started to rotate, slowly at first then quicker. He could see the shore but it was just out of reach.

If he could just lean over a little further, perhaps grab hold of that wooden frame? From there it was a short swim to the steps. Just a short swim. Even with the tide rushing out towards the sea he felt he could make it.

The boat began to spin faster and faster, reminiscent of a much-worn wooden and iron roundabout from his distant childhood, painted in bottle green, its circular metal bars shining from repeated contact with the hands of long grown-up children. Round and around. And around.

He was nauseous. Out of control and shaking with fear.

Jump.

He abandoned the boat which immediately dislodged from the obstruction and drifted downstream. He was now more alone than ever. Swimming against the tide.

He pushed through the water, for every one stroke towards his goal the river took him two back. Again he pushed…dragged himself through the maelstrom.

Get to the bloody frame man.

He was shouting in his sleep.

He extended his hand, his arm was shuddering, desperate to take hold of the only obvious form of salvation.

He made it. Breath.

He placed his head beneath the surface. The dark brown water was now crystal clear, he could see everything. The river bed, cluttered with historical artefacts, small fish darting between swirling reeds. A hundred or so paces away he could see the entire outline of the boat which was now stationary in the water, ambiguous outlines of human figures staring back at him.

He turned, looking around at the incredible sight. He could breathe underwater. He placed his arms outwards, in a crucifix form and began to float, ethereally. It was magnificent.

He gently wafted his right hand, each stroke enabled him to turn effortlessly in the river. He turned, and turned. He began to laugh. Mouth open. The water never travelled beyond his lips.

As he turned again her hand brushed across his face, cold, desperately cold. He instinctively grabbed for it, it grabbed back, holding him in a vice-like grip, almost crushing his fingers, not letting him go.

The euphoria vanished.

He found himself looking at the girl, she was crying, her tears flowing into the river. She pulled him towards her. She was shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words. Her naked body, three times its normal size, her face stretched, distorted, hideous. Her eyes were pathetic, shallow and lifeless. Disinterested.

She pointed.

He turned.

Another naked female was drifting past them. She was clawing at an imaginary object. Her fingers bleeding. Lost, alone and trapped – as if she were beneath the ice of a frozen lake. She screamed a silent scream and began to swim towards Cade, her fingers lengthening, desperate to reach him. He put his hand out to hers. He was now looking at the hand in minute detail, it was in front of his face, detached from its owner. His own fingers were sinking into her flesh which was rotting, shards of it peeling away and vanishing in the darkness.

He could see straight through her skin, she had become almost translucent. In the shadows he made out more grotesque female forms, they too were beckoning him towards them, screaming, silent, drowning screams.

He looked at his own hand, it too was semi-transparent. He could see the bones, the ligaments and tendons, blood running through his veins, bright red. As he stared at the limb it began to fall to pieces, each piece washing away downstream.

She was still there, floating, she had a crooked half smile but her eye sockets were now empty, obscure black openings in a snow-white face.

He began to swallow water. He could taste it, it became denser, more acrid. He started to panic, to choke. He tried in vain to swim back up to the surface.

---

And then she was gone. They were both gone. They were all gone.

She just slipped away.

---

Cade was alone in a blackened river. Afraid to turn, sinking towards the bottom. Finished. Frigid. Forgotten.

---

Morning, I won’t ask how you slept. It was O’Shea with freshly-brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. She was sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, wearing an over-sized shirt. Her hair was a little tousled. She looked great.

My goodness, that’s good. What is it?

Expensive. That’s what it is!

With eighty percent of it being exported from the Caribbean to Japan she considered herself lucky to obtain one of the world’s more expensive beverages. Grown at altitudes of over five thousand feet it had become favoured by the richer set for its distinctive aroma and lack of bitterness.

She had her contacts this girl and liked the finer things in life.

You were dreaming Jack.

Sorry. He placed the mug of heady liquid on the bedside cabinet.

Nikolina?

Yep, among others. Terrible images. What they did to her. The way they left her in the river. He closed his eyes. The images had gone, for a while. It was inhuman.

She leant over and kissed him on the forehead.

You look like you’ve not slept in weeks. Go back to sleep Jack.

He already was. The dream would return, once more and then it would never visit him again.

Chapter 3

The team slowly paraded into work the following day. Some were bedraggled, drained and still running on empty. Roberts was only marginally better having knowingly broken the fabled eight hour rule.

It was apparent that the preceding days had taken it out of the team. Having had staff shot at, almost killed and worked to exhaustion they had also witnessed the death of their newest collaborator and importantly, the tragic loss of one of their own team – albeit at his own hand.

Daniel, contrary to his own implicit instructions had arrived earlier, dapper in a dark grey suit and a red, white and blue tie. He was one of those managers who appeared to survive without sleep, in fact he appeared to thrive on it.

Word spread around the office that the new ‘Guv’ had summoned everyone back into the briefing room and so within ten minutes they had all been rounded up and took up every available seat in the compact room.

Team, good morning.

A resounding response of Guv echoed around the room. Daniel’s’ impassioned speech the previous day had obviously struck a chord.

OK everyone, accepting what has happened to you all over the last week I need to quickly formulate a plan of attack. This is not to say that I do not recognise the physical and mental strain this has put you under, but if we are to strike back at this group – whoever they may be – then we need, in my humble opinion, to do it quickly, decisively, and sadly, within the law. However we also need help and sleep and as we know an army marches on its stomach.

Everyone continued to nod.

Sensing a mutual bonding he continued.

To me there are three important issues here. One, the scale of the operational capability of the group calling itself The First Wave is unknown. Two, our ability to assimilate their activities and translate them into actionable intelligence is equally, ambiguous. Last, but by no means least, this group are directly and indirectly responsible for the loss of two of our team.

He looked slowly around the packed audience.

And, let me tell you folks, there will be no more deaths or injuries of any kind on this team. Do I make myself clear?

He did. Explicitly.

Lastly, Sergeant Roberts is, as of this moment an Acting Inspector. He’s going to be working closely with me on this project as is Inspector Cade. I’m sure I speak for you all when I offer congrats on the various promotions?

There was an approving rumble around the room which ended with one of the team theatrically coughing the phrase ‘first round’s on Jason!’

Indeed, said Daniel, warming to the team, however, before we get too carried away we have some serious work to do. Jason will be running the day to day logistical needs of Operation Breaker, Detective Constable Paul Clarke will be acting as Jason’s second in command, albeit he didn’t know until now. Jack…Inspector Cade will take an oversight of the operation and will be assisted by Carrie who will provide some right hand support.

The latter got a huge and ice-breaking cheer from the team.

Daniel shook his head and couldn’t help but smile.

You despicable bunch of inbreds. Go on, get to it. Start getting into the hearts and minds of an active Eastern European crime cell. Think like they think. Ask yourselves where next? Why? When? How? And make sure you eat.

He then turned to Carrie O’Shea.

Carrie, I need you to start supporting the analytical aspect of the op. In fact I want you to take the lead – you are the Senior Analyst now. Work with Cynthia – she’s already plotting the basics and has a lot of source knowledge within the wider financial community. Let’s start drilling down on our intelligence holdings shall we? Start an i2 chart and let’s see how quickly we can gain a visual understanding of the group. I need to know what their numbers are…

O’Shea was rapidly taking notes. She knew the i2 software back to front – it was the go-to of any modern analyst, its maker saying it turned data into intelligence, which was just what the Breaker team needed.

"…I need to know every possible ATM event in the Metropolitan area over the last six months; if you can throw the net out over the Home Counties forces even better. Get the Business Objects system to run a query on anything that is related to Eastern Europe, but specifically Romania and definitely anything financial."

O’Shea was liking what she heard, this was more suited to her skill-set than pursuing criminals on a bloody bus!

Oh and Carrie, when you’ve done all that, think about what you might wear tonight.

You taking me out boss? She put on a coy look. A bit forward for day two.

Ha ha! No, hardly, I’m far too old for you young lady, delightful on the eye though you are. But I will be feeding you, you are Jack’s date at my place. Did he not tell you? I want you to meet Mrs Daniel. Good chance for you and Jack to become acquainted too as you will be working so closely.

I look forward to it boss. Coffee?

Good stuff. Seven o’clock, Jack’s got the address, and tea would be smashing.

---

Cade and Roberts were busy brainstorming the last week. They tracked back to Petrov’s arrival into East Midlands Airport, the regional hub serving the cities of Midlands’ England. They spent time looking at every minor detail.

They needed to examine her departure from Spain. Interpol Madrid would be the liaison for that.

Her arrival, her interview, her confession; was it genuine? They both agreed that yes, given her demise it must have been. Hindsight is always a wonderful thing in any investigation.

They ruled out a few people, including the hapless but vaguely lovable Geoff Pullen, the faded Ibiza-based club DJ who had provided the first link in the chain that was to become Operation Breaker.

Unwittingly engaged in a police pursuit across two counties, driving his own battered but much-prized Vauxhall, Pullen had somehow deputised himself as a County Sheriff – and despite his perceived hatred of the police he was actually enjoying it, right up until the point where guns were actually drawn and a Romanian criminal had succumbed to an early death behind the wheel of a white Mercedes Benz.

Somewhat to Cade’s relief it appeared that Pullen had slipped back into a spray-tanned obscurity.

Their radar then locked onto the driver of the Mercedes saloon that had arrived at the airport to pick up Nikolina Petrov. Her misguided decision to get into his car had started the series of events that confirmed her trust in Cade and had led to the unknown driver suffering a hideous injury, caused by his diminutive passenger, almost moments before his demise. She had told Cade she enjoyed the smell of his flesh burning under the searing heat of the cars’ cigarette lighter.

They needed to liaise with Leicestershire Police to obtain as many details as possible about him. Were his fingerprints recorded anywhere in the British database? If not, could Interpol London get them checked with Interpol sites in Bucharest, Budapest, Belgrade, Chisinau and Sofia?

They still had no idea who the young male was that lay alone in the mortuary with his throat slashed. Perhaps they never would. Days after his discovery in the doorway his fingerprints had failed to draw any positive – or for that matter, negative responses from across Europe. He didn’t exist. How was he connected?

Next, the two males who had also died on the streets of London. Shot by police firearms officers or killed in a pursuit. They added their own chaos to an already busy operation in a busier city. Again, who were they? Were they linked by nationality or criminality or both? Were they linked at all? The same enquiries would need to be made. They carried absolutely no identity documents, therefore it would be critical to use their DNA, ‘prints or dental records to identify them. The single greatest problem being that in order to identify them they had to have a start point in their host nation. If these individuals were criminals, but criminals without a known history they would effectively be ghosts.

Nikolina had been captured then transferred to a stolen Ford Transit van where a small group of men had stripped her of her dignity and her clothes, taunting her and forcing her to listen to a phone call from her husband– or rather the man who said that Roma folklore had declared them man and wife.

She met her demise in the River Thames. A solitary, frigid way to end a life, strapped to a rudimentary wooden frame and left at low tide to watch the rushing water coming in from the sea, slowly, then more rapidly consuming her.

The group that did this to her, deprived her of a young life in such a violent and cold way later set fire to the van and left it on an industrial estate as interesting and grey as its paintwork. A few small exhibits were recovered from parts of the vehicle but proved to be worthless.

Any forensic evidence from the van was most likely gone. The almost-obliterated Mondeo would act as a source. Blood deposits, if nothing else gave them an opportunity. Hair fibres, possibly clothing too. They would try any avenue.

When had these people arrived into the United Kingdom? Last week, the week before, the month before? A year, maybe two? Had they even, possibly, been born there? The latter would at least help, but both Roberts and Cade considered it unlikely.

"A common theme is the tattoo Jason. I’ve heard about it,