Narrow Ground

By Jake Morris

Former soldier Owen Gallagher is thrust back into action in the explosive sequel to Black Flag.

An old man is shot dead in a quiet town.

An innocent woman dies in a botched assassination.

A civil servant is found crucified, and a rogue MI6 agent finds a way home.

What links these events as Northern Ireland slides towards civil war?

Why are foreign intelligence operatives converging on London?

Can Gallagher trust his friends? Should he join forces with old enemies? How far will he go to avenge the dead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024

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Copyright

Copyright © SJ Parkes 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The author asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Contents

Copyright

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Prologue

Michael Dougan bounced off the door frame of O'Connell's Bar and heard the bolts slam home behind him. It was three o'clock in the morning. He'd been the last to leave following a card game that had begun after most of the regulars had traipsed home on what had been a wet and blustery night. Dougan steadied himself against the bar's heavy stone windowsill and felt for the leather pouch in his coat pocket. The illuminated sign above the door had been switched off hours before and he cursed under his breath as he dropped the cigarette paper on to the wet pavement.

Making his way, crab-like, to the lamp post, he lined a new paper with rolling tobacco. He'd been hand-making cigarettes since he was eight years old – first for his dad and uncles, then, not long after, for himself and his pals. As drunk as he was, his fingers twiddled expertly to make the thin kind of smoke he'd become used to in prison. He ran his tongue along the gummed edge, patted his pockets and swore again.

Placing the roll-up behind his ear, he re-orientated himself to his surroundings. Either direction would eventually lead him to his bedsit half a mile away but, as usual, he wanted to go via the former family home to stand in front of the old house and bask in its melancholy gaze. Then he'd chuck a stone or two at a window and shout something appropriately offensive in the direction of the sleeping form of that bitch of an ex-wife of his.

As he lurched forward on his journey, Dougan didn't see the man standing in the shadows of an alleyway. He stopped and steadied himself against the wall as the man stepped into the outer edges of the glow of a street lamp.

'Jesus but you gave me a start. Do ya have a light?'

'I don't smoke, sorry,' the man lied.

'Hey I know you, don't I?' Dougan pulled himself in at the stomach and squared his shoulders when no reply was forthcoming. 'And what would you be doing abroad on a fine night such as this?'

The man backed out of the light and into the shadows once more.

Dougan followed, his blood flowing with boozy courage. The man without a light, the man he thought he'd seen before, was younger, fitter and taller. Dougan's addled brain took in the reality of the situation and calculated the likely consequences of a poor decision. It rejected any logical notion of self-preservation and instructed his legs to move into the alley. The cobbles were wet. He had to step around a large puddle and manoeuvre past the wooden crates and bin bags left over from the day's market. He could smell piss and rotting vegetables. It didn't improve his mood.

Dougan's fists clenched in readiness for the swift one-two that would crown his night. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, just enough to see the outline of the figure standing to his front several feet away. He made himself as tall as he could under the circumstances.

'Oi, I asked you a question.'

'Matthew.'

Dougan peered through the gloom as a face moved out of the shadows. 'Matthew?'

'My brother.'

'Jesus.' Bravado had given way to fear as recognition slopped across the pickled synapses of a mind that saw its future in the darkness.

'No, not Jesus: Matthew.' The man fired the silenced .22 calibre pistol twice and Dougan fell where he had stood.

The man with the gun listened. The town was quieter than any town he'd ever known. The body on the cobbles didn't move. He looked down into the wide staring eyes of the dead man and fired three shots into the face. There would be no open coffin.

Dougan was the last. It was time to go home.

Chapter 1

Gallagher could smell his clothes. This would usually be a bad sign, but he was playing a role. He was dressed as a rough sleeper: his trousers were dirty, his jacket torn and stiff with grime and sweat. He carried a small rucksack that looked like its best days had been spent being dragged through a hedge. A rough woollen hat was pulled down tight and he had several days of beard-growth itching on his face. His gloves were disgusting, but beneath them were a blue latex pair protecting against DNA traces and fingerprints.

Bannerman, the operation’s commander, had tasked an engineer. The power had been turned off in the small courtyard that housed a number of office buildings. It had taken Gallagher less time than he had expected to gain entry to the non-descript building situated beyond an unlit alleyway piled with rubbish ready for the morning collection. The approach had been easy due to the lack of CCTV coverage. He'd disconnected the phone line connecting the alarm to the security company, and the power outage had done the rest.

On the other side of the front door, he switched on a red-filtered torch. An eerie glow was cast by an aquarium to his left. The reception area was furnished with a collection of battered leather sofas and scratched coffee tables strewn with glossy, but old, magazines. To his front were the stairs, which he began to climb slowly, stopping at every level to listen. On the third floor, he found the door he was looking for. He took a tension tool and pick from a pouch in his jacket and opened the cylinder lock.

Inside, he looked around at the desks and noticeboards in the shabby room in the middle of a tired central London building, attempting to imagine working in such a place, day in, day out. Not a chance.

Crouching in front of the electronic safe, he removed a drill from his pack and destroyed the locking mechanism. He gathered all the documents, bundles of currency, three passports and an envelope containing half a dozen data cards. If this had been a film, it would have been the moment when the room was briefly lit with flashes of blue while the siren of a police car screamed past on the road below. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of late-night traffic and the occasional shouts of partygoers heading for the night bus.

Usually, on jobs like this, Gallagher would have checked that everything was as he'd found it using a digital camera to compare the room he'd entered with the room he was leaving. However, as the safe was now broken, he picked up a metal waste bin, tossed in some papers from the nearest desk and set a fire. He kept it low and under control until there was enough ash, and then doused it with water from the cooler in the corner. Now the owners wouldn't know what had been taken and what had been destroyed. The motive for the break-in would be unclear.

Gallagher took a can of red spray paint from the bag and repacked the drill. He sprayed the desks, the chairs and the walls. He remembered a 'tag,' a graffiti signature, daubed on a wall nearby and attempted a replica near the door. If an observant policeman was led to the home of a teenage vandal, then all the better. If the matter was reported to the police. He doubted it would be.

Gallagher emptied all the unlocked drawers on to the floor, sprayed the contents and then the drawers themselves, inside and out. As he left the office he sprayed the door with dripping red paint, followed by the handles on both sides, placed the can in his bag and made his way down the stairs and out of the building.

Four streets away, a van was waiting. He gently banged the side of the vehicle in the agreed manner and the back door opened. Inside was Rob Alberton, one of Bannerman's team.

'Evening, Owen.'

'Morning, Rob.'

'All OK?'

'No worries.'

Alberton climbed into the front of the van and drove around to the drop-off point a mile away. He hadn't been told what the target was – nor had the engineer. He didn't ask: he wouldn't have been answered. His career didn't allow for indiscretion, especially on a job involving Gallagher. All taskings were on a 'need to know' basis, but when Bannerman hired Gallagher it seemed that no one needed to know anything other than how to accomplish his or her own part of the mission.

Gallagher changed into the clean clothes that he'd passed to the team two days before and picked up his phone, watch and wallet. His rough-sleeper gear and other kit would be boxed and returned by a courier.

Having made its circuit of the area, the van stopped. Gallagher secured his watch to his wrist. Alberton nodded. His passenger stepped out of the van without another word spoken.

Back on the pavement, Gallagher looked at his watch again and walked slowly to the junction of the main road. He could head home or he could seek out a drink. Left would take him towards the sensible option and bed. He turned right. It began to rain.

The private members' club, Cowper's, was situated in a side street on the periphery of Soho near St Giles. Gallagher inserted a plastic key card into an electronic panel over the lock and pushed open the door. The night porter, CJ, briefly looked up from his book to give a lazy salute. Gallagher was a well-known member of long standing, introduced to the club years before by his uncle, Edwin, now deceased. CJ was fond of Gallagher. Uncle Edwin had secured the man his job a couple of decades previously. CJ was old fashioned and utterly loyal. Gallagher had also done the quiet watchman some good turns, including collecting evidence against a gang of young wannabe-gangsters that were making the lives of everyone on the man's housing estate a misery. The nonchalant greeting and lack of scrutiny were reserved for only the most respected of those passing by the gatekeeper.

Having taken his drink from the shambolic bar, festooned as it was with memorabilia, photographs and assorted theatrical tat, Gallagher eased himself behind a small corner table. With a view of the door and his back to the wall, he began to relax.

He took the first sip and knew that it wouldn't be his last drink. It never was. He savoured the taste and felt his mind begin to slow even before any chemical reaction could take place. His thoughts stopped dancing to their own beat and began to settle as he grew inwardly still.

Ideally, he should enjoy this relaxed state with a couple of glasses and then head home. However, the calm feeling would soon give way to a frenetic need and he'd end up drinking like a pirate. He saw the next few hours clearly laid out before him. He saw them because they would be no different to so many he'd lived before. He'd deal with his demons in the morning, as he always had. They would poke and accuse, tell him truths and project memories behind his eyes that he didn't want to see. But until then he would hold them in check. Until then he would seek a kind of peace in the short-lived joys of a chemical addiction, holding back the truth of himself in the fragmented haze of what he considered to be a good time.

The club consisted of four floors in a tall narrow building that had settled itself into its street long before the real estate in the area became sought after and fashionable. There were two bars – one of which served snacks occasionally, but never consistently; several tired sitting rooms, and a ramshackle library containing mismatched desks and some randomly upholstered furniture. The top floor was no longer used, but had previously been the owner's accommodation. It wasn't a club for the posing rich or those fixated by networking at every opportunity. It was the home of the bon vivant on a budget, the serious drinker with no time for frippery or the company of those exhibiting status anxiety.

Gallagher scanned the assembled members for any unknown faces, saw none, and reached into his pocket for his phone. There were two missed calls and three text messages: all from Eve, a barmaid at his regular haunt, Le Lion Rouge. He wouldn't be replying until lunchtime the next day at the earliest.

A fourth text message was from Sandy Bannerman, an old friend from Gallagher's army days and the man who'd paid him to break into an untidy import/export office in the early hours of the morning. Gallagher was Bannerman's 'off-the-books' operative in times of need, a freelancer who could, and would, carry out work the MI5 watcher teams were unable to cover or couldn't consider. Only six months before, such a tasking had drawn Gallagher into a nightmarish web of conspiracy and betrayal.

The image of a young man's face and smashed body rose up in Gallagher's mind. The corpse didn't smile. He felt a chill run through him as memories clouded his consciousness. He wouldn't be staying for just the one. Gallagher knew that sometimes the drink gripped him, holding him tight in the steady embrace of a long, if occasionally destructive, relationship. It wasn't a problem. Self-medication on his own terms was perfectly rational: blocking out the images, the intrusive thoughts, quieting the ghosts – all necessary to his survival and sanity.

He took a sip of his drink and looked around the room again. A man in a crumpled linen suit stared blindly into the middle distance from his place at the bar. At the other end, nearer the door, a woman in a vintage dress and feather boa giggled and touched the arm of one of three older men who were courting her attention. He'd seen her before. She was a member but only appeared sporadically – usually when it was raining. Perhaps she wandered further afield on dry nights. Gallagher noted the predatory looks masked by gentlemanly attention and a readiness to pass the barman bank notes at regular intervals. Almost as soon as a round of drinks was served the next note was produced, maintaining the momentum, holding the woman in place.

All three men had clearly played the game for years and were united in their love of themselves, competition, and the thrill of the chase. Gallagher hoped she'd catch the sidelong looks darting between the sharks, that she'd sense the coldness behind the wide grins and shining eyes. However, as he watched, he discerned her lonely vulnerability and something else. She wasn't a victim: she was playing them and wouldn't be leaving with anyone that she didn't want to be with.

A conversation on the other side of the room began to intrude on the wider festivities, puncturing the hum of drunken chatter, discordant and harsh against the music wrapping itself between the drinkers. Unappreciative glances from others in the room led to backs being slapped. Shoulders were soon being punched good-humouredly in a display of friendly machismo. More drinks were called for and the room's decorum was restored to the satisfaction of its denizens.

This was why Edwin had brought him here all those years before. This was why Gallagher still came when he was in need of a particular form of sanctuary. There was rarely any hassle, everyone knew everyone else – and no one really knew anyone at all.

* * *

Flic Anderson had made the call. It would mark the beginning or the end but the only way was forward now. She'd been running for six months. She was tired of hiding, tired of moving back and forth across Europe, tired of waiting for a bullet in the back. She was still on the defensive, waiting to switch to attack. She stared at herself in the mirror and brushed a strand of her dyed-black hair behind her ear. The face that looked back at her was more pinched than it ever had been. The eyes were faintly haunted and the smile was thin across bloodless lips.

She liked the hotel but she had to keep moving. The next steps would be the key to her endeavour. This time she was working entirely outside the wire; it had to be fully controlled and planned to the last detail – if it went wrong this time she wouldn't be able to hide from herself. She gripped the sink edge and challenged her reflection to show another sign of weakness. Get a grip of yourself Anderson: remember the tiger swimming at the zoo.

It was time to begin calling in favours, time to come back from the dead and appear in the lives of those who had tried to bury and forget her. It was time to stop swimming in the still pools of exile and time to flex her claws against the agents of her humiliation. The tiger's name was Hope. She recalled the news of Yoshi's death; she remembered the hot afternoon at the Baghdad zoo, knowing that the die was cast and knowing that she'd accepted the consequences long before she'd strolled out of Al-Zawara Park. The tiger's name was Hope but it was hatred that burned in the eyes that looked back at her. God help anyone who stood in her way.

* * *

'Morning, Billy.'

'Morning, Mr Gallagher. Late night?'

Gallagher smiled. It was something when a tramp – and Billy was an old-school tramp and proud of it – thought you looked rough.

'Just a bit. Have you eaten today?'

'I'm on a diet,' said Billy with a straight face.

Gallagher found a five-pound note in his wallet. 'Get the dog some breakfast.'

'You're a good man, Mr Gallagher.'

'Keep that to yourself, won't you?'

'Your friend picking you up? The one with the false leg?'

'You don't miss much, do you Billy?'

'True, Mr Gallagher. Keep that to yourself, won't you? Here he is. New car. He's killing those gears.'

Gallagher patted Billy's dog, Eric, who wagged his tail and blinked his remaining eye.

Harry lowered his window. 'Morning, boss.'

'Morning, H. Have you met Billy and Eric the dog?'

'I have now. Morning, Billy. I'm Harry.'

'Pleased to meet you. You want to watch that clutch, you know, I could smell it a mile off.'

* * *

They had been in the car for an hour and Gallagher's head was still thumping. He'd had two hours of fitful sleep before Harry Burgess had collected him for the day's surveillance work.

'You still thinking of a holiday? It looks like you need one.'

'Still thinking,' replied Gallagher.

'Go on, have a week in the sun, have two, it's not like you can't afford it.'

'I'm thinking about it. Let's concentrate on the job at hand, eh?'

'Please yourself. Remind me again why we've been watching this rich Russian twat moving around town screwing birds and flashing his cash for the last week,' said Harry as he turned right.

Gallagher checked his map. 'Because it pays your bills?'

'Lucky for me that Lynne doesn't eat much, eh?' Harry grimaced as the traffic slowed.

'Is your mortgage hurting?'

'Piss off. It's the bloody prosthetic – must be the weather. So, what's the point of this? What are we trying to find out apart from the fact that the bloke is a sex addict?'

'It's need-to-know.'

'Well I need to know.'

'No, you don't.'

'Yes, I do.'

Gallagher took a sidelong glance. 'Are you taking the piss?'

'I know I'm just the hired help, but...'

'Have you heard yourself, H? Are you channelling your missus?'

Harry laughed.

Gallagher looked back at the map. 'You're having your mid-life crisis early, is that it? Getting it out of the way? Buy yourself a leather jacket and a motorbike, you'll feel better.'

Harry rubbed the area where the stump met the false part of his leg. 'You don't buy me flowers anymore.'

'Why didn't you buy another automatic?' asked Gallagher, smiling but noting his friend's continued discomfort. 'Anyway, to answer your question, it's the same drill as usual: find, fix, observe. It's our bread and butter for Bannerman.'

Harry turned left, three cars behind the target vehicle. 'I wanted an automatic but Lynne's brother got us a deal. I didn't want her accusing me of throwing it back in his face. I'm just saying that Bannerman owes us a decent job soon.'

'The money's the same either way. Why work harder?'

'You know what I mean: something a bit more exciting than watching flash fuckers spending money or crusties plotting revolutions that'll never happen.'

'I like these jobs,' said Gallagher as he checked the map. 'Bet you a pound to a penny we're off to Location Four.'

'You just like to think you like the quiet life. You're kidding yourself.'

'I'm never bored. He's pulling over, Location Four, that's another point to me. Swing in over there on the other side of the road.'

Harry manoeuvred in the traffic and brought the car to a stop. 'Yeah, you're blessed with that. Me: I bore easily.'

'Don't be so harsh on yourself: you’re not that boring,' said Gallagher, looking at his watch rather than at his friend.

'I meant,' Harry began. 'Right, yeah. You're a piss-taking bastard. I don't know why I bother.'

Gallagher suppressed his grin. 'He'll be an hour or so. The heavy and the driver are staying put as usual.'

'Lucky bastard. She's gorgeous that one.'

'And expensive: this isn't some Soho knocking shop. How's Lynne?'

'She's never boring, that's for sure. To be honest, though, I don't know.'

'Are you through the worst?'

'Some days I think we are and some days I don't know why we put ourselves through it.'

'Harry Junior?'

‘Yep, I suppose that's why we do it.'

'I meant, how is he?'

'He's a great little lad, takes after his mother.'

'Right,' said Gallagher. 'I'll go foxtrot and watch the car from that bar on the corner, just in case Heavy goes walkabout. I suppose we should earn our money.'

'He never goes walkabout; he's a lazy bastard. Why can't I go and sit in the bar?'

'You're driving. It'd be a waste of opening hours, and you'd look out of place nursing half a Coke for an hour.'

'I could have a brew. They do sell coffee in bars these days, you know.'

Gallagher opened the passenger door. 'Yes, I've heard.' He picked up Harry's newspaper that was lying in the foot-well and stepped out of the car. From the pavement, he leaned in and tossed the paper on to Harry's lap. 'One across is patience and four down is virtue. Have fun.'

'Hilarious,' said Harry as Gallagher closed the car door. 'I hope you choke on your Pinot Ponce.'

* * *

Gallagher had just sat down near the window of the bar with his wine when his phone rang. 'Don't tell me you need a piss already, H,' he said as the call connected.

'Heavy is foxtrot, moving your way, carrying a bag.'

Gallagher saw the large man in the ill-fitting suit walk into view on the other side of the road. 'I have,' he said, and downed his glass of hair of the dog.

As he walked to the exit, Gallagher inserted his covert earpiece and activated the push-to-talk mode on his phone – turning it into a one-to-one radio link with Harry – and moved the remote click unit to his jacket pocket, in order to transmit unseen via the microphone under his shirt collar. Through the glass door he watched a broad-shouldered tanned man in his early thirties stop, turn to look in a shop window and poke his left ear. The man's dress, bearing and ear-fiddling suggested that he was engaged in surveillance.

'H, do you have the IC1 male, brown leather jacket, outside the deli?'

'Got him. The IC1 female, short brown hair, fleece and jeans, a hundred metres to your rear, is with him. They exited the same van and now want nothing to do with each other.'

'OK, looks like we've got competition. Go careful and stay off their radar. We'll do what we need to and then lift off. I don't want us tangled up in whatever this is.'

'You're still going after Heavy?'

'We've been tasked, so we do the job.' Gallagher watched Heavy turn the corner and followed. 'That's Alpha 2 into Cornovi Road. I'll cut through and let him pass. I can get between him and Leather Jacket.'

Harry's voice replied in his earpiece. 'Roger that.'

Gallagher took the short cut and reached the end of the alley. He watched Heavy into the next street still carrying the sports bag. The big man was sweating and had obviously jogged forward to get to where he was going. Heavy began descending the steps of an underpass to cross beneath the road.

Gallagher followed and glanced left into the subterranean corridor. A man was walking towards Heavy. This man, wearing a dark suit, seemed in no hurry. Gallagher continued past the opening and walked up the steps, to where he had a view of the street.

‘H, follow me up the road. There's an underpass ahead. You might need to drive forward to cover the other entrance but wait this side in case he doubles.'

Two clicks of the transmit button – two for 'yes' – came back from Harry.

Gallagher watched Heavy exit on the other side of the busy road. Heavy was no longer carrying a bag.

'H, there's an unknown Alpha about to exit this side of the road: early thirties, IC4, dark suit. Have your camera ready. He’s our Alpha 3 now.'

Two clicks.

Gallagher prepared the camera on his personal smartphone in case the new target turned his way. 'Yours, H.'

Harry adjusted his camera lens. 'Got him, he's walking this way. Want me to follow?'

'Yeah, turn around and watch him to the junction. There's a cut-through here. I'll try to get ahead of him.'

'Roger that. Moving now.'

Gallagher ran through the alleyway and slowed as he approached the entrance to the parallel street.

'He's gone right, away from the train station,' Harry reported.

Gallagher acknowledged. 'I have.'

From Gallagher's left, a car pulled out on the other side of the road. The new target glanced up, crossed the street, and waited for the car to stop. Gallagher watched as the man climbed into the back. 'That's Alpha 3 into a black Mazda CX-5, about to arrive at the junction. I have the reg. Try to get the occupants.'

Harry pulled in so that he was diagonal from the junction. He took a succession of rapid photographs as the target car turned left and drove away from him. 'Should have the driver and a profile of the passenger. They've headed down towards the high street. Want me to follow?'

'No, drive this way and pick me up. I’ll walk towards you. I think we've got what Bannerman wants.'

As he turned the corner to head towards the main road, Gallagher walked straight into Leather Jacket. The man pushed him backwards. The jacket flapped open revealing a gun.

'You're coming with me.' It was an American accent.

'I'm afraid not.'

'Just a few questions: nothing to worry about.'

'You're way out of your jurisdiction.'

Leather Jacket drew his pistol pointing it at head height. He was throwing his weight around, being the tough guy, and he was standing too close.

Gallagher's left palm moved the barrel as he tilted his head in the other direction, simultaneously using his right hand in a sloth grip to strike the man's wrist hard. As the gun rotated under the opposing forces of Gallagher’s hands, the trigger guard broke Leather Jacket's finger and the gun moved into Gallagher's possession at speed.

Gallagher stepped to the side, pointing the pistol at its owner as the American bent double in agony. Then he kicked him behind the knees, sweeping him on to his back.

'Let's agree to disagree, shall we? You lie there for a minute. I have to be off. I'd rather not have to deal with the rest of your team.'

'You'll pay for this.'

'I usually do,' Gallagher replied. He stamped on the man's knee.

'You bastard.'

'No major harm done but no running for a couple of days, OK?'

* * *

Harry drove them to the lock-up garage. It was where Gallagher kept his van, motorbike and most of his specialist kit.

'Want me to wait? It's a bit of a trek back to your new gaff. Why not get another lock-up, move your stuff?' Harry asked.

'Because it's still in Uncle Edwin's name. I like to know it's here and not connected to me officially. Get off home.'

'You going to drive back?'

'No, I'll walk.'

'Why?'

'I like walking.'

'How many pubs from here to there?'

'How should I know?'

'OK, how many pubs in direct view from here to your new place?'

'Twenty-three, but only six are worth a visit.'

Harry laughed. 'Enjoy your walk.'

* * *

Flic hadn't thought she'd be able to make her first move so quickly, but a message from an old contact had provided her with the wherewithal to begin piecing together a way of returning, to take the first step on the road to a new sense of purpose – and to revenge. It had made her useful again, and much sooner than she had hoped.

The message – left via one of many digital dead drops that she still monitored – was a tip off. Her informant wanted money in exchange for further details. Flic hadn't made contact. She didn't need the information because she'd been the one who had derailed the deal that her informant was so excited to tell her about. The message was merely confirmation that the time was right and her plan