Hunter Hunted, Jack Gatland [good story books to read .txt] 📗

had been too stupid to vote him out in the last election. Stick thin and with curly ginger hair, Gladwell was a sickeningly fit, bio-hacking ultra-runner in his late forties who looked a decade younger, thanks in part to the multitude of expensive supplements he sucked down every day. Like a cockroach, he’d most likely survive everyone.

Next to him sat Tamara Banks, one of Charles’ rivals for the Conservative throne; in her early forties and resembling the bastard daughter of Cruella De Vil and Heinrich Himmler, Banks was a toxic Thatcherite, more right-wing than most of her party, a woman that had gained power and influence during the Vote Leave campaign, but was distanced enough to keep her reputation once Brexit polarised everyone.

Watching out of the window was Jerry Robinson, an Ulster Democrat. Squat both in stature and intellect, and patting down his greasy, dyed-black hair as he stared at the young, attractive women in the beer patio below, Jerry was a devout creationist who didn’t believe in dinosaurs, believing that they were a test from God to see if humankind’s faith was strong enough.

Charles thought that Jerry Robinson was a test from God. That, or a rather annoying joke.

The last person in the room was a Labour MP, one that Charles had known back when he was on the red side of the Commons. Norman Shipman was old, ancient even, nothing more than a well-dressed skeleton under stretched-tight skin. He’d been an MP back when Jim Callaghan was in charge back in the seventies and every battle, every fight was etched into his face. He’d spent his entire political career on the back benches; but Charles knew from experience that this was where he did his best work.

In the shadows, in rooms like this, and with people just like the ones that Charles faced right now.

‘You’re late,’ Tamara complained. Charles didn’t bother to reply. Complaining about someone when they arrived was simply Tamara’s way of saying hello to them.

‘I see your man’s in the news again,’ Malcolm smiled. ‘If he keeps this up, we might have to promote him to DCI.’

‘He’s not my man,’ Charles poured himself a wine from a bottle on the side table before turning to face the others. ‘And to be honest, I’d have preferred it if he delayed a few days.’

‘So where are we on these?’ Straight to business, Jerry drank from his bottle of tonic water. He didn’t use a glass, just the tiny bottle. It looked ludicrous.

‘Do I have permission to move on with the target I informed you of during the last session?’ Charles asked. Malcolm looked to Norman, as if waiting for guidance. Even though he was of a different political party, Norman Shipman was the obvious leading force in the room.

He nodded.

‘I call this session of the Star Chamber open,’ he said, his voice cracked with a mixture of age and far too many cigarettes.

Charles released his held breath as he leaned onto the table he sat beside.

‘As I said last time, I put forward an extremist terrorist to include in the lists,’ he spoke carefully, ensuring that he didn’t mis-speak, or understate anything that he was revealing. ‘We believe she was radicalised in Syria two years ago and, since returning to the UK, she’s been running as part of a terrorist cell in South West London with a UK born and radicalised, London based handler.’

‘Do we have any idea about what her plan is?’ Tamara asked. Charles shook his head.

‘All I know is that after we investigated her, she met with my wife the same day... The same day that Donna killed herself.’

‘And you think this extremist caused your wife’s death?’ Tamara seemed appalled, but Charles guessed it was a more mawkish curiosity.

‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘And I believe she is a danger to our Government.’

‘We shall put the name into the lists for consideration,’ Norman nodded slowly, looking to the others. ‘Any refusals?’

As the other MPs in the function room agreed to this decision one by one, Charles quickly tapped off a text on his phone under the table, sending it off before Norman looked back to him:

flick the switch

‘And the name to be added?’ Norman asked, returning Charles to the conversation.

‘Taylor,’ Charles Baker replied. ‘The extremist terrorist’s name is Kendis Taylor.’

The man with the rimless glasses sat in his car, parked on the pavement at Tudor Street, deep in the City of London. He’d been there for close to an hour now, watching the evening trade at the wine bar to his right as, ahead of him, he monitored the white bricked, arched entrance into Temple Inn. There was a large, black gate and a yellow and black barrier blocking his way into the Inns of Temple, and the guard would be in the cabin to the side of it. That said, people walked in and out all the time with no issues, and the man with the rimless glasses knew the guards paid them no heed, especially when they dressed in overcoat, scarf and suit.

His phone beeped with a message; glancing down, he read it. The man with the rimless glasses didn’t recognise the number, but he knew who the order had come from. He’d known ever since he’d moved allegiances, since they had freed him from custody under ministerial conduct subclauses, creating this new legend, this new identity of sorts for him.

And he knew what the order meant.

Leaving the car, the man with the rimless glasses made his way through the entrance to the right of the arch, past the notice that stated that only residents could bring their dogs through and, keeping his head down he passed the guard who didn’t even glance at him in passing, reading that night’s edition of The Evening Standard and ignoring the suited man who continued down Temple Lane, and out into King’s Bench Walk.

Turning right as he entered the large courtyard, the man with the rimless glasses carried on along King’s Bench Walk, stopping