Free Traitor by Murray McDonald

sands of the shoreline and he approached the shore, checking for any passersby. It was approaching midnight in France. The beach was deserted. He had visited the same beach three months earlier. The vast expanse of sand stretched for miles but, in the almost forgotten northeast of France, even in the height of summer, the beaches were never filled.
    He checked his bearings. Merlimont Plage was just a half mile north. After a two-minute breather, he began the walk along the beach, picking up the pace as the first sounds of helicopters began to break through the stillness of the night. A bright spot a few miles to the north, just off shore from Le Touquet, was all he needed to know that they were looking for him. Another bright spot appeared in the sky, only nearer. Searchlights glared down on the ground and sea below.
    Nick knew that was the least of his worries. The chances of them picking him out in the spotlight were minimal to nil. His biggest worry was the infrared and thermal imaging devices that would be accompanying the light. The spotlight was the secondary tool to pinpoint what they had already seen.
    Nick made it into the small seaside village while the search was still concentrating a couple of miles to the north. He smiled at the small green Renault Clio, almost ten years old, that had received a number of polite messages to move it. Although parked perfectly legally, the apartment owners who assumed ownership of the spaces in front of their beachside apartments during the summer were obviously perturbed at the length of time the mystery car had been parked in front of their building. Nick bent down and retrieved the key taped inside the small tailpipe. He opened the car, popped the hood and connected the battery. The car, thanks to its age and simplicity, started on the first turn of the ignition key, despite being inactive for over three months. Nick checked his mirror and pulled away.
    He retrieved the roadmap from the glove box and glanced at his chosen route - the direct route to Paris would be using the main A16 toll road. However, at that time of night and in that area of France, he’d be one of the only vehicles on the road. They were already looking for him off the Le Touquet coast, which meant there was every chance they may also check the roads, especially the main road.
    Nick took the back roads option and began the long drive to Paris. It was in contrast to the race he had undertaken three months earlier to place the car without being missed. Catching an earlier Eurostar service between Paris and London, he had hopped off at Calais and purchased the Clio for cash before driving it back down to Merlimont Plage and leaving it there. He’d then jogged the few miles back to Le Touquet, took a taxi back to Calais to catch the next Eurostar train, and arrived in London at the time he had arranged to meet his colleagues from DIA. With all purchases in cash and no time unaccounted for, nobody had been any the wiser.
    The dark and empty roads allowed perfect thinking time for Nick. His meticulous planning and preparation had finally come to fruition. The adrenaline was pumping through his body. Although just over a year, it felt so much longer since that fateful day in Afghanistan.
    Memories had been triggered as he watched the scene unfold before him. Young children played carefree while their mothers prepared the evening meal, chatting and joking as they watched over the young ones. A few shouts echoed across the hillside as warnings were issued to keep the children away from harm.
    All the time constant updates were being fed into Nick’s ear. His hilltop vantage point was one of many spread across the Kunar province, one of the main smuggling routes between Afghanistan and Pakistan. His job was to spot drugs leaving and munitions entering, and call in air strikes when necessary. Over the previous ten years, between his time in the Rangers, Delta Force and the Defense Clandestine Service, he had spent