Free A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel by Matthew Dunn Page B

killer. Why? Open to discussion. Circumstance? Who gives a fuck after the fact?”
    Knox’s boss was more tentative when he asked, “Do you have any ideas about what should be done?”
    Knox weighed up his response carefully. This was the reason for today’s meeting. But he was taking a professional risk with what he was about to say. “I told Marty Fleet of the attorney general’s office that I thought it was a good idea that the two NYPD detectives maintain the lead in capturing Cochrane, even if he commits crimes in other states. Why give it to the feds, I asked him, when they won’t do a better job? That was true. These detectives are the best for the job. But there’s another reason I want them right at the front of the game. I need to have at least one cop constantly involved in the investigation.” He looked at the head of the NSA. “I believe it’s in all of your interests not to ask me why I’m requesting this. But it would be extremely helpful if you could supply me with a cell phone that intercepts every call and SMS sent from and received on the phone belonging to Detective Thyme Painter.”
     
    T his early in the morning, I briefly felt anonymous and secure. I was on the outskirts of the city, navigating on foot solely by the sight of skyscrapers in the center of the metropolis. There was no need to get too close to the center, but drawing nearer to the tall buildings would bring me into areas containing shops and other much-needed amenities.
    I had to see the twins. It was vital the boys heard from me that I didn’t murder the woman in the hotel. I felt truly awful for letting them down. I wanted to tell them to stay strong until I could pick matters up where they left off and start our new life together. But I couldn’t investigate the murder victim and what had happened in the Waldorf. Only the cops could do that—though, armed with new information, I hoped I could read between the lines and establish a line of inquiry that would be invisible to detectives.
    And then, that would be the end of the road.
    I’d hand myself in. If I hadn’t already died from exposure.
    As I walked fast, head low and hands in pockets, residential suburbs became industrial zones, before transforming into the cheaper end of the commercial district. People were around me, most of them looking dog-tired and irritable as they shuffled off to work. They didn’t care about me. But if they’d bothered to look, I was betting they’d think I was just some guy who’d finished a night shift on a construction site.
    I spent two hours in the area, buying a bus ticket, food, today’s edition of the Washington Post from a convenience store, and a new set of clothes from a men’s store.
    In forty-five minutes, I’d be making the five-hour bus journey to Roanoke.
    On a park bench, away from the busier areas around me, I checked the newspaper’s classifieds section, cross-referencing it to the encyclopedia given to me by the Waldorf’s concierge. As promised, there was another entry in coded numbers. The message read:
HOW ARE YOU TODAY? A BIT TIRED AND FORLORN? FORGIVE ME IF I SEE THE FUNNY SIDE OF THAT. YOU ARE A MURDERER NOW. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO PEOPLE WHO GO CRAZY. BUT I SUPPOSE YOU THINK YOU CAN SURVIVE A BIT LONGER. ALL A MAN LIKE YOU NEEDS IS TO AVOID IMPETUOSITY AND RETAIN A BIT OF CASH IN YOUR POCKET. SORRY ABOUT THAT. MORE TOMORROW.
    I frowned.
    Sorry about that?
    That sentence gave me a sinking feeling.
    I walked to an ATM across the street. I wanted to withdraw my permitted maximum of five hundred dollars. I reckoned my dwindling savings could keep me on the streets for another week or two. After that, prison could take care of me.
    The latest message had been a taunt, but cleverly written so the author didn’t implicate himself. This was his dish served cold. But revenge for what? This was eating away at me. After fourteen years of working in MI6, I’d made infinitely more enemies than friends.
    There was a