Maltese Steel E-Book

Stuart Field

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A woman is found dead on the island of Gozo. The cops say she fell from the Azure Window tourist spot, but her father thinks otherwise.

CIA Section Chief Foster needs help to prove it was murder, so he turns to the only person he knows can get the job done: John Steel.

The Hive, securely seated under the US Embassy on the island of Malta, is an operation that monitors all passage from North Africa and the Middle East into Europe and the US. A platform that requires the latest in technology and facial recognition.

In seven days, that software will be updated. In two days, all hell will break loose. And the clock is ticking for an attack on American soil.

Together with the beautiful Sammara Malk of Mossad, can Steel find out who killed Lucy - and stop whoever is behind the impending attack?

Leseprobe

MALTESE STEEL

JOHN STEEL BOOK 5

STUART FIELD

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

A Year Later

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Stuart Field

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Gail Williams

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Apart from known historical figures, names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Other than actual events, locales, or persons, again the events are fictitious.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This book is dedicated to all the fantastic people of Malta.

To all the people around the world who work to keep us safe and to all my family and friends who have supported me.

Thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank

The Grand Hotel Excelsior in Valletta, Malta. For allowing me to include their fantastic hotel in this book.

To the US Embassy Malta.

And a special thank you to my good friend Malcolm Ellul and his family for all their advice.

And to Miika and the Next Chapter team for all their hard work.

To my editor Gail Williams.

CHAPTERONE

A cold March wind brushed Lucy Foster's cheeks as she plummeted from the top of the Azure Window. Once a rocky arch that stretched out from the Maltese Island of Gozo. Now just rock face with the broken pieces of the massive arch buried under the waves.

It was said to be one of the wonders of the world, but after a tremendous storm wreaked havoc on both islands – it was no more. The craggy archway lost to the deep.

The midnight sky was black and a freezing chill hung in the air. But it was nothing compared with the icy waters of the ocean below. Lucy would not feel it. The velocity of her fall masked the smell of the sea air. Around her, the sounds of the wind were dulled by the crashing of the waves.

However, Lucy did not feel or hear anything.

There was no light from the moon for the waves to reflect, which would have made the fall from the cliff seem endless – as if it was a nightmare.

Lucy's body slammed against the ocean as if the water were made from concrete. Her neck snapped back, and her ribs shattered. Her right arm was dislocated and pulled towards her back.

She had felt nothing.

The waves tossed her fragile body up like a piece of driftwood. The wind howled, and the waves roared. Towering waves crashed against each other. Pounded relentlessly against Lucy's limp body again and again. Giant, claw-like waves reached up and grabbed her, pulling her down to the depths. The ocean surrendered her battered body to the surface once more as if tired with its prey. The waves crashed as the wind howled.

Finally, Lucy's body vanished beneath the surface, dragged down into the blackened depths as she was swallowed into the abyss.

CHAPTERTWO

At the same time, over four-thousand miles away from Gozo's coast, John Steel sat in his office at the NYPD's 11th precinct. The room had been an old storage room that he had commandeered. The walls were a mix of half red-painted plaster and a lower half made from dark wooden panels. The hardened concrete of the floor was now hidden under a polished wood. There were brass lamps and Cambridge style bookshelves. The whole place looked as though it should belong in a stately home.

John Steel sat behind a long oak desk. The top was covered with green leather. On the desk was a computer monitor to his right and a landline pushed far to the left. The computer keyboard and mouse were in front of the monitor, leaving the centre of the desk free. To his right hung a large, lifeless flatscreen monitor, which showed nothing apart from the room's reflection. His eyes glanced over the report he had just written and was about to file.

Steel sighed profoundly and tossed down the file in frustration. He had been assigned to the NYPD to monitor and – if necessary – hinder the operations of an organisation called SANTINI.

SANTINI was an underground organisation that dealt in murder, assassinations, arms smuggling, anything that would serve its purpose. However, unlike organisations such as the Italian Mafia, Yakuza, White Russian Mafia, SANTINI remained in the shadows. Carrying out assignments that would be profitable and draw no attention to their existence.

But Steel knew of them. His entire family had been murdered by them, and he had been gravely injured while trying to save his family. Steel looked over at his reflection in the powered down the desktop monitor. He gazed into his dark soulless green eyes, which were just another scar had had to remind him of that day. His once pale blue eyes had somehow turned to this dark unnerving dark emerald colour after his life-saving operation. For years he had thought that the old Japanese gardener had saved him, healing his wounds at his home. But Steel had found out later that the very people Steel worked, for now, had saved him.

Like his father before him, John Steel was British Secret Service – or MI8. He had been recruited after his time with the SAS. However, after the murder of his family, MI8 thought it best that Steel went into hiding until the organisation responsible had been identified, or at best, eliminated. So, Steel joined the US Navy SEALs. Whitehall suspected putting an ocean between Steel and the organisation would take them out of their gaze for a while. Also, the training would do him good for what he needed him to do.

But now, he was stuck behind a desk doing paperwork for a murder investigation. Steel felt nauseous, claustrophobic. This was not him. He was a soldier – an agent of the British Secret Service, not a cop. Sure, he had thwarted the plans of SANTINI on several occasions, but for some reason, they had gone dark. Were they laying low because of him? Possible. But then SANTINI did not just have him after them. There was this Trojan Group. Trojan was also a criminal organisation, but they – Steel's eyes – were more of a threat. They sought power, control and would do anything to get it. However, these had also disappeared from his radar. Steel found it curious but at the same time disturbing. One he could understand – but both, surely that couldn't be good?

But despite this upset, Steel had done his job and was ready to come home as far as he was concerned. He was prepared to do the job he was hired for, and that wasn't being a cop, that was for sure. John Steel grabbed a pair of sunglasses that sat on a wireless docking station and slipped them on. He saw a blink of red light in the corner of an LCD HUB in the right-hand lens, then the words Retina scan complete. Identification confirmed. Steel heaved himself out of the comfort of the padded leather office chair, grabbing the file and then headed over to the door. The report was done, all the eyes were dotted, and Ts were crossed. Despite his reluctance to be there, he knew he still had to do the job correctly. He opened the door. Suddenly, the silence of the office was shattered by the chaos of the homicide division's bullpen. Phones were ringing, and voices grew louder. As Steel looked out across the sea of busy people, the small screen in the right lens ran a diagnostic and quickly analysed them. John Steel smiled to himself at the gadget that had saved him and others live so often, but he also knew he could not be reliant on it. It was just an aid. Steel knew he had to rely more on his skills and own intuition.

Steel was looking at the people of the night shift. His shift had left hours ago. He had just stayed over to make sure there were no discrepancies in the report. The last thing he wanted was the guy's lawyer picking something out and get the scumbag off with. Steel walked over to Captain Alan Brant's office and knocked. Steel wasn't surprised he was still there.

Alan Brant was a bear of a man. He was in his fifties but still had the build of a quarterback. Steel looked over at the shaven football of a head. The light from the overhead light gleamed off his dark shin. To Steel, Brant always looked angry – even when he wasn't. But this time, those cold brown eyes scowled at Steel as he entered after knocking. Brant sat back in his chair, his massive form leant back against the PU leather, causing it to creak.

'Take it you done writin that report?' Brant said. His thick-lipped mouth curled as though every word had a bitter taste to it. His voice was deep like you might imagine a grizzly or brown bear to have.

'Yes, I'm done,' Steel said. His tone was emotionless. Despite being British, he had no accent to speak of. There was no hint of a regional accent, just British. Brant gave Steel a curious look. Steel wondered if Brant picked up on what he had said – or indeed, how he had meant it, 'Yes, I'm done.'

Steel placed down the file in front of Brant and ran his fingers through his raven-coloured hair. It felt longer than he would have wanted it to be. It was possibly time to visit that barbers shop in the morning, Steel thought, catching his reflection in the long window that separated the Captain's office from the bullpen. His black suit and shirt did not reflect too well in the window, making it appear as if he was a floating head without a body. Steel smiled to himself but did not show it.

'McCall is pissed at ya after what you did,' Brant said, rocking in his chair. The sound of the metal joints squeaked with the subtle movement.

'She will get over it. Besides, it got the job done, didn't it?' Steel said. His tone was cold and unemotional.

Steel did not care for their rules anymore. He found them tiresome. Rules that kept the allowed the bad guys to go free and hurt the innocent. Rules that with the slightest loop whole could be undone. He preferred his rules, the rules her was governed by. There is your target; investigate and take whatever action is necessary. He lived in a black and white world, with the only red been his enemies' blood.

'You threw the man outta the window, Steel!' Brant growled. His eyes bulged from their deep-set sockets. A slither of spit formed in the corner of Brant's mouth a was held by the hairs of his circular beard.

'And if I hadn't, you'd have several officers in the morgue or hospital right now – including McCall,' Steel said with an angry tone.

Brant sat back and sighed deeply. 'Yeah, I know, but still, these cowboy actions of yours are getting outta hand.'

'Understood,' Steel said calmly. 'don't worry, they won't happen again,' Steel said and turned to leave. Brant looked over at Steel. A look of concern filled his face.

'What do you mean by that?' Brant asked. He had read Steel's innuendoes and body language. Brant was the only one in the precinct who knew what Steel was, who he worked for. Sure, Steel had closed some exceptional cases, but now Brant felt Steel was just treading water.

'I mean –.' Steel paused and looked over at the commendations and photographs on Brant's wall. It was impressive, but Brant was a cop, and Steel wasn't. 'I'm going home, I'm tired,' Steel said and left the office, closing the door softly behind him.

Captain Alan Brant watched Steel cross the bullpen floor and wait for the elevator, and wandered. Had Steel just said goodbye or only good night?

CHAPTERTHREE

Dwejra sea birds hovered overhead. Their baby-like calls hung carried on a refreshing sea breeze which hurried across the coastline. The sun began to gather warmth over the Maltese Islands though it was still early morning.

The surrounding landscape had a dangerous beauty, like something from another time or planet. Yet, the image was broken by the parking spaces and shops.

Special Agent Marcus Foster stood near the rocky ground where the Azure Window had stretched out into the ocean. An enormous craggy arch that had been created by weather and stormy waters. Now, just a strange rock formation remained to mark where the arch had stood.

Some people would swear that there was a face in the rock if looked at from a certain angle. Set in the San Lawrenz district of the Island of Gozo. The window had been a magnificent natural structure that Foster had in years gone by brought his family to see.

Now, he was there for a very different reason.

He had received the call around six that morning. Pat and Michael Fabri, who owned the ice cream store close by, had found a young woman's body while walking their dog at the Blue Hole, a tourist trap and diving ground. They always walked their little terrier, Skippy, there before getting ready for the tourists. Skippy had alerted them to the woman in the water. She had been too far for either of them to swim out, so Pat had called the police on her cell phone. The police boat had found only the body, no purse or form of ID. However, the sergeant in charge had recognised her as Foster's daughter. Despite her broken body, her face was somehow mostly undamaged – enough for her to be identified at least.

Foster was a tall man with massive shoulders. Six-foot three and a haircut any Marine would be proud of. The fresh sea air brushed across his face as he looked out across the ocean. Trying to think of why his little girl would take her own life. For him, there was only one answer: She wouldn't.

'Marcus, the medical examiner, is about to take her away,' said Sergeant Gann Burlo. Burlo was a friend of the family since Foster's arrival five years ago.

Foster starred out at the serene beauty of the ocean and nodded silently. Burlo moved to speak – but felt awkward breaking the silence.

He turned to head back to the police Land Rover that waited for him.

'Gann, are you putting this down to suicide?' Foster asked without turning to look at his friend.

'I will wait to see what the medical examiner finds, but everything points to that, or just an accident. Why? Something we should know?' Burlo asked curiously.

Foster turned slowly and shook his head.

'Just so I can tell Martha. An accident would be better, knowing her little girl took her life would destroy her,' Foster said.

Burlo gave a sympathetic smile and nodded slowly. 'I'll let you know. But I think it was more likely to be an accident, but it's not for me to say I'm afraid. That's down to the medical examiner. But, out here late at night, and last night was pretty dark,' Burlo said.

Foster turned back to the view and sighed while Burlo returned to his car. Foster pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number.

'Hi Janis, it's Marcus Foster. Can you find me John Steel's number in New York?'

CHAPTERFOUR

It was eleven o'clock in the morning when a cell phone rang in a secure office. A man waited before answering the burner phone. He was sat in the dark – he preferred it that way. It helped him to think – and he had a lot to think about.

'Yes, what is it, Beta?' His voice was deep and emotionless. His voice rang with a hint of a Boston accent.

'He called someone – just now. He's getting outside help,' said the muffled voice of a man on the other end.

'Do we know who?' asked the man called Alpha.

'No, not yet.' Beta paused for a moment before speaking again. 'Could be that old army buddy he keeps talking about?'

'What – the cop?' asked Alpha before pausing for a moment as if weighing up this new information. 'It's possible, I guess. Keep tabs on the airlines. If his name pops, put a detail on him.'

The man known as Beta did not immediately reply – a response wasn't necessary. There was a moment of silence, then Beta broke it. 'And what about the other thing?'

'You know what to do – so, take care of it,' Alpha said and placed the handset back onto the cradle.

CHAPTERFIVE

John Steel had taken a cab back to his apartment. The ride was quiet and uneventful. The cabby had talked of most of the way, not that Steel had not taken much notice and had replied with some friendly-sounding grunts. As the yellow Ford pulled up outside the address, Steel paid then climbed out onto the sidewalk. Steel watched the cab car's taillights disappear into the mass of traffic that was moving slowly like some cumbersome beast.

Steel entered the vast brick monstrosity built in the 30 – all Redbrick and windows.

Steel considered it had more class than the modern steel and glass buildings. It had character. Like the Cromwellian mansion he had lived in back home in England. Unfortunately, Steel was the son of an Earl since his parent's murder years ago, which had passed to him and the family company. But Steel was not one for titles. He wasn't a businessman; he was a soldier, an investigator, and now a cop.

Steel was greeted by a doorman who tipped his cap to Steel and opened the door for him. Steel nodded a greeting and entered. He was home.

Inside, the lobby was filled with a white marble floor and high arched ceilings. The reception desk was topped with black marble, and the front was polished oak.

Steel walked over at the two men behind the desk, said his good mornings and retrieved his keys. Steel had thought that taking his keys may be a bad idea if things went wrong. Luckily, his instinct had been correct, and he saved himself a hefty fine for losing them. He took the elevator up, using the time to think.

Steel lived on the top floor, with a terrace view of the park and the city. As he opened the front door, the crisp conditioned air felt good against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the temperature change.

He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack near the door. As he did so, his eyes scanned the open-plan loft, and he gave a comfortable smile.

It was good to be home.

The loft was spacious, with polished oak flooring and a mix of modern and antique furniture. The white-painted walls held various works of art but no family photographs.

To the right, a staircase wound upwards to a mezzanine that was Steel's bedroom. Behind the twisting staircase was the open-plan kitchen, which lay beneath the mezzanine. Next to the kitchen was a long corridor which contained a bathroom and several other rooms.

Steel poured himself a large whisky from a drink's cabinet in a corner near a large panoramic window, a virtual wall of glass. After the night he'd had – he needed it. Steel stood at the window and watched as a shifting orange-watercolour sky bathed everything in a dark umber. He looked down at the view of Central Park and the city. It was possibly the only time he was thankful for the family money. It gave him the freedom to do what he wanted without restrictions and also guaranteed the best rooms of seats on flights. But it was also a reminder for him. Steel had survived the attack on the family estate. His family had not. He was alone in the world. But his pain gave him purpose. Steel had gone to New York to find those responsible. An organisation called SANTINI. But they had gone underground. Disappeared. But he knew he would see them again. It was just a matter of time. Steel thought about one of SANTINI's agents – a man called Mr Williams, who he had encountered on his first Mission with the NYPD, not that the cops were aware it was a mission. Mr Williams was – for Steel, the epitome of the term, the bad guy. He was as sadistic as they came but somehow had a sense of honour and charisma. Somehow, through their encounters against each other, they had formed strange mutual respect. Steel knew that Mr Williams had nothing to do with his family's murder, possibly, Williams only saving grace. Mr Williams had also disappeared from the limelight. But Steel knew they would be back.

Steel felt tired. Drained. He took a sip from the whisky and stared out across the horizon.

He had been in one place too long, and it was starting to get to him.

Steel sighed. He loved the city and working with the team.

But it wasn't him.

This wasn't his life.

It was a mission that had gone on for too long.

Steel walked towards the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine. The machine gave an electronic whir before it began processing the mix of coffee grinds and hot water. It would take ten minutes before the brew would be ready – time enough for him to shower and freshen up.

It was five in the morning. Steel knew he had a couple of hours before he had to be back at the precinct. The truth was, Brant would be happy if he did not show, and as it was, Steel did not feel much like going in anyway. He had risked his neck again and not gotten so much as a thank you for it. Sure, Steel wasn't a glory hound. He did not care if that asshole Addams got the credit for it. But, all he had gotten was shit for it. And that was beginning to wear thin.

Steel downed the whisky and headed for the corridor and the bathroom.

He had to freshen up before heading off to the precinct.

Steel pulled off his shirt as he headed for the bathroom and kicked off his Bugatti shoes, leaving them lying at the bathroom door entrance.

It had been a long night, from which he was still hurting.

Flying into a guy at was going to leave a mark –it had, several in fact. He was bruised and scratched – but alive.

Steel pushed the door open and stumbled inside the bathroom.

It was a big room – possibly the size of most people's bedrooms. Gold Antique Limestone covered the walls and floor. Oak vanities with brass fittings made a perfect addition. The walls and flooring had an Egyptian feel, inspired by the tales of Cleopatra. At the far end of the room was a bathtub made for two, and a double window next to it, with a fantastic view of Central Park.

Steel took off the rest of his clothes and draped them over the wicker clothes hamper next to the door. He looked out of the large window as he headed to the entrance of the wet room. This was a long narrow 6x5 foot space, with staked slate wall panels covering the inside walls and slate floor tiles. Above, a foot square showerhead hung from the ceiling and seven small LED lights zig-zagged across the top. The dividing panel was a foot-thick false wall, with a voice-activated thirty-two-inch monitor built into it.

A little treat he had installed so he could check on the news and watch movies. It also showed the view from the several cameras he had installed in the apartment, just on the off-chance Steel had uninvited guests while he is freshening up. There were two monitors fixed back-to-back so that Steel could watch from both sides.

'Check emails,' Steel commanded in a raised voice. The screen blinked, and the display showed his email account. There was the usual junk mail; others were invitations to A-list parties. Parties that he had no time nor feel the need to attend. The remainder was from a man called Hendricks who in charge of Steel's company back in Britain while he was in the States. A company Steel's father had founded, and he had inherited. It was a billion-pound company that made everything from watches to the general public to weapon systems.

'Screen off,' Steel ordered. The screen went blank. He had neither the time nor the patients to respond to the emails. Steel knew they would wait a bit longer. Just until he was in a better frame of mind.

Steel walked to the shower controls, turned it on and stood back, waiting for that perfect temperature. Steam filled the area, and Steel moved to stand beneath the flow with his hands against the wall, his head down, letting the water slam against him, massaging his tight muscular but scared body. Steel's frame came from athletics and special assault courses more than gym work. He figured he needed to be flexible and nimble rather than a bulk of muscle, flexibility that had saved his life more than once. His thoughts were a million miles away. Back to another time, another place. Memories of that terrifying day in the garden of his own ancestral home when he lost everything. He could still hear the gunshots and feel the bullets' burning as they passed through him. Images flashed in his mind, but one lingered, the face of his wife as the life faded from her eyes.

The sound of his apartments phone ringing pulled him back to the present but left him slightly disorientated. He shook his head and stared at his reflection on the monitor.

'Phone,' Steel said. Then turned off the shower.

'Hi John, it's Marcus,' Steel listened as he walked out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Marcus Foster. A name he hadn't heard for years. The two men had been in the service together, the best of friends. More than friends, more like brothers. But something had forced Steel away, and they had lost contact – until now.

'Marcus, it's been a long time,' Steel said as he sat on the edge of the bathtub.

'Too long, man,' Marcus replied. His tone was trying to be emotionless, but there was a hint of sadness.

'Look, Marcus, I'm sorry about disappearing, something from my past….it.'

'Hey, I get it. I read the file. Shit, I would have done the same thing,' Marcus said.

'We good?' Steel asked.

'Always, man,' Marcus replied.

There was a moment of silence. Steel fought to find what to say next. He had to say something. The guy had tracked him down after all those years – then it hit him. Why? After five years, why had Foster decided to call?

'So, what's new at your end?' Steel said. He did not want to come straight out with the question he had on his mind. Steel thought it best just let Foster tell him.

'Oh, not much. I was going through some old photographs of when we were in the TEAMs together. Found one of us when we were in Serbia, you, me, Taylor, Baker, even Dickson was in it, you remember Dickson? Man, that was a shitty war,' Foster said. His voice trailing off slightly as though he remembered something.

'Yes, but we managed to have a laugh from time to time,' Steel replied. Waiting for Foster to get to the point.

'Yeah, so, I saw these and thought I'd look you up,' Foster's tone was trying to be calm and happy, but Steel could tell he was hiding something.

The mention of Serbia was the key. They had lost a couple of men back then, but there was one called Dickson that they had named their little sister because he was the youngest of them all.

He had been killed on a mission. There had been an intense firefight with enemy troops in the mountains. They had taken a few casualties, most of which were flesh wounds. After the firefight had ended, the team and re-organised. All except Dickson. After a search, they had found Dickson's body at the bottom of a nearby cliff.

Steel said nothing.

'Heard you become a cop in New York, you taking it easy or something?' Foster said.

'It has its moments. Besides, I heard you pulled a sweet deal and got a post in Malta. Who's arse did you have to kiss to get that?' Foster laughed. But Steel picked up on something in the shortness of his laughter.

Why did he mention Dickson? Why was he calling?

'You should come over; the sun would do you good. The family – .' Foster paused for a moment, leaving a second of awkward silence. 'The family would love to see you; I know Martha would.'

Steel felt a tightness in his chest at the mention of that name. His fingers touched the round scar on his left shoulder just under the collar bone. But something nagged at Steel. What had made Marcus Foster call him after years of silence. Steel rewound their conversation in his head, listened to every word once more in his head.

'Marcus – what's happened?' Steel asked, his voice was filled with concern.

A moment of terrible silence filled the air, then Steel heard Foster sob.

'Lucy…my little girl,' Foster began to talk but faltered at the last moment.

'Marcus, what is, what's happened to Lucy?'

'Steel, my little girl – she's – she's dead.'

'How? Was it an accident or –?'

'Can you come over? I know you're busy ‒' Foster's voice rang with urgency.

'Never too busy for family, I'll be over when I can,' Steel said. He would have asked more, but he knew it would be too painful.

'I’ll see you when you get here,’ Foster said. ‘And Steel…thanks.’ There was a click, followed by dead air.

Steel sat, staring into nothingness for a while. His fingers still feeling the rough edges of the scar. Steel’s thoughts wandered to another time – a happy time.

The Foster’s had been his second family. After the murder of his, family Steel had joined the SEAL’s to disappear. The organisation knew Steel was still alive. The news had confirmed that. So, the best he could do was vanish until he was ready. Sure, he had been recruited, but he had passed all the tests. Steel had been placed on Foster’s team, and they had just bonded. And they had been like brothers. But SANTINI had found Steel, and he knew he had to run before his team or Foster’s family got caught in the crossfire.

Steel stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was six-one of taught muscle. His cold deep, emerald green eyes locked onto the six angry-looking scares where the bullets had gone through. It was a strange configuration that the assassin had made. Steel’s old mentor had called it the mark of the phoenix. Steel just thought it looked ugly, like his eyes. Whatever they had done to him to save him had changed many things, including his eye colour. No one was sure what had happened to cause it to happen, but now, instead of pale blue, he was left with dark soulless green eyes.

Steel thought back to how the intruders had stormed the house and grounds, killing indiscriminately. Steel had taken out most of the intruders as he moved through his family home. Eventually, his search for his family led Steel to the attic.

One of the men had shot Steel six times, each round perfectly placed, not to kill him but to cause him the most pain before he bled out. But the old Japanese gardener had saved him, pulled him out of the attic and to safety. Steel remembered the operating room, the sounds of the machines that were keeping him alive. It had been a new memory. Before, he had just remembered waking up in the old gardener’s Japanese style home. But now, his memories were returning slowly.

He had been recruited during his time with the British special forces. But the incident with SANTINI at his home had intervened. It had been Joint Operations that had sent Steel to the SEALs. Primarily for training and to keep him out of the way until he was ready. Now, Steel was British Secret Service and undercover with the NYPD. His time with the 11th precinct had begun with a triple murder about a year ago. MI8’s curiosity with the case had been aroused because it had SANTINI’s mark all over it, so Steel was sent in.

But there had been no sign of the organisation recently. So, for Steel, it was time to move on.

There was a gentle beep from the coffee machine to signal that the function had finished. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the apartment. Steel turned to face the monitor. He knew what he had to do.

‘Phone. Captain Brant,’ Steel ordered. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of the auto dialling system. The noise of the phone ringing could be heard in overhead speakers before Brant eventually picked up.

‘Steel, what’s up? What you gone an’ done now?’ Brant’s gruff voice bellowed over the intercom.

‘Captain, I’d like to take some time off?’

‘Sure…when?’

‘Now,’ Steel said. ‘End call.’

Steel did not need questions; besides, he was only attached to the NYPD. It was only a courtesy he had asked in the first place. Steel stood up and walked to the washbasin, and began to pack his wash bag. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes fell upon the six-round scars that marked his body. He had been told that the shape resembled a bird – or Pheonix.

Steel had said they were full of crap.

Some said Steel was lucky, six shots and all of them missed vital organs. All of them were through and throughs, each left scar in its wake.

He hadn’t felt lucky at the time. The mercenary had been right behind Steel when he had fired. But even at close range, the shooter was a good shot. He knew what he was doing – he wanted Steel to suffer, probably did not expect him to survive.

Big mistake.

Steel went online and booked a last-minute flight from JFK to London and then a flight from Gatwick to Malta. It did not take Steel long to pack. He wouldn’t need many clothes as he wouldn’t be there long. If he did need anything, he’d just buy new there. A simple small-wheeled cabin bag with a few essentials was enough for now.

‘Only pack what you need,’ was what the British Army had always taught him. Steel smiled at the thought of his instructor at Hereford drilling that idea into their heads as they got ready for a training exercise in the unforgiving Welsh Brecon Beacons. But that seemed a long time ago now. Steel was thirty-six years old, but he’d been through a lot in a short space of time. Steel had done two years with the Commando Royal Engineers of the British Army before passing selection with the SAS. He had done four years with the SAS, with plenty of overseas tours. Unfortunately, his last tour of duty, which had been in Bosnia, had been the best and the worst. It had been his homecoming from that tour that had seen the slaughter of his family. The reason he had been in hiding for six months in Alaska. But an incident had brought him face to face with his next commanding officer – Colonel Grant of the US Navy SEAL teams.

Life had thrown Steel about, that was for sure. But he survived.

In his five years with the teams, he disappeared again. SANTINI had found him, and MI8 was waiting to snatch him up. He was ready.

As much as he did not want to admit it, it was beginning to tell on his body. But trained as much as he could, keeping himself fit and nimble.

Steel pulled on a black T-shirt, black jeans. And slipped on a pair of military-grade short boots. In a small case, he packed extra t-shirts and enough underwear to tide him over and a black shirt and suit, just in case the hotel restaurant had a dinner dress code. He figured he could buy clothes as he needed them, thinking Malta would have some decent stores to shop at.

He left the bedroom and headed for a room at the end of the hallway. Next to the door was a keypad. He punched in a number, and the door clicked open. As he entered, the light came on automatically. It was a twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot, sterile white room. There were no windows and only one entry. Shelving ran along the left-hand wall; this was made from black metal with green felt cushioning. The shelving held pistols and rifles of different calibres laid out. There were electronic devices, cell phones and watches. Several pairs of sunglasses sat on wireless charges along with containers with contact lenses inside. Gadgets of the trade. All of which had saved his arse more than once. The sunglasses did not just hide Steel’s menacing green eyes from the world, but they were also connected to an MI8 HUB via his watch and cell phone. The right had wall held unique clothing, one of which had a temperature control so he could endure heat or cold. But despite all of the toys, Steel relied on his wits and training. He could not always rely on the gear. If it broke down or was lost, he would have to adapt.

Steel picked up one pair of glasses, a cell phone and packed a set of contact lenses into his bag. He checked he had everything, then closed the door and sealed the room.

Steel took a black leather jacket from the coat rack and pulled it on. He looked around at his apartment and smiled as he pulled on his sunglasses. Steel knew he had to inform Whitehall as to what was going on sooner or later. Steel pulled out his cell phone and texted the office.

Gone to see Marcus Foster in Malta, please send a welcome pack. Back soon.

CHAPTERSIX

Forest travelled south-east on the long and winding road from the San Lawrenz, stopping in Victoria’s city at the heart of Gozo. As he drank deeply from a newly purchased bottle of water, he looked around the town. Time could have stopped here in the 1930s. If only time could have stopped before Lucy died. The air thick and humid. Foster was reminded of bringing his daughters here when they were little girls and felt the loss deeply.

Foster remembered the day trips they used to take to Gozo when they first came here. He smiled, clinging to the memory. The horn of a car pulled him back, and the smile faded.

With another bottle of water in hand, he returned to his car, headed to the quaint coastal village of Mgarr and the only route to Malta. As he drove onto the ferry, he could feel the temperature change. The coolness of the interior was a blessing; Gozo had been hot.

The ferry took around twenty-five minutes to reach Cirkewwa on Malta itself. Just enough time to grab a coffee from one of the onboard kiosks.

The sun was unforgiving, and the lack of a cold breeze made it worse. Foster used to laugh how the guy he replaced would complain about the heat. Foster knew what twenty-five degrees felt like in New York. It was nothing. But on Malt, even the heat was different. Twenty-five in Malta could feel like fifty.

Foster opened his car door and left it open for a moment, allowing some of the dry heat to escape from the vehicle before he got into it. He wasn’t in a rush; his boss had given him time off, given the circumstance. He leaned against his car and took a draw from a cigarette, anything to calm him for the drive home. It was that or drink. Smoking seemed the safer option.

He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started it. Foster waited before moving off, allowing the sweet, cooled air to circulate from the car's air-conditioner. The drive back home would take a few hours over the harsh but beautiful countryside due to some narrow roads and bad drivers. Foster put the car into drive and headed off. He had no idea how he was going to break the news to his wife. Lucy was the eldest of his two daughters by ten years, but the two girls had always been close. He feared this news would crush Abby.

His mood made the journey back home seem longer. How could Foster tell his family what had happened when he didn’t even know? He checked his watch. It was early afternoon, and the sun was high in the cloudless sky. He had stopped several times to gather his thoughts and to delay the inevitable.

Foster felt a sort of relief. Steel was on the way, and he would do what he could not. Foster would ask Steel to investigate what had happened to Lucy. This would be off the books, so he could not risk the Bureau finding out.

This was a difficult time, and he needed Steel here, someone he could trust. The two men had been in the same unit. They had been through hell and back. Steel had said he would catch the next available flight, but that could be anytime. Foster figured Steel would transfer in London and hoped for a quick turnaround, though flights did not always work out that way. He knew Steel would be here as soon as he could.

Foster knew Steel better than most. He could be a cold bastard. That’s what made him good at what he did. Cold and calculated, but also as loyal and protective about his family.

Steel had saved Foster’s life more times than he’d care to remember.

Which made Steel perfect as Lucy’s godfather and Foster thought it only fitting. He knows what had happened.

Foster felt better when Steel had said he was coming over. Steel was always big on taking care of people who meant a lot to him. Since the tragedy of losing his own family in a brutal murder, Steel had come to think of the Foster’s as family. As for the men who had killed his family, those Steel had found, Foster had imagined, went screaming.

Foster finally pulled into his driveway and parked. He turned the engine off and just sat. His gaze fixed on the large house. His large hands gripped the steering wheel, causing the covering to creak under pressure. He sucked in a large gulp of air and got out of the car.

It was time.

CHAPTERSEVEN

The secure office phone rang. The Alpha waited, then picked up the receiver.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘We were right. It’s the cop,’ said Beta.

‘When is he leaving?’

‘He already left. He’ll change in London then getting a direct flight. He should be here tomorrow,’ said Beta.

Alpha said nothing. He breathed slowly, letting his brain calculate.

‘Is the detail ready?’ Alpha asked at length.

‘Yes, they have the flight number,’ Beta replied.

‘Tell them not to engage. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention. If he’s here for the girl, we can work around it,’ said Alpha.

‘And what about our orders, I thought —’

‘I make the decisions here. If it comes to it, then yes, but we can’t risk unnecessary action, not until we know.’ Alpha’s voice was stern. How dare Beta talk to him like that? He was in charge.

‘Sorry, I – misspoke,’ said Beta.

‘Very well. You know the plan. That is what matters when we‒.’ Alpha paused for what did not need saying. ‘‒The mission comes first. You can deal with the policeman later.’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Beta.

CHAPTEREIGHT

‘Anyone can rough it,’ his old sergeant had always told Steel.

Words to live by.

It was going to be a long flight, so he knew he might as well make the most of it.

Business-class all the way.

The plane was a Boeing 777. A big old bird with seats he could relax into and not require a shoehorn to get out of. Steel was not one for pomp and ceremony, even though his father, the Earl, would insist from time to time. Given that it was a long flight and needed to be fresh when he arrived, the business class suited him fine.

Most in his financial situation would have gone first class but on a different floor with no exits.

It was an enclosed bubble on top of the aircraft, with no means of a tactical advantage. And besides, Steel wasn’t a first-class kind of guy.

Steel had taken a flight from JFK to London Gatwick. From there, he took a direct flight to Malta. For him, time was of the essence, but unfortunately, the airlines had their own schedule. Steel had sent Foster an email giving him timings and flight numbers. Foster had offered to pick Steel at the airport, but Steel had said he would take a cab. Give Foster some time with his family. In reality, Steel did not think Foster would be in any shape to drive, given the circumstances. No, he would get a local taxi and take the time to think things through.

Steel felt terrible that they hadn’t spoken in a long time, and he blamed himself for that. But when Steel had found SANTINI had discovered where he was, Steel needed to distance himself for everyone he cared about. But he had done it too late, and his team was ambushed on a fake mission. Many escaped, but not all.

Once Steel was in the secret service, he was put onto missions all over the globe. But a lot of his time was spent hunting the group who had killed his family. It had almost consumed him – then he was integrated into the NYPD.

He’d never forgotten those he had left behind, especially the Fosters, who had been his second family.

When Steel had thought it was best to put as much distance between him and them, hoping what had happened to his family, he wouldn’t happen the Foster’s.

Steel made himself comfortable and waited for the plane to take off. Once airborne, the passengers were free to use the internet. He needed to know what he was walking into. First, he would email the office in Whitehall, give them the facts, ask for any information relevant to Foster or his family. Next, he would check the local Maltese papers online, find out what was what.

This could be an accident or murder. Either way, Steel needed facts.

There was a roar from the engines as they began to taxi. One of the flight attendants was bringing round glasses of champagne or wine. Steel chose the champagne and sipped it slowly. Soon they would be in the air, and Steel’s investigation could begin.

The flight landed late afternoon at the Malta International Airport the next day. The sun was high, with a few wisps of clouds covering the perfect blue sky. As Steel edged to the door, he braced himself for the sudden change in temperature. They would be going from air-conditioned twelve degrees to a roasting thirty-five in less than a second. Steel adjusted his wraparound sunglasses. He smiled at the attractive black-haired stewardess by the door.

‘Enjoy your stay, sir,’ said with a voice that made Steel week at the knees.

‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something to amuse myself,’ Steel said, still wearing the seductive smile. The airport was large – nothing compared to JFK, but big enough to accommodate the thousands of tourists. Steel took out his cell phone and sent a message to Foster that he had arrived safely and the name of the hotel he would be staying in.

Foster just gave a simple emoji of a thumbs up. Steel cracked a smile, then place his phone away.

Stepping out into the blazing afternoon sun, a warm breeze swept across Steel’s face as he scanned the faces of the waiting drivers. Some held up name cards, and others indicated the holiday service they were there for.

Near the exit was a booth with a sign for Taxi Service. Next to it was a board with different locations and the set price. Steel located the price for Valletta and took out a twenty euro note. He paid his money to a woman with long black hair, a beautiful face strained by the pressure of her job. She took the cash, passed Steel a ticket and told him to wait until his number came up. The woman was calling out numbers, and tourists moved to their waiting transport. After a short while, another number was called over a tannoy. ‘Number twenty.’ Steel checked the number on his ticket and ventured into the brightness and warmth of the outside.

Steel looked around until he saw a man leaning against the wall of the airport. The man was peeling an orange into a waste bin and whistling an unidentifiable tune. Steel walked past the local drivers who were pitching to him, calling out ‘cheap taxi, cheap taxi’, Steel kept on walking until he reached the man with the orange.

‘I take it you’re my ride?’ Steel asked, watching the man shove a large piece of the fruit into his mouth.

‘How’d ya figure that’?’ the man replied in an East London accent.

‘Because you’re the only one whose not bothering me, which means you work for the firm,’ Steel said with a smile. ‘or I might be wrong, and your just some bloke eating fruit.’ The cabbie laughed and ushered Steel to follow. Steel followed the man to the parking area – which wasn’t too far from the terminal.

‘I’m Stan,’ the man said, offering Steel a handshake.

‘John,’ Steel replied, shaking Stan’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Stan.’

‘So, where we goin?’ Stan asked before sticking another slice of orange into his mouth.

‘The Grand Excelsior in Vallette.’ Stan nodded as if complimenting Steel on his choice.

They walked in silence, measuring one another up.

Stan headed towards a red minibus. Though a few years old, it looked in good condition. Well cared for and maintained.

Steel thought the passenger windows had a smoked tint on them – for the passengers’ comfort. He just hoped it had an air-conditioner.

‘What, no black cab?’ Steel asked with a grin.

‘Na, they wouldn’t let me bring one,’ the driver replied with a disappointed look.

Steel could not be sure if the man was joking or not - but smiled all the same.

Stan looked at Steel and the small bag he was carrying.

‘Not stayin,’ then?’ Stan said.

‘Don’t know yet, could be… life is full of surprises.’

‘And you don’t like surprises, I take it?’ Stan laughed.

‘Depends on what they are?’ Steel shrugged and got into the bus, placing the small case next to him. Stan smiled to himself and climbed into the driver’s side, then started the engine.

Stan was a short man in his late fifties. He had a shiny, shaved head with gold-rimmed sunglasses that perched on a button nose. He was slightly paunchy from too much good food, most of which was hidden beneath an awful Hawaiian shirt.

‘Where you from?’ Stan asked, looking in the rear-view mirror. However, before Steel had a chance to answer, Stan was interrupting with fun facts.

The rest of the journey was quite the same, a question followed by a fact or reference to something. Steel smiled, a London cabbie in Malta, acting as a London cabbie.

Steel was glad he did not have to talk. All he wanted was to get to the hotel, grab a refreshing shower and possibly a cold mojito.

The main roads winded up and down, left and right – like a long concrete roller coaster. The road narrowed in places and hugging the sides of hills while huge drops on the sides. The snaking routes followed the landscape’s contours, taking them past breath-taking rugged scenery and small villages.

The air was thin and hot despite the vehicle’s aircon.

Steel noticed the change in scenery the closer they got to the city. How houses that fitted into the early thirties blended in with the modern golf club and horse racing track. Olive groves and vineyards sat next to roads, adding a bit of green to the dry, arid landscape. It was a beautiful medley that he looked forward to seeing more. Steel also noticed Stan was texting a lot, which was possibly nothing, so Steel put it to the back of his mind.

They travelled along the Triq Nazzjonali highway, which then turned into the Triq Sant’ Anna and Valletta, the capital city. Steel looked in fascination at the mix of old and new architecture, but everything had the same style regardless of age. Some of the streets that went through the towns narrowed to being suicidal, but they soon opened out to give a fantastic view.

Stan turned off Triq Sant’ Anna and followed Triq L-AssedJu L-Kbir towards the coast and the hotel entrance. Through the bustling city, full of tourists and shoppers. The view from his window getting more fantastic.

There were parks, ancient buildings, palm trees and the never-ending blue sky. Steel looked at the street name, which read ‘Great Siege Road.’ And he wondered what had happened in the island’s history to warrant such a name.

Steel had to admit he wasn’t the greatest when it came to the history of a place. The truth was he never needed to do that kind of research. Most of Steel’s research pertained to a job, or a person, never the past deeds of a country or city.

The realisation that he knew very little about the places he had visited saddened Steel. He knew the city’s tactical layouts, the best and fastest routes in and out, entry and exit strategies. Where the police stations were, how far to the airport or harbour.

But he never studied the history of a place.

Steel promised himself, while he was on the trip, he would change that. If he had time.

Perhaps, once he was sure Forster was safe, he would stay longer and have an actual holiday. Steel knew he wouldn’t be missed at the 11th Precinct. Captain Brant would be the first to encourage Steel to stay away for as long as possible. McCall, however, would be a different story. Steel had grown fond of their love-hate relationship, but he knew once he was gone, he’d be forgotten.

The cab turned left onto Triq Vincenzo Dimech. Then Stan took a sharp right and onto the hotel’s driveway. This continued down a driveway until it came to the large circular courtyard of the Grand Hotel Excelsior Malta’s main entrance.

Steel sat for a moment and looked out of the passenger window at the grand structure. Its looming white walls towered high above. Stan had parked at the entranceway under a colossal veranda, which sheltered them from the overwhelming sunlight.

Steel got out of the minibus and leaned through the open window of the passenger side. Steel handed the Stan fifteen euros tip and nodded with a smile. Stan returned the smile and gave a short salute before skipping back to the driver’s side.

‘You got a card just in case I need you again?’ Steel asked, leaning on the open driver’s side window. Stan took a card from a stack that was in the cup holder next to the gear shift. Steel took it and looked at the business card. Stan FalanTaxi, andbelow that was the telephone number. Steel placed it into his jacket pocket and stepped back from the vehicle as Stan took off. Steel grabbed his case and headed inside via the large glass entrance doors.

Inside was crisp with a fresh breeze provided by the air-conditioner, causing Steel to shiver slightly with the temperature change.

The hotel lobby was large and elegant, a long red carpet stretched across a polished marble floor. The ground level looked as grand as its name. Above, two lavish chandeliers sparkled overhead as the light was reflected through a thousand cut glass jewels. To the left was the concierge’s desk, and the check-in desk was around the corner from that. Two arched red-carpeted stairways led to the first floor. Beyond where the staircases met were the bar, seating area, and the downward stairwell that led to the dining room, which sat parallel with the front entrance.

As Steel stood in the lobby, he took note of the people. Most were rushing here and there, while others sat staring at their electronic devices, making the most of the free WIFI. An elderly couple sat near the entrance clutching camera bags, eyes wide with anticipation of the tour bus’s arrival.

A doorman wearing a grey waistcoat, the hotel’s logo on the breast pocket, took Steel’s bags and followed him towards reception. As they approached the desk, Steel noticed two men stepping out of the elevator.

The men both looked in their fifties. The taller had the look of wall street about him, the other, the bearing of a company man, CIA, or one of those three-letter agencies. The grey suits were similar, but Steel would bet there was a hefty price difference between them.

Steel noted a laminated pass hung around the tall man’s neck. It bore the man’s photograph and ArmourCraft Industries in bold red letters. The left side held a graphic representation of a black horse’s head.

Steel figured this was the firm’s logo – a simple design that had an ancient Greco-Roman feel. The kind of design found on a shield or banner.

As Steel stood in the line of people waiting to check in. The two men passed close by. Close enough for Steel to catch a small part of their heated conversation.

‘Everything is going to plan. Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of,’ said the smaller man.

The large man had an angry, bore a disbelieving look.

‘We have a lot of money riding on this. If we go down… so do you,’ the tall man threatened.