Final Target
The old ways die hard…A gripping thriller full of shocking twists from E. V. Seymour, perfect for fans of Mark Dawson, Lee Child and David Baldacci.There’s always one who gets away…Ex-assassin Josh Thane has given up his life of murder and bloodshed and gone to ground in London. But when glamorous MI5 agent, McCallan, needs his help with a dangerous operation in Berlin, Josh can’t resist being pulled back into the game.Soon he realises that a deadly organization is out not just to get him but those closest to him. As crime bosses and intelligence officers are picked off one by one, McCallen disappears and Josh is faced with a choice that could make this mission his last: either he walks into the trap set for him, or McCallen dies.
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First published in Great Britain by Cutting Edge Press 2014
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Eve Seymour 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Eve Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008271718
Version: 2017-09-21
For Susie Davis, my friend, writer-in-arms and the only woman on the planet who makes me laugh out loud.
Contents
As soon as the lights went out I knew I was in trouble. Power cut, blown fuse, act of God â happens to honest folk. My dirty past ensured a different scenario. I was a cigarette paper away from a hole in the head.
Streetlight ghosting through the window made my body a perfect target. I stepped away from the door and dropped down onto the floor, belly-low. Unarmed, fear stuck like a chisel in my chest. At any second I expected the stutter of gunfire, the shatter of glass, the room stitched with metal. Game over.
Black seconds thudded past.
Killer-calm, I went through the moves. My prospective tenant hadnât yet shown. Booked through an agent, the elusive Miss Armstrong could only view my rental property after work. The lady was, allegedly, hardworking and couldnât spare time during the working day. From my new perspective on the floor, it seemed that she was the bait for someone out to get me, and there were dozens of possibilities. Odds-on my attacker was a hired assassin, someone whoâd filled the void Iâd left behind and, if he didnât shoot within the next five seconds, he was on his way in. Iâd always preferred to get up close and personal. It was a fair bet that he was cast in the same mould.
Eyes adjusting to the darkness, I used my elbows for traction and scooted across the carpet to the kitchen. A knife offered little protection against a gun, but it made me feel more secure. It was also possible that Iâd strike lucky. I didnât intend to die without a fight.
Cracking the door open, I slid inside. Windowless, the room pooled with dark, shifting shadows and that gave me an advantage. In one swift movement, I stood up, reached out, swiped the biggest knife from the block and stepped behind the door. Mute, breath sucked in, I waited.
âHex, is that you?â
I froze, peered dead ahead, exploring the darkness. The mention of my soubriquet, known only to a favoured few, sounded at once intimate and incongruous.
âMcCallen?â
âApologies for the subterfuge.â
I donât like surprises. One moment I believe death is about to wave me through its checkpoint, the next the only woman who has ever truly fascinated me rocks up and wants to play games. Displeasure gave a cutting edge to my voice. âIs this your idea of a joke?â
