Stalkers
Get #HookedonHeck with the first book in the #1 bestselling DS Mark Heckenburg series."All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work."Detective Sergeant Mark 'Heck' Heckenburg is investigating the disappearance of 38 different women. Each one was happy and successful until they vanished without a trace.Desperate to find her missing sister, Lauren Wraxford seeks out Heck’s help. Together they enter a seedy underworld of gangsters and organised crime.But when they hear rumours about the so-called 'Nice Guys Club' they hit a brick wall. They're the gang that no one will talk about. Because the Nice Guys can arrange anything you want. Provided you pay the price…Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and Katia Lief looking over their shoulder.
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Copyright © Paul Finch 2013
Paul Finch 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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Source ISBN: 9780007492299
Ebook Edition © February 2013 ISBN: 9780007492305
Version: 2018-10-02
For Mum and Dad, whose encouragement never flagged
Contents
The night before, they met up one final time to go through the plan.
They were consummate professionals. Each one of them knew his role to the last. Nothing had been left to chance: theyâd researched the target thoroughly; any possible glitch had been considered and accounted for. Timing would be all-important, but as theyâd rehearsed exhaustively there were no real concerns. Of course, the target wouldnât be keeping to a schedule, so there were potential problems there. But theyâd be in full contact with each other throughout by phone, and one of the things experience had taught them was how to think on their feet and, if necessary, improvise. Another was patience. If the schedule slipped drastically, to the point where there might be genuine variables to deal with, theyâd withdraw, regroup and move again on a later date.
It was always best to keep things safe and simple. But good planning was the whole thing: gathering intelligence, assimilating it and then striking at exactly the right moment with speed and practised precision. And in many ways that was its own reward. As job satisfaction went, there was nothing quite like it.
After theyâd run things through a couple of times, they treated themselves to a drink; a bottle of thirty-year-old Glen Albyn bought with the proceeds of the last mission. And while they drank, they destroyed all the data theyâd accumulated during the prep: written documentation, drawn plans, photographs, timetables, tapes containing audio information, memory sticks loaded with footage shot by mobile phones or digital cameras. They placed it all in a brazier, on top of logs and kindling, doused it with lighter-fluid and torched it.
On the off-chance something did go wrong and they had to start the whole process again â the trailing, the observing, the intelligence-gathering â they would do it without question or complaint. Proficiency was all; they didnât believe in taking shortcuts. In any case, with minds as focused as theirs, much of the key detail would be retained in their memories. Theyâd only had to delay things once previously, and on that occasion the second run had been much easier than the first.
As they watched it all burn, the hot sparks spiralling into the night sky, they slapped each otherâs shoulders and drank toasts: for good luck â which they wouldnât need; and for the catch â which theyâd enjoy as much as the chase. Theyâd almost finished the Glen Albyn, but if they woke up in the morning with muzzy heads, it wouldnât matter: the mission was only due to commence late in the day. Theyâd be fine. They were on form, on top of their game, a well-oiled machine. And of course it would help that the target didnât have an inkling and would get up with the alarm clock, prepared for nothing more than another routine day.
That was the way most women seemed to live. How often it was their undoing.
There was something innately relaxing about Friday evenings in London.
They were especially pleasant in late August. As five oâclock came and went, and the minute hand progressed steadily around towards six, you could feel the city unwinding beneath the balmy, dust-filled sky. The chaos of its streets was as wild and noisy as ever â the rivers of traffic flowed and tooted, the sidewalks thronged with bustling pedestrians â yet the âgrumpâ was absent. People were still rushing, yes, but now they were rushing to get somewhere where they wanted to be, not because they were on a time-clock.
