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PROLOGUE

HE HATED HER

He hated her high cheekbones He hated her perfect smile He hated the way her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders like a Rocky Mountain waterfall He hated her painted fingernails that had never known dirt He hated her ill-deserved confidence, wealth and station He hated her class and what it said about his country, butit all away

It was enough hate to make him want to kill her

But not yet Maybe never, if the price was right For noould watch He would weigh his decisions He had to think, because the stuck-up bitch had given him one more reason to hate her

She had changed her plans Plans that he had studied Plans that he’d assessed Plans that he’d used as the blueprint for his own concept of operations

No plan survived contact with the ene loudmouth was his enemy now A lesser eneher So her

And thenear

He watched fro room door, opened just a crack, as she chopped the cocaine into lines on a silver plate, using a metallic business card that she kept for the purpose, and snorted it through a cut-down drinking straw taken from the kitchen of her Chelsea apart, but the streamlined consumption of an addict

And what of that stick-thin apparition beside her? The tabloids and gossipman, she was a coked-up distraction – an enabler – and one that should have been on the other side of London

Still, addicts were not known for their adherence to schedules, and the man had planned for distractions In every crisis lay opportunity, and this ‘It Girl’ could prove either valuable or useful When trying to make a point of your deadly intent, it never hurt to have an extra head that you could cut from its shoulders The ainst her pencil-thin neck For a moment, he wondered if her red eyes were even capable of expressing fear, then snapped himself from his daydream

Yes, the ‘It Girl’ would provide an opportunity, if only one for pleasure But for now he cast his eyes back to his priet, pleased to see that the keta effect, the horse tranquilliser bringing the pair down fro them slumped heavily on a ten-thousand-pound sofa that was stained with red wine

It was time

The man stood He pushed open the door