A Jack Tate SAS Thriller. Alex Shaw

chief’s nostrils flared, but his tone remained neutral. ‘You are doing what, exactly, during your vacation here?’

      ‘Driving around, taking in the sights.’

      ‘How long do you plan to be in the US for?’

      ‘Like it says on my car rental agreement, a month.’

      ‘That’s a long vacation.’

      ‘There’s a lot to see.’

      ‘Did you serve, Mr Tate?’

      ‘You mean like a waiter?’

      Donoghue pursed his lips. ‘You know what I mean.’

      Tate shrugged again. ‘You’ve got my details and my prints. I imagine that you’ll have a pretty good file on me soon enough.’

      ‘Is that how you want to play this? Really?’ Donoghue’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful, Mr Tate?’

      Tate sighed. ‘Yes, I served.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Afghanistan.’

      ‘Infantry?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘See much action?’

      ‘More than I would have liked. What am I being charged with?’

      ‘Nothing at the moment, apart from driving in excess of the speed limit.’

      ‘So why haven’t I been read my rights?’

      ‘You may or you may not be aware that the Amended PATRIOT Act provides me with increased powers to hold and question “persons of interest” without charge. You, Mr Tate, are a person of interest.’

      ‘I’m honoured you find me so interesting, but I still don’t know what this is all about.’

      ‘OK.’ Donoghue pursed his lips again. ‘At lunchtime today, a prominent local resident was murdered. It looks like a contract killing. A single shot was fired. I’m still awaiting confirmation on the type of round used, but it was pretty big – we believe some sort of sniper rifle.’

      Tate’s eyebrows rose. It was something serious. ‘And you think I have something to do with this?’

      ‘Something, or maybe nothing, or maybe everything. An SUV, like the one you were driving, was seen leaving the area. A surveillance camera captured a suspect fitting your description.’

      ‘Who was the murder victim?’

      ‘A retired senator by the name of Clifford Piper; you ever heard of him?’

      Tate shook his head. The only Piper that flashed in his mind was the wrestler – “Rowdy” Roddy Piper.

      ‘His wife was killed last year in a terrorist attack. He retired afterwards.’

      Tate vaguely remembered the headlines. ‘I’ve never heard of him, and I wasn’t there. My SUV has a tracker, and you can check that against your intel.’

      ‘Intel?’

      ‘Your reports.’

      ‘Yep, see, I know what “intel” means. I’m just surprised that you’d use that term. I don’t think you are who you say you are, Mr Tate.’

      ‘So you are going to hold me until what, you decide that I didn’t shoot a senator with a Barrett?’

      ‘Who said anything about a Barrett, Mr Tate?’

      Tate remained silent for a moment; he was tired and snappy. ‘It’s the most reliable 0.50 rifle, in my opinion, and it’s what I’d use if I wanted to make sure of hitting a target with one round. One large round. There’s a pretty good suppressor available for it too, and in a semi-urban environment you want to make as little noise as possible.’

      ‘Ha,’ Donoghue said with a knowing nod.

      Tate was getting bored; he wanted to be on his way. ‘You don’t have the murder weapon – just a large hole and a deformed round. And the fact that you didn’t mention anyone as having heard the shot leads me to believe that the shooter used a suppressor. A 0.50 calibre makes a hell of a bang without one.’

      ‘What did you do in Afghanistan, Mr Tate?’

      ‘I soldiered.’

      ‘What exactly did you do in Afghanistan?’

      ‘I can’t tell you.’

      ‘Oh, yes you can. Weren’t you listening to me? The Amended PATRIOT Act gives me—’

      Tate stood. ‘Yes, I heard.’

      Donoghue got to his feet with surprising speed. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going? Sit down!’

      The two men sized each other up, Donoghue incensed, Tate impassive. A loud knock on the office door, followed quickly by an officer entering the room broke the standoff.

      ‘Chief, this is urgent.’

      ‘On my way. Officer Kent, please escort Mr Tate back to his holding cell. He won’t be any trouble, will you, Tate?’

      ‘None at all,’ Tate said flatly.

       Chapter 2

       Camden, Maine

      Oleg Sokol gazed out over the waves and breathed in the fresh sea breeze. Camden was so different to his native Sochi, but the sea air smelled the same. He saw birds soar on thermals and smiled at the sound of their excited calls. Oleg’s surname “Sokol” meant falcon in Russian, and he too wished he could fly carefree and enjoy the beauty of the bay and the August sunshine, but alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Oleg’s time in Maine would abruptly end with the coming attack. Many innocent people, of course, would perhaps perish in the aftermath and although he did feel for them, there was nothing he could do, so it was not his concern. His concern was whether the technology he had helped design in the laboratory would work in the field.

      He watched a yacht out in the bay, its crew delightfully unaware that in thirty-eight hours the world as they knew it would vanish. Vanish for how long he did not know. Could the US rebuild, re-plug and reboot in six months, a year? He shook his head, as the vessel tacked to head south along the coast. Perhaps thirty-eight hours was all the crew had left.

      ‘Good afternoon.’ The voice that interrupted his thoughts was cheery.

      ‘Good afternoon,’ Oleg said.

      ‘Is that a Russian accent I detect there?’ the elderly woman asked.

      ‘Yes, it is.’ Oleg had once been a naturally friendly person. As a student learning English he had longed to meet native English speakers so he could practise, explore new words and improve his understanding. That Oleg would have been overjoyed to be overseas in the US. He would have been chatty and gregarious and engaging, but that was not the Oleg of today. He had a mission to conduct, and talking to anyone could put that at risk. He looked down at the old woman; her hair was ice white and immaculately styled. She wore a vivid pink blouse over equally bright, lime-green slacks, a sturdy pair of hiking boots, and a day sack on her back.

      ‘And what brings you here?’

      Camden was a town of only five thousand permanent residents, and each summer up to ten thousand more took up places in vacation homes and rentals. Yet even at the height of the tourist season it was all but impossible not to draw attention to himself. The locals were, like Oleg, naturally friendly people.

      ‘I am here just to relax for a while. I work in Washington, so it is nice to get away from the city.’

      The old woman smiled. ‘I love it