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Danny Shanklin wakes up slumped across a table in a London hotel room he's never seen before. He's wearing a black balaclava, a red tracksuit and a brand new pair of Nikes. There's a faceless dead man on the floor and Danny's got a high-powered rifle strapped to his hands. He hears sirens and stumbles to the window to see a burning limousine and bodies all over the street. The police are closing in. He's been set up. They're coming for him...With only his tech support friend, the Kid, for backup, Danny sets out on a nail-biting odyssey though the panicked city streets, in a desperate bid to escape, protect the people he loves, and track down the terrorists who set him up - and make them pay. But with 500,000 CCTV cameras, 33,000 cops, 9 intelligence agencies, and dozens of TV news channels all hot on his tail, just how long will THIS one innocent man be able to survive?'
He checked the man’s wrists. No watch. Then something else caught his eye. Just there, where the bloodstained shirt had been torn open, in what Danny could only assume had been some attempt to revive him. Danny jerked the shirt wider. A USB data stick hung from a cord around the dead man’s neck. Something for the Kid … But even in the act of reaching out to grab it, Danny’s fingers froze. First the swipe card and now this … Not one mistake, but two. Both items might have been left here
cherry-picked for the job. An ex-CIA operative who now worked for money. Forget that Danny was choosy as hell who he worked for, the rest of the world would no doubt consider him a perfectly plausible assassin for whatever high-profile Georgian had been killed in that car. And for the mayhem that had come with it too. You’re here because it will be easy to hang the blame on you … For what I’m about to do … ‘Yeah, asshole, well we’ll soon see about that.’ ‘What?’ Danny hadn’t even realized
pouring it into a glass of crackling ice. Too slowly. ‘I’ll do that,’ Danny said, gripping the bottle. ‘Sure.’ The waitress let the bottle go. ‘Your food won’t be long,’ she said. As Danny lifted the bottle to his lips and started to drink, his stomach twisted with fresh discomfort, the icy-cold liquid burning like whisky as it poured down his throat. He noticed the waitress staring. Probably at the bruise forming on his cheek below his left eye, he guessed. A reminder of his encounter with
stranger had given him had pushed the knife further from the slot through which Danny had initially inserted it. So that he now had to flex his back and arms almost to breaking point each time he attempted to edge its grip back towards the opening. He had to be careful. So careful. Because each time he moved, he risked alerting the stranger. The duct tape tugged at the hairs on his arms. Fresh pain cut through him as the cut in his side opened and wept like a clam. The stranger was a dark,
of the building from where Danny now crouched beside Lexie in the inky blackness of a bramble patch. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back.’ He could hear the aircraft engine reaching its climax. It had to be starting its run. He cornered the building at a sprint, just in time to see the Cessna building up speed across the uneven ground. He targeted a point two-thirds of the way along the runway and ran towards it. He slowed as the plane drew level, and raised the Glock with both hands. He