The Englander. Connor Pierce, known as the Englander by his enemies - of which, he has many - stands by the freshly dug grave of his daughter. Behind him, assassins steal into the graveyard. It is time for the Englander to turn and face those who took the ones he loved.

‘Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge to cure this deadly grief.’ 

Macbeth by William Shakespeare

Prelude – The Englander by John Righten

4.55 am, New Year’s Day 1993, Burford, Oxfordshire, England

‘Fury,’ was all the woman said down the telephone.

The British Foreign Secretary, the Right Honourable Bernard Prestly, replaced the receiver and easing himself from his bed. ‘It begins.’ Entering the living room in his pyjamas, he pulled the bedroom door closed so as not to wake his wife. Turning on the computer, he pressed the keyboard’s delete key to activate the secure line.

The stern looking naval officer appeared on screen, ‘I’m sorry I called you so late Minister.’

‘Rachel Galbraith is dead?’ he replied.

Commander Stanford nodded. ‘I just picked up a message from the Irish Intelligence unit, Minister. The Wolves know it too. A hit squad of four landed in Cork a few hours ago. They disappeared before the Irish Rangers arrived.’

‘Your assessment was right,’ said the minister, tapping his fingers on his furrowed brow. ‘Unfortunately.’

8:30 am, 29 October 1992, Whitehall, London, England

Following a bomb blast on London’s Kings Road, Commander Stanford briefs the Foreign Secretary and members of the British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), in a windowless room in the Foreign Office. A young woman, Rachel Galbraith, sustained severe injuries, while an Italian nurse, Anita Ferranti, lost her life in the explosion.

‘I don’t see the need for the woman to be here,’ said Sir Algorene Smither, Deputy Head of MI6. Unlike most autocrats, he was known by his first name.

‘My rank is Commander, and I know Connor Pierce,’ replied Stanford. She stood to attention, surrounded by four men seated behind a huge semi-circular oak table.

‘Being associated with a known killer, such as the Englander, qualifies everything you say,’ said Algorene.

‘I’m not ‘associated’ with him, but I’ve met him and I know his methods.’

‘Will Pierce strike back at the Wolves?’ asked the minister.

‘Not as long as his daughter, Rachel, needs him. She will be his priority. He’s taken her to an orphanage run by his great aunt on the outskirts of Cork. He will nurse her until her death.’

‘Psychologist too?’ said Algorene. ‘Is there no end, or should it be beginning, to your talents?’ He straightened. ‘Pierce’s fiancée, an Italian nurse, was also killed in the blast. Vengeance or depression may override the caring father role.’

‘The young woman’s injuries are fatal?’ said the minister, acknowledging the news and shaking his head. The officer nodded. ‘How old is she?’

‘She just turned thirteen, Minister.’ He nodded. ‘I doubt she will see her next birthday.’

‘Nor will Pierce,’ said Algorene with a shrug. ‘The Wolves will have eliminated him by then.’

‘Not as long as his daughter lives,’ said Stanford.

‘Guess work,’ said Algorene. ‘Mind you, the Wolves may be in no rush to kill their nemesis, if it saves Pierce from the pain of watching his daughter’s slow, agonising death.’

Stanford’s jaw tightened. ‘You know far more than I on how killers think.’

‘It’s a dirty business,’ said Algorene. ‘I’d hate to see your pretty blonde head messed up.’

The minister interjected. ‘It’s not in our jurisdiction. It’s an Irish matter now.’

‘We have, when it’s in the national interest, operated overseas-’ began Algorene.

‘Not anymore,’ snapped the minister.

Algorene reclined in his chair, appearing indifferent, but the members of the Secret Intelligence Service sitting either side of him knew the tightening of his lips was the closest he came to a smile.

‘Commander, if you’re right and the Wolves refuse to act until the poor young woman dies, what happens when that day fateful day arrives?’

‘I believe-’ began the commander.

‘Again, straying into areas where you know nothing,’ huffed Algorene.

‘I’ve acknowledged that I’m not in your league, Sir, when an insight into the minds of cold-blooded killers is required,’ said the officer, staring at Algorene. ‘But your superior knowledge maybe due to you covertly commissioning them to–’

‘Stick to briefing,’ interjected the minister.

‘Apologies, Minister,’ said Stanford, ignoring Algorene’s scowl. ‘Upon hearing of Rachel’s death, the Gatekeepers-’

‘The cabal of five who lead the Wolves,’ said Algorene. He eyed the naval officer. ‘You see. We do know our business, miss. Oh! Forgive me, Commander.’

‘To protect themselves from the Englander, the Gatekeepers may decide to strike first, which would require them to raise the bounty on Connor Pierce themselves,’ continued Stanford.

‘Why?’ asked the minister.

‘There are more lucrative targets for the Wolves’ hit teams, and it’s easier to kill a defenceless victim on a street or a fleeing family than take on someone of Connor Pierce’s ferocious calibre on terrain that’s familiar to him. But the Gatekeepers are also mercenaries. They collect bounties rather than levy them, and will be in no hurry to up the ante to unleash a Wolves’ unit on the Englander until they have to. Plus, to do so now would require a direct assault on the orphanage.’

‘Why is that a factor?’ asked Algorene.

‘The Wolves have attracted too much media attention already. They are currently under investigation by the International Criminal Court in the Hague.’

‘You believe the Wolves will launch an attack only after the Englander leaves Ireland?’ He pondered. ‘If, as you say, Pierce embarks on his vendetta, there’s a good chance England will be his first stop. Still, he’s only one man, against an army of renown professional killers. It’s suicide.

‘Yes, Minister,’ said Stanford. ‘But we know the Englander’s track record. Every clash between him and the Wolves results in a high body count.’

Priestly nodded. ‘In the meantime, I would like you to monitor the situation and keep me informed of developments.’

‘Minister,’ snapped Algorene. ‘This is an MI6 matter and I will inform you of any event that deserves your attention.’ The minister was about to speak. Algorene raised his hand. ‘Minister, may I remind you that I have been working in the Intelligence Service for thirty-eight years. The Prime Minister, who I might add is a personal friend of mine, can remove you from your ministerial position.’

The minister doubted that the prime minister had friends, but he was aware of the threat Algorene posed to a politician’s ambitions. He also knew that if the Englander set foot on UK soil, he should be ready rather than relying on Algorene to brief him when it suited his personal agenda. ‘Of course, Algorene.’

Two hours later, Commander Stanford was sitting behind her desk in Admiralty House. Her favourite flower pot lay in pieces below the earth stain on the wall. She opened an envelope delivered by a courier that contained the minister’s personal telephone number and a message. ‘When hell opens, the code is Fury. BP.’

5 am, New Year’s Day 1993, Burford, Oxfordshire, England

‘You were right about the Wolves waiting until his daughter died, but you were wrong about them waiting until the Englander left the orphanage. Christ! How many children are there?’

‘Thirty or more,’ said Stanford. ‘But Pierce wouldn’t put the children at risk. I’d say he’d worked out the Wolves would immediately despatch a hit team and will try to lure them away from Marisa’s Arms.’

‘Marisa’s Arms?’

‘The orphanage is named after Pierce’s great aunt, who runs it.’

‘What then?’

‘Four to one, the odds are not good, but Pierce will be expecting them. It will be bloody.’

‘Is there some way we help the Irish?’

‘Send them extra body bags.’

‘Humour is not my strong point at the best of times, let alone at five in the morning. Your confidence in Pierce’s prowess is based on a man you knew a year ago. He will not be the same man since his loss.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll contact the members of the Cobra Committee and ask them to raise the national security rating to high alert.

‘You believe it’s that serious, Minister?’

‘If Pierce survives, yes. Cobra’s role is to respond to acts that have national implications, and I judge the threat of a gun battle on our streets as one.’ He reclined. ‘Our intelligence colleagues will already know, but as a courtesy, brief them anyway.’

‘Does this include the part that you wanted me to inform you directly? Algorene won’t be happy about that.’

‘I’m beyond caring. Thank you, Commander.’

The minister ended the call. After briefing the members of the Cabinet within the Cobra Committee on the secure line, they raised the national security readiness for all airports, train stations, and ports. He smiled, scanning the photos of his wife and children on his desk. A week earlier, doctors diagnosed him with an inoperable brain tumour. All that mattered now was his family, and once he had delivered on his promise to his wife and children to take them to the garden party in Buckingham Palace this weekend, he would resign.

‘I wouldn’t blame you, Englander, for turning on the Wolves,’ he whispered, pouring himself a single malt. In the last few days, he had started muttering to himself when he was alone. Staring at the tumbler, he savoured the familiar aroma. ‘Too late for you to do any further damage to what’s left of my liver now.’ He ambled towards the window to stare out into the rainy night. Lightning darted across the black canvas above the mountains. ‘To watch your child die is a parent’s greatest fear. At least I have no risk of that.’ A flash of stark white light lit up the room. He smiled up at the heavens. ‘Dear Lord, please be patient, I won’t be long.’ Turning his head to peer again at the photographs on his desk. ‘If anyone harmed my children, I would seek retribution.’ He tapped the crystal glass against his lips. ‘The only problem is that I don’t possess your unique skills to do a God damn thing about it, Mr Pierce.’ He turned back towards the rolling thunder storm. Raising the two-fingers of twelve-year-old Macallan in a toast, he smiled. ‘If they haven’t killed you already, Englander, I wish you good luck in your quest.’