The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) by Christopher Read Read Free Book Online

stun-grenade, more shots, then an ominous
silence.
    Markova moved
right, a quiet voice sounding in her earpiece. “Target-one is down
and tagged; target-two boxed in, single weapon only.”
    Markova halted
beside a large concrete pillar; further right, lying with his back
against another pillar, was a young man with one of Markova’s
section kneeling protectively beside him, left hand pressing hard
down against the terrorist’s blood-soaked shirt. Markova searched
her memory but the man’s face meant nothing, certainly not one she
recognised as being on the FSB’s terror list. Directly ahead was
the scarred carcass of what looked like a giant press, the hint of
a shadow indicating where the second terrorist hid.
    Markova gave
new orders, her instructions succinct and precise, well aware that
the terrorist would likely prefer suicide over the FSB’s
hospitality. Almost immediately, the man stepped out into the open,
firing twice, his body tensing for the expected deadly
response.
    From Markova’s
left, two duller shots sounded, the first of the plastic rounds
knocking the man’s gun arm backwards, his weapon flying out of his
hand; a brief instant later the second round thudded into his
thigh, forcing him to his knees.
    Markova walked cautiously towards him, gun held two-handed
out in front of her, two more spetsnaz moving in from either side.
The terrorist lifted his head to stare contemptuously up at
Markova, no words spoken, the bitterness showing in his
eyes.
    Markova
couldn’t help but smile, it part relief, part satisfaction.
Grebeshkov had insisted on a live terrorist; well now he had
two.
     
Lincolnshire, England
    The estate
agent’s was close to the river, down a narrow alley and only a few
yards from the town’s all-seeing landmark, the Boston Stump – or
more properly, Saint Botolph’s Church. After a decade in South
London, Charlotte’s move back to Lincolnshire had arisen from the
desire for something more; London had become claustrophobic and the
friendships she had made there seemed looser than the ties of
family. Boston and Marshwick offered familiarity, together with
ready-made close friends left over from the happiest of times at
the High School. It was perhaps a retrograde step, almost an
admission of failure, but Charlotte had few regrets, confident
about the future and content with her lot.
    The agency was
a joint undertaking between herself and an old family friend,
Charlotte the junior partner and general dogsbody. Junior partner
she might be, but the ‘Welch & Saunders’ sign was a constant
reminder that the move to Boston had been the correct one. By luck
or good judgement, the opening of the agency had coincided with a
buoyant rental market and steady house sales, and both partners
considered the venture a significant success. Charlotte enjoyed the
various roles, although it was sometimes hard to ignore the fact
that in terms of public trust estate agents were generally fighting
for bottom place along with journalists, bankers and
politicians.
    Her father’s
death had hit her hard, bringing home the fact of her parents’
mortality. As an only child, Charlotte felt it her duty to stay
strong for her mother’s sake. George Saunders had always been the
rock of the family, patient and loving, rarely judgemental; now, if
Jessica would allow it, that family role would need to move down a
generation.
    “Excuse me; do
you have a map of Boston I could have?”
    Charlotte
looked up from her desk, the polite smile frozen on her lips as she
recognised her visitor. “Mr Anderson, I was wondering when you
would turn up and it seemed wishful thinking to expect you to
return from whence you came.”
    “I couldn’t
keep away,” Anderson replied smiling. “Everyone made me feel so
welcome.”
    “It must be
your boyish charm.” Even though Anderson’s smile seemed genuine,
Charlotte felt her annoyance with him instantly resurface. “A map,
you said, printed on paper? I would have thought