The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) by Mark Dawson

the kind of man who would be difficult to remember, but there was something about him that he recognised.
    Shepherd was looking at the cook, too. “Jammy bastard,” Shepherd observed. “He doesn’t know how lucky he just was.”
    Hicks drove on, trying to think what it was about the man that bothered him. Suddenly it came to him. He couldn’t stifle a gasp.
    “What?” Shepherd said.
    “Nothing.”
    “It was something . You had a fright?”
    “Forget it.”
    Hicks drove on, willing the surprise from his face.
    It was something.
    It was Number One.
    He was certain.
    It was John Milton.
    #
     
    MILTON TOOK out a cigarette and watched as Eddie crossed the road to his cab. He lit the cigarette and drew on it, then exhaled. It was a cold night; his breath mingled with the smoke. He heard the cab’s engine turn over and then saw the headlights flick on. Eddie pulled away, raising his hand as he went past the shelter.
    Milton was about to go back inside when he heard the sound of a second engine. He looked back. There were a handful of cars parked near the shelter, and, as he watched, he saw a black Maserati pull away from the kerb outside the Hotel Russell on Bernard Street and drive forward, turning right into the Square. Its lights were still off as it drove by the shelter. The windows were darkened, but Milton could see the silhouettes of the driver and a passenger in the front seats. The car picked up speed, the lights finally coming on.
    He heard the sound of a car door closing and, as he turned in its direction, he saw another set of headlights snap on and a second car pull out. This one was bigger. It rolled slowly away from the kerb, turned in the same direction as Eddie’s cab and the Maserati, and went by the shelter. It was a Range Rover. Something about the car bothered Milton. He didn’t know what it was—and knew that it could very well be paranoia on his part—but as it passed through the pool of light thrown down by the streetlamp outside the School of Oriental Studies, Milton looked for the registration plate and memorised it.
    The big car rolled slowly by and Milton could see the shapes of two figures in the front. The streetlamps reflected off the windscreen, making it impossible to see inside, but he thought that the two figures were male and it felt as if they were looking at him.
    Milton waited in the doorway as the car disappeared to the south-east, following the same route that Eddie and the Maserati had taken.
    He went inside, closed the door, collected a dirty plate—sticky with the residue of baked beans—and took it to the sink to be washed. He ran the water and looked out into the night. He felt uneasy.

Chapter Fifteen
     
    HICKS FOLLOWED the black cab at a reasonable distance. Fabian had turned onto Gordon Street, following it until he reached the junction with Euston Road and then turning left, headed to the west. They passed Warren Street and Great Portland Street tube stations, continued through Regent’s Park, and then picked up speed as the road merged into the Westway.
    Shepherd had two radio units with him and he handed one of them to Hicks. They both put them on, clipping the receivers to their belts and pushing the ear buds into their ears. As Hicks dabbed the brakes to allow Fabian to gain a little on them, the radio crackled into life.
    “Woodward to Hicks and Shepherd, come in.”
    Shepherd reached for the pressel on his receiver and thumbed the channel open.
    “Shepherd here.”
    “Status?”
    “We’re behind him. Just going through White City. Where are you?”
    “We’ve gone ahead. Connolly is engaged, too. We’ll box him. Stay in formation.”
    Hicks tapped his fingers against the wheel. So it was a three-car pursuit, operating in a “floating box” pattern. It was a standard SAS tactic designed to ensure that the pursuit cars could be interchanged to minimise the possibility that the target might realise that he was being followed. Hicks had been involved in