Who Dares Wins by Chris Ryan Page A

head. Everything was so muddled, so confusing. Who was this Clare Corbett? Did the document he held in his hand come from her? What was the point of him seeing it if he couldn’t understand a word that was written?
    No. This wasn’t right. He saved the number to his phone, but didn’t dial. He had a another idea.
    Sam glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. He couldn’t believe that the day had passed – it seemed like only a few minutes ago that he was in the briefing back at HQ. It was late, but that didn’t matter. He sniffed and then searched for another number on his phone. Nodding with satisfaction when it appeared on his screen, he allowed his thumb to hover over the dial button.
    He stopped again, then shook his head. No. He knew that it was too easy for someone to listen in on his phone calls and until he knew what the hell this was all about, that wasn’t a risk he was going to take. He switched off the light, allowed his eyes to get used to the darkness, then moved to his bedroom.
    Sam’s leather jacket was slung over the back of his chair. He put it on, secreted the handgun in the inside pocket, then returned to the front door. Moments later he was on the pavement, walking almost at random until he found a public phone box.
    Only then did he make his call.

    Detective Inspector Nicola Ledbury of the Metropolitan Police had endured, even by her standards, an extremely shitty day. The trial she’d been working on for three months solid had gone tits up on a technicality, prompting a bollocking from the judge and her DCI – no doubt there would be more to come in the morning, if she ever made it in. She dumped her bag in the hallway and went to the kitchen to pour herself a large glass of wine. As she did so, she looked at the clock on the oven. Ten-thirty and she was just getting in. No wonder her personal life was such a disaster.
    She took two deep gulps of wine before going into her small bathroom. As she always did, she glanced in the mirror. Nicola knew she was quite pretty on a good day, but today wasn’t one of them. Her blonde hair was a disaster and she had bags under her eyes. The kind of clothes that she had to wear on the job flattened out her slim, curvy figure and she couldn’t wait to get out of them. So, running the bath, she started to strip. Her clothes stank of London fumes – it was disgusting and all she wanted to do was wash away the grime of the city. Her blouse dropped to the floor, then her bra. As she was undoing her trousers, however, she felt her mobile phone buzz against her skin. Nicola’s heart sank. Who the hell was calling her at this hour? She pulled out the phone and looked at it. Number withheld.
    The DI sighed. It was probably the office. Wearily she switched off the bath taps and took the call.
    ‘Yeah?’ she intoned, making no attempt to hide the reluctance in her voice.
    ‘Nicola?’ A man’s voice. Quite deep. She recognised it, but couldn’t place it.
    ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘Sam,’ came the reply. ‘Sam Redman.’
    A pause as a little smile played across her lips.
    ‘Hello, Sam,’ she replied, her voice all of a sudden kittenish and full of intonation. She quickly stepped half-dressed out of the echoing bathroom, touching her hand to her hair even though there was nobody to see. ‘Long time no speak.’
    ‘I’ve been away,’ came the reply.
    ‘Anywhere fun?’
    ‘Not really.’
    Sam’s voice was curt, almost businesslike – a far cry from his boyish fair hair and mischievous eyes – but that didn’t bother her. It was just the way he was. In the couple of weeks they’d worked together while he and his SAS mates were body-guarding a witness, she’d grown used to it. Fond of it, even – fond enough, at least, for them to indulge in a bit of extra-curricular activity. Nicola blushed slightly to think about it.
    ‘So,’ she said lightly, ‘you thought you’d phone me to arrange a . . .’
    ‘Listen, Nicola,’ he interrupted. ‘I need a