London, 30 November 2025. 11:47 p.m. The rain is the colour of old nickels.
A black Bentley Mulsanne glides to a stop outside Number 8 Bishopsgate, the tallest residential tower in the City. The doorman, ex-Paras, recognises the silhouette before the rear door even opens. He straightens without thinking.
"Evening, Mr Winter."
Gareth Winter steps out. Thirty-one years old, six-two, lean like a blade. Charcoal Tom Ford suit, no tie, collar open. The scar that runs from his left ear to the corner of his mouth catches the lobby light (souvenir from a safe-house in Beirut). His eyes are the grey of the Thames at dawn: flat, depthless, and dangerous.
"Still alive then, Tommy?" Gareth's voice is low, South London edges sanded off by years abroad.
"Barely, sir. Welcome home."
Home. The word tastes foreign. Gareth hasn't had one in twelve years.
He crosses the marble lobby, shoes silent. The lift climbs to the sixty-third floor in twelve seconds. When the doors slide open, the entire flat is dark except for the floor-to-ceiling windows and the neon bruise of the City below: the Gherkin glowing turquoise, the Shard slicing the clouds.
He drops the Rimowa aluminium case, pours two fingers of Ardbeg Uigeadail into a crystal tumbler, and stands at the glass.
Three years ago, Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service declared him KIA in the Hindu Kush. They even sent a wreath to an empty coffin in Mortlake Crematorium.
Tonight, Gareth Winter is officially resurrected, and the people who signed his death warrant are about to learn what happens when you bury a man who isn't finished killing.
His phone vibrates once. Unknown number.
The message is short.
"Canary Wharf. Midnight. Come alone. – M"
Gareth smiles for the first time in months. It isn't a nice smile.
He checks the Glock 19 in the holster under his jacket, slips a suppressor into his pocket, and walks back to the lift.
London has no idea the wolf just came home.
00:03 a.m. – Canary Wharf underground car park, Level -3.
The Bentley's headlights cut through the concrete gloom. Gareth kills the engine and steps out. The air smells of wet stone and diesel. Only one other car is parked here tonight: a blood-red Aston Martin DB12 AMR, registration M1RA.
He knows who it belongs to before the stiletto hits the ground.
Click. Click. Click.
She walks out of the shadows like she owns the night. Miranda "Mira" Zhao. Thirty years old. Half Hong Kong Chinese, half Chelsea. Legs that go on forever, wrapped tonight in a backless red silk dress that costs more than most people's annual salary. Hair black as wet ink, cut in a razor-sharp bob. In her hand: a cigarette burning slow.
"You're late," she says, smoke curling from scarlet lips.
"You're early," Gareth answers. "I like punctual women who bring toys."
Mira smiles, flicks ash onto the concrete. "Still allergic to small talk, I see."
She steps closer. The scent of Oud and danger.
"Three years, Gareth. They told me you were worm food in Helmand." "They told a lot of people a lot of things." He keeps his hands visible. "Why am I here, Mira?"
She reaches into a hidden slit in her dress and pulls out a black USB drive the size of a matchbox.
"Project ORPHEUS," she whispers. "Your old friends at Vauxhall Cross never shut it down. They just moved the money. Offshore. Hundreds of billions. And tomorrow morning the final transfer goes through a shell company registered in your name."
Gareth's eyes narrow. "They're framing me."
"No, darling. They're erasing you. Again. Only this time, when the regulators come, the trail ends with Gareth Alexander Winter, rogue operator turned billionaire traitor. Life in Belmarsh or a bullet in the head. Same result."
He takes the drive. Their fingers brush. Static.
"Why help me?" he asks.
"Because the man who ordered your death three years ago just ordered mine too." She drops the smile. "We're both on the same list now."
Headlights flare at the far end of the car park. Two black Range Rovers, no plates, moving fast.
Mira sighs. "And they're earlier than I hoped."
Gareth pulls the Glock, racks the slide.
"Get in the Aston," he says.
"I don't take orders."
"Then enjoy dying in heels."
She laughs once, sharp and bright, and runs for the driver's door.
Engines roar. Muzzles flash.
Welcome back to London, Mr Winter.