Firefight by Chris Ryan

exceptions, actually. 'The
director looked piercingly at him and as he spoke Will felt
a sickness in his stomach and a hot surge of adrenaline.
Pankhurst took another A4 photograph from the sheaf and
held it lightly in his fingertips. 'It was two years ago,' he
said, his voice flat. 'A bomb outside a department store in
Knightsbridge. Two casualties, both female, a mother and
daughter.'
    He handed the photograph to Will. Drawn to it like a
bystander to an accident, he looked at the image. He knew
it well, of course. It had haunted his dreams for months on
end. He recognised the curve of the woman's back as she
wrapped herself around her dead child. He recognised the
way the little girl's long, honey hair was spattered over her
bloodstained face.
    His hand started to shake even more.
    'I'm sorry to have to tell you this way,' Pankhurst
continued, relentlessly. 'But you need to know. Faisal Ahmed
killed your family, Will. And now you're the only one who
can do anything about it.'

FOUR
    The room seemed to spin.
    Will was barely aware of the other two men as they stood
there, watching him intently, checking to see what his reaction
would be. The photo in his hand seemed to fill all his
senses, to bring back all the grief like a sharp shard of glass
slicing right through him. He found that he was biting on
his lower lip, so hard that he could taste the hot, metallic
flavour of his own blood, and without a word he stood up.
The picture fell to the floor as he did so, but Will didn't
bother to pick it up. He had no need of a photographic
reminder of that scene. It was etched on his brain and would
be until the day he died.
    'You bastards,' he whispered.
    The two men remained silent.
    ' You fucking bastards! ' he shouted. 'Why didn't I know
about this before?'
    'It wasn't necessary, Will,' Pankhurst replied calmly.
    ' I'll decide what's fucking necessary! ' he yelled. 'They were my family. Not a couple of pawns in your fucking game.'
His body was shaking now and he felt violent. He wanted
to hit them, to make them feel his pain; but something
stopped him, paralysed him. He looked from one to the
other and their blank gazes infuriated him even more. In
the end, he simply turned and left the office, slamming the
door. Neither Pankhurst nor Priestley tried to stop him.
    His blood running hot in his veins, Will half-walked,
half-ran through the corridors of Thames House. He didn't
wait for a lift to get to the ground floor; instead he used
the stairs, taking in several steps at a time. It felt better that
way, as though he were putting distance between himself
and the information he had just learned. People turned to
look at him as he tore past them and at the exit two security
guards stood in his way, clearly suspicious of him. He
barged through them and out into the streets.
    It was cold out. Icy cold. Will drew several deep, shaky
breaths and relished the feeling of the freezing air piercing
his lungs like an icicle. He looked around him, then hurried
down the road and randomly round a corner, soon finding
himself lost in the area around the back of Millbank. He
knew what he was looking for and it wasn't long before
he found one.
    As he entered the Morpeth Arms, a warm fug of air hit
him; but the sensation gave him no comfort like it once
did. He was in here for a reason. He approached the deserted
bar and beckoned the bored-looking barmaid. 'Vodka,' he
told her. 'Double. No ice.'
    The first drink warmed him up slightly, but it didn't calm
him. Nor did the second. Only when he had downed three
large vodkas in quick succession did he even begin to feel
remotely soothed after the shock he had just received; and
it was only after the fourth, handed to him by a now slightly
alarmed looking barmaid, that his hands stopped shaking.
    It was all too much to process. In the past hour he had
been forced to relive his family's murder; he had looked
upon the face of their killer; and he had been handed the
opportunity to seek retribution.
    But