Anderson suppressed a cough as a fresh cloud of sweet vapour swept across his face. The air was heavy with hazy smoke and the acrid smell of long-spent nicotine, now mixed with pregnant steam and an abiding air of hopelessness. He chuckled inwardly at his own cynicism and ran a finger across the raised patch shape beneath one shirt sleeve. The folk in this room hadn't followed the modern office trend and replaced cigarettes with coffee, they'd just doubled up on vice. The same hand scooped up his mug and he slurped his lukewarm drink with average enthusiasm. Hypocrisy -- a sin to some, a way of life to others.

Despite the walls being almost entirely glass, the room was murky. A view across the tops of London structures was probably meant to instil a sense of importance but just made Anderson queasy. Planning covert operations for MI6 might sound like an important job, but really he was a strategic analyst. He weighed risks daily but they weren't risks he needed to take. Being comfortable with heights was never a job requirement until offices got tall.

He swept a gaze around the meeting table at the gaggle of important and self-important figures. His direct superior -- the public head of MI6 (slim lady in her fifties, Americano with hot milk) -- perched next to the secret one (fat guy in his sixties, large cappuccino). The American lady with a dry smirk twisting her lips and a tall macchiato had to be CIA -- by not mentioning it, she'd revealed as much. Next was a curious younger guy who'd spent the whole time looking like he was suppressing the shakes and cradling a creme brulee latte with extra cream and cinnamon dusted on top. Finally, a DCI from the Met police doing his best to define the word 'grizzled' -- right down to clutching a cup of tea he seemed unhappy with.

Of them all, Anderson felt most sorry for the fast-stream, overqualified lackey they kept sending out for the coffee order.

Not too sorry, though.

"So," he said, as much to watch the air swirl as anything else, "I think we need a fresh round of drinks." He suppressed a grin at the glare burning into him from the seat by the door.

The meeting stirred collectively. "Yes," said his boss, the public head of MI6. "That's a stellar idea. Same again?" A general nod. "Benson, would you mind? Do you need to make a list?"

Fast-streamer Benson dragged himself upright and shook his head mutely as he exited the room.

Anderson let a smile touch his lips. "So, are we any closer to getting to a point? I like introductions as much as the next man, but I'm a little mystified. There have been some murders in several different countries and that means we all need to be in the same room. Are we looking for a solution or just chasing an argument over jurisdiction?"

CIA lady scraped her chair. "Hey, I'll argue if you want but I'll kick off with a suggestion. Several of these incidents occurred on American soil. I think we should let the FBI lead. They have experience of cross-border investigations."

Large Cappuccino let out a snort but didn't follow it with words.

"I'm sure," said Anderson's MI6 boss, casting a stern glance at her secret counterpart, "we have enough domestic agencies represented here to handle things this side of the pond. Anderson?"

"Hmm?" He affected an engaged tone and scratched the top of his head to distract any glances that might catch his bored expression. "Yes?"

"Do you have a contact in MI5's flexible resource team? This feels like a five and a half remit."

He nodded, letting out a silent sigh. "I can set up a team, as long as I know what I'm getting into." He indicated Creme Brulee Latte's gently quivering form. "Is this guy an informant or a field tap?"

"He's mine," growled the cop. "That's all you need to know, and no poncy MI wankers are gonna put him at risk. You need his input, you come through me."

Anderson chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No argument here, mate. If I set up a team, I'll plumb you in. Can we hear from him, then -- I assume he has some special insight?"

Cuppa Tea nodded. "We were already investigating the hangings in Kensington when John Smith here came in to report on the nightclub stabbing. In the house in Kensington, the bodies of two military contractor CEOs were found hanged in the stairwell with rope made of twined animal tendons. It was only yesterday, we found out they were already dead when they were strung up. That's where John Smith comes in."

"I found the man in the nightclub upended in a toilet," said Creme Brulee, tapping his cup repeatedly on the table. He was clearly on something -- or coming down from it -- but Anderson knew a deep cover operative when he saw one. It was a world best inhabited by the damaged and vulnerable. There was no point in judging the guy.

"I'm guessing from the thread of this conversation he didn't drown in the golden pond."

A smile. "No, the piss didn't get him." He sniffed. "Someone shoved something sharp and thin through his head -- in the spine and out the face."

There was a stir around the table but it was muffled for Anderson. A lead balloon was inflating in his chest and sinking into his stomach. He forced himself to listen to Cuppa Tea's response.

"The Kensington bodies had a similar thing -- a puncture wound on the back of the neck, deep enough to sever the spinal cord."

"Fuck!" The word burst from Anderson's mouth before he could stop it. His head filled with clouds of numbness and flowers bloomed in his vision. As all heads turned to face him, a small bit of sanity made him reach behind himself. "Sorry -- back twinge. Been getting them lately." He made a show of straightening and pressing his hand into the small of his back. They were all still looking so he glanced at the undercover guy. "How come you were the one that found him?"

Creme Brulee blinked and glanced at Cuppa Tea, who nodded his consent. "I was following him. He headed up security for some proper shady characters in the fashionable drug scene. His crew's been taking over all the posher party venues, and they're brutal as shite."

"Tell them about his background," grumbled Cuppa. "We didn't find shit in the official databases but what do we know, right?"

"Took me some time to find out." He grasped at one finger with the opposite hand, pulling in a way that looked painful, but seemed unaware he was doing it. "Speak to the right fixers in the right shadows, you can dig up anything. Turns out, he was SBS -- one of the best and brightest. Words is, he done some proper nasty business back in the day. Dishonourably discharged after his team fluffed a mission and let the SAS take the blame."

Anderson's boss slurped her drink. "He doesn't sound like he'd be easy to overpower."

"He was pissed as a fart," snorted Cuppa, "and his face was covered in saliva, not to mention what we found in his pants. Someone got him good and distracted. Randy bastard probably never knew what hit him."

It was taking some effort, but Anderson thought he had himself under control. The others turned back to him and he realised he'd unintentionally taken control of the meeting. "And the American victims -- what's that about?"

"The spike info from the Met's cases flagged an alert in Interpol's live threats database," said Tall Macchiato. "Interpol called the FBI, who updated their database." She took a leisurely pull on her vape stick and Anderson inwardly admired her sense of drama. "Some tedious computer stuff happened and I got a call along with some heavy email attachments."

She dug in her briefcase and threw a pack of photographs into the middle of the table. "If you like dead bodies, here's an exhibition. Two Navy Seals, a Texas Ranger and a candidate for Governor of Illinois. In Europe, Dutch police found another man but couldn't identify him. Neither could Interpol, so they asked us but if he's one of ours, someone's keeping it very quiet."

"He's one of somebody's," rumbled Large Cappuccino, "and that's all I'll say on the matter."

"Look into the histories we know about," continued the American after a brief silence, "and there's a clear military connection between victims -- along with, you know, the hole in the neck thing."

"Okay." Anderson nodded, quelling the sick feeling in his stomach. "Leave this with me. Let me have all your contact details and I'll rope in MI5."

"Anderson," said his boss, her eyes deadly serious. "Do this by the book, but under the radar." Her expression was shrewd and he wondered if she could see past his professional exterior, into the roiling turmoil below. She dropped her voice to a murmur as the rest of the delegates talked amongst themselves. "This has the smell of something secret and I don't like it. Come to me if you find anything dodgy, and me alone." She raised her eyebrows as if to confirm how serious she was being and he nodded to show he understood.

At that moment, Benson crashed through the door with too many drinks balanced in his hands. Anderson took the opportunity to escape, grabbing his coffee of choice on the way out.

As he headed for the lifts, images rattled through his mind like visual bullets. Needles, survivalist training, bodies and violence. Mistakes, failure and death. There was a killer on the loose with a bone to pick -- a killer with a deadly skillset and a fixation on a very specific group of military personnel. A killer with a grudge.

And John Anderson, Head of Covert Operations for MI6, knew who she was.

He boarded a lift and let himself sag when the doors closed and ensconced him in lonely isolation. He look a slurp of his drink and couldn't stop a laugh from escaping his lips. Today, he wasn't John Anderson. Today, he was Double-Shot Pumpkin-Spiced Skinny Latte With Chocolate Sprinkles. He raised the cup in salute to an invisible foe.

"I'm coming for you, honey. And this time, I'll make sure you're actually dead."

Author Notes

This is my NaNoWriMo novel for 2015. I'm posting chapters here as I finish drafting them - raw and first-pass. As such, all feedback is very much welcome. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed :-). Mike