Security was tight, the air thick with silence, broken only by the weak flicker of the dying lightbulb.

Colonel Camilla Bentley sat at her desk, her eyes fixed on the chessboard in front of her. Every piece stood in perfect order, as if waiting for her next move.

Beside her, a thin file marked “Top Secret” lay untouched. Her fingers brushed the bandage wrapped around her thigh, hidden beneath her trousers. The wound was a silent reminder—a knife twisted deep to amplify the pain. The memory hit her with a surge of sharp anger.

She hadn’t seen it coming. The Russian agent had struck fast, too fast. For a split second, Camilla thought it was the end. But she’d reacted, just in time. Enough to pull her pistol and end it with a single shot.

She shifted in her seat. Days as an Oxford professor, lecturing on advanced electronics and cyber security, felt like a lifetime ago. Now, her job was complex: uncover why government military contracts failed—and fix them. No manual existed for this line of work.

The door creaked open. Colonel Ben Johansen ducked in, a towering presence, all muscle and silent menace. The kind of man who could tear someone apart with a stare. He glanced at the chessboard, then moved the Queen beside the King.

“Checkmate, Camilla, ” Ben muttered, a slight smirk shining from his good looking face.

Camilla didn’t bite. She wasn’t in the mood for games.

Before she could respond, Major Eric Hatley entered, quiet and deliberate as always. He slid into a chair, eyes flicking to the chessboard.

“Who’s winning? ” Eric’s voice was calm, as always.

Ben laughed, his voice loud. “Me, obviously!”

Eric raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He wasn’t buying it.

Camilla remained silent, watching them. They were her team, her support—but they didn’t need to see the sadness escalating inside her.

Then Harrier stepped in. Her gaze landed on the unopened file. “What’s the latest, boss?”

Ben leaned back, grinning. “Alright, who’s on the hit list today?”

Eric and Harrier chuckled, familiar with Ben’s thirst for action. He thrived on adrenaline, always enthusiastic for a fight.

The banter flowed, light and familiar. But Camilla felt the weight of the mission squeezing her tight. She couldn’t shake the feeling this one was different. Dangerous. No one else saw it yet, but the pieces were in play—and someone was about to make a lethal move.

Camilla cut through the tension. “Maxley Scientific.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t they a contractor for the Ministry of Defence?”

“Spot on Eric. They were given £400 million to develop a torpedo that would be a game-changer for the British Navy. For some reason, it’s off target—can’t sink a thing to save its life. And team Foxtrot 2-1 Charlie needs to find out why. ” Camilla’s voice was sharp with purpose. “The Navy’s running trials on a remote island off the top of Scotland. You need to get me there, Eric. And Ben, I need you watching everyone, knowing what they’re up to.”

Ben chuckled, his eyes bright with excitement. “Finally! We get to punch someone.”

Camilla half-smiled, nodding slightly. She knew Ben’s capabilities well. When his cross hairs set on a target it doesn’t end well for most.

“We need a base near Maxley, Eric. And eyes and ears all over that company twenty four-seven, Ben. It’s battle stations everyone”. Camilla’s tone left no room for debate.

Ben’s chair scraped loudly as he stood. “I’m on it!” he said with his usual directness.

Eric nodded. “I’ll make some calls, get transport sorted. Rough estimate—two hours.”

Camilla turned to Harrier. “Dig up everything you can on everyone at Maxley. Start going through it with Ben. Message me if anything jumps out.”

The room fell silent as the team filed out, an air of silence crept back into Camilla’s awareness. “Won’t miss this place,” she muttered to herself.

As she stood, the sharp pain in her leg flared up, her face tightening for a moment. Greg’s image flashed in her mind—his lifeless body cradled in her arms. She had loved him secretly, and his death had left a wound deeper than the one in her leg. Shaking herself from the memory, she focused on the chessboard in front of her.

The Chess board, a relic from her grandfather, had always been her compass during dark times. Underneath, the signature read “Love, Grandad Bentley.” Slowly, she packed it away, her thoughts shifting to the mission ahead.

She grabbed the thin Top-Secret file, knowing it wouldn’t stay light for long. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery at Maxley, feeling solace her team could get to the bottom of it. Grabbing her bags, she headed out of the room.

In front of her, the base buzzed with activity. Computer stations were tangled in cables, with no regard for health and safety—Eric never had time for that, always ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Eric approached, “Helicopter’s arriving in eighteen minutes. It’s going to be a rough flight—storms all over the UK. Jack’s going with you as a bodyguard.”

Jack stood nearby, tall and imposing, already holding his bag, ready for whatever lay ahead.

Both Jack and Camilla stood outside, the light rain splashing on the ground—just another dreary day in England. The low growl of the helicopter grew louder, breaking through the clouds. Camilla tightened her grip on her bag, bracing herself for the force of the downdraught. As the helicopter landed, she leaned into the wind. The door swung open, and the load-master reached out to help her in. Camilla accepted the hand, but when it was Jack’s turn, he waved the help away, climbing in on his own.

The helicopter rattled through the storm, buffeted by winds that matched Camilla’s inner turmoil. She stared out the window as the grim silhouette of the building below faded into the distance. “Another chapter closed,” she thought. A tear slid down her cheek. There was no escaping the past, no escaping Greg. For the next few hours, she needed to stay busy. Anything to avoid the memories that threatened to crush her.  She closed her eyes and focused on the challenge ahead.

The Captain voice came over the speaker, “three minutes to arrival.” The island loomed below as they descended. Cold, salty air slapped her face the moment the door opened. Rugged cliffs framed by relentless waves. Perfect for the Ministry of Defence’s secret trials, hidden away from the world. As she trudged towards the Head Quarter’s building, Camilla caught sight of the Motor Torpedo Boats (MTBs) docked under cover, their grey hulls camouflaged in the water. Something felt off.

Inside the HQ, warmth and the sterile smell of new construction greeted her. Jack moved ahead, always alert, always ready. Camilla trusted him with her life. The base commander, a tall figure named Harry, greeted them, his presence commanding yet non-threatening.

“Welcome, Dr Bentley, ” Harry said. “We’ve set up a briefing to get you orientated. Follow me.”

Camilla and Jack followed. Jack a vigilant shadow. They entered the briefing room where files, tea, and sandwiches were already laid out. Harry wasted no time explaining the base layout, detailing the number of MTBs and their crews.

“I want to interview all the MTB commanders today and inspect MTB-7,” Camilla said, her tone commanding but polite.

Harry nodded. “We can arrange interviews today and tomorrow, we’ll take you to the firing range.”

Jack, always protective, jumped in. “How dangerous?”

Harry smiled slightly. “A helicopter ride to the command ship, then a mini-sub to the range. You’ll be in the safest of hands.”

Camilla cut to the heart of it. “The torpedoes don’t work. Why?”

Harry’s expression hardened. “Because they don’t. The crews here are the best in the Navy. We’ve gone over this from every angle.”

Camilla nodded but remained sceptical. She had learned long ago not to rely on anyone’s word. Trusting only her eyes, she would investigate every detail herself.

The first MTB commander entered the briefing room, confident, almost too much so. Camilla’s recorder was on, capturing every word. She opened with the obvious question again, direct and sharp. “Why don’t they work?”

The commander shrugged, casual. “They just don’t.”

“Why do you blame the manufacturer?” Camilla pressed.

“Our part’s simple. Point and shoot. We point, we shoot, and they miss.”

Every commander she interviewed repeated the same line, maybe true maybe a rehearsed. Frustration gnawed at her. It felt like she was hitting a wall, the same answers with no insight. The burden of the day settled in, the strain of hearing the same empty words.

She stood, “That’s it for today,” she said, her voice flat. Harry, the base commander, smiled politely.

“I’ll have my assistant Pamela show you to your quarters. Jacks in the room next door.”

They all rose, Pamela leading the way. A gust of wind caught the door, the cold air hitting Camilla’s face, jolting her back to full awareness. She said nothing, just followed silently, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. The room they gave her was warm, spacious, and oddly comforting. The décor matched the calm, the bedding soft, inviting.

Stripping down, Camilla winced as she removed the bandage from her thigh. It stuck to the wound, pulling painfully as it peeled away. The sting of the hot shower hit next, but it eased the ache in her muscles. The warm water flowed over her, numbing the day’s tension.

Her eyes grew heavy as she dressed the wound again, exhaustion dragging her under. The moment her head touched the pillow, sleep gripped her.

The next morning, the weather outside was bleak, grey clouds hanging low, threatening a storm. The air felt tense, and Camilla sensed something had shifted overnight. As she entered the officer’s dining area, the presence of their stares followed her. Conversations halted, and whispers trailed behind her, thick with suspicion. Whatever had changed, she knew she was at the centre of it. That didn’t bother her. It meant a fire had been lit.

She sat down at an empty table, catching the eye of the waiter. “I’m starving, I’ll have a full English breakfast,” she said.

The waiter smiled. “It’s full Scottish here, ma’am. Haggis, not black pudding.”

Camilla smirked. “Alright, full Scottish then, but skip the haggis.”

With a nod, the waiter darted off, moving with purpose. Camilla settled into her seat, knowing her hunger wouldn’t last long. Moments later, Jack appeared, freshly dressed and clean-shaven, his energy unmistakable.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?” he asked.

Camilla gave a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”

The dining room buzzed with the sound of clattering cutlery as officers ate their breakfast. Camilla leaned forward. “First stop—inspection of the MTBs.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, feeling the inspection would be straightforward. “Unless you really need me there, I’ve got a long to-do list.”

She thought for a moment before nodding. “I’ll be fine. Be sure you give the crew of MTB-7 extra scrutiny.”

Jack returned a reassuring look.

Camilla left the officer’s dining room alone, stepping out into the crisp, salty sea air. Pulling her hood up, she made her way toward MTB-7, the wind tugging at her, trying to push her sideways.

MTB-7 sat sleek and invisible, blending in with the water. Camilla looked from a distance, inspecting the boat with a sharp eye. Her thoughts were broken by a tap on her shoulder.

She turned to see a male officer. His uniform was crisp, and his captain’s insignia gleamed in the morning light.

She recognised him from yesterdays interviews. “What can I do for you? ” Camilla asked, directly.

The Captain had a firm but friendly appearance, something that spoke of confidence and control. He wasn’t one to be easily swayed.

“I’m taking you on a tour of MTB-7, introducing you to my crew. After that, we’ll be going underwater for the torpedo tests.”

Camilla’s mood shifted. The idea of action lit a spark in her. “I’m looking forward to it.” she said, her tone friendly but laced with warning.

She noted how easily he kept pace with her. His calm and focus was impressive. She’d dealt with countless officers over the years, but this one wasn’t flustered. Not by her, not by the weight of the assignment. He had a grip on his world, and it showed.

As they moved toward the boat, Camilla probed, asking questions that seemed casual but were anything but. She wanted to know who he was, how he thought. His answers were precise, confident. He knew every inch of the MTB, and his tactical mind was sharp, cutting through any facade. This wasn’t just an officer. This was a man who could lead without cracking, someone built for a fight.

By the time they reached the boat, Camilla had crossed him off her list of suspects. He was too steady, too dedicated. The boat itself was a marvel—built for stealth, its sleek lines barely noticeable in the water.

As they boarded, the Captain offered his hand, a slight smile playing on his lips. His grip was firm, steady. She caught the flick of his eyes to her leg, the limp she tried to conceal. He saw everything but said nothing. Smart. Very smart.

Yet beneath his professionalism, there was a hint of humour, something subtle but undeniable.

The crew snapped to attention as Camilla stepped on board. Their respect for the Captain was immediate, almost palpable. This wasn’t your typical crew, and this wasn’t an ordinary mission. A sailor handed her a cup of coffee. She accepted, knowing the quality would reveal more than anyone could say outright.

The Captain guided her through the ship, every word marked with pride. When they reached the torpedo systems, he noticed her sharp focus. This wasn’t someone here to tick boxes—Camilla knew technology. She understood the systems like a veteran, catching details most would miss. The Captain adjusted, talking shop in a way few could. By the end of the tour, even he was impressed. Camilla wasn’t just another investigator; she was sharp, direct, a force in her own right.

Lunch on board was a break from the intensity. Camilla cracked a joke about upgrading her usual lunch spots, comparing them to the spread laid out before her. The crew laughed, and the tension loosened, if only for a while. But everyone knew the real test was still coming.

They lifted off again, heading for the torpedo firing range. The target—a decommissioned battleship called the Sir Endever—now just a rusting relic resting on the seabed. This was where the torpedoes had to perform or face another failure. No room for errors.

They arrived on the control ship overseeing the test. A ladder led down to a floating deck where the mini-sub was docked. The sub was bright orange, chunky, and industrial—nothing sleek about it. Camilla climbed in first, then, with a smirk, extended a hand to the Captain. He met her gaze, playing along as he took her hand with mock seriousness.

Camilla smiled to herself. She might’ve found a worthy chess partner in this Captain. The only problem? He might be good enough to humiliate her.

The sea slapped against the sides of the mini-sub, making it hard for Camilla to stay steady on her feet. She was guided to a seat by a window, her eyes catching the surprisingly clear water outside. Everyone else buckled in. She glanced down, finding her seatbelt.

The sub’s pilot turned, offering a quick smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am

. I’m Gary.” He pointed to the monitors beside her. “These will show the torpedo’s path. We’ve got four external cameras—so you’ll be able to see the dive, the target, everything.” His finger moved to another screen. “This one’s all about the technical data once the torpedo’s en route.”

The hatch clamped shut with a metallic thud. Camilla felt her ears pop as the sub pressurised. Gary turned back to his controls. There was a sharp clank as the grab released the sub, leaving it free to descend into the depths.

The mini-sub glided downwards, cutting through the darkening waters with ease. Everything inside was sleek, state-of-the-art. It felt like she was in the heart of a high-tech lab, but the sense of danger was inescapable. Beyond the glass, the ocean stretched out—silent, unknown, and hostile.

Camilla’s eyes flicked to the monitors. The tension in her chest matched the slow, steady descent. This was more than just another test. Something told her the real challenge was waiting far beneath the surface.

The pressure inside the sub was palpable. Camilla felt it throughout her body.

“Target depth reached—250 feet,” Gary shouted, his voice steady over the hum of the controls. “Heading to the Sir Endever. Estimated time: six minutes.”

Camilla scanned the depths through the window, surprised at how far she could see. Gary’s voice broke the silence again. “Sir Endever coming into view.”

She saw it—the massive guns on the sunken battleship’s deck, a relic resting quietly on the seabed. It looked peaceful, untouched by time.

“We’re in position. Turning on the lights,” Gary said, his fingers dancing over the controls. The ship lit up in a ghostly glow, its form majestic even in its final resting place.

“Ready when you are, ma’am ,” Gary said, turning to Camilla.

Camilla shifted forward, focusing on the torpedo specs on the monitors in front of her. “Fire when ready.”

Gary nodded and grabbed the radio. “MTB-7, fire when ready.”

A crackled reply came through. “Roger that.” Moments later, “Torpedo away.”

Camilla’s pulse quickened. The data streamed in: speed—267 knots; software—fully operational. The torpedo came into view on the screen, cutting through the water like a large bullet on target for Sir Endever. Then, at the last second, it swerved. Missing the giant battleship.

Her mind shifted into high gear. “Time for an autopsy,” she said, her voice calm, but sharp with frustration.

Gary didn’t hesitate. He was on it. He scanned the sea bed, located the torpedo. The sub’s equipped with a mechanical arm reached out, clamping onto the torpedo and pulling it in for retrieval. Within a short time, they were back on the control ship.

There, the electronics lab was crude, but it would do. Camilla cleared the room, locking it down for her work. Alone with the torpedo, she traced a hand along its cool, smooth wet surface. Her fingers stopped at the manufacturer’s plate: Maxley Scientific.

She worked through the night, dissecting every inch, hunting for the flaw. Mechanically, it was perfect. Electronically, too. The fault wasn’t physical—it was buried in the software, hidden deep.

Maxley Scientific had answers, and Camilla intended to get them. That fortress of secrets had just become her next battleground.

Back in her room Camilla scanned the Maxley reports, her mind racing. She couldn’t make a move until everything was locked down. The Watchers needed to scope out Maxley. No blind spots. No surprises. The Movers had to set up a base for the team, get the logistics right, and ensure transport for her and the torpedo. Every step had to be flawless. This mission wouldn’t forgive mistakes.

But something else niggled her. The Captain of MTB-7 had been more than just competent. His tactical mind, the way he handled the crew—it was sharp, precise. He was wasted here, stuck on this outpost.

Foxtrot 2-1 Charley needed someone like him. She could accept people who were possibly better than her in certain ways. In fact she enjoyed it. Camilla wouldn’t let him slip away. Not when they were about to dive to crush depth in hostile waters investigating Maxley.

Camilla found the Captain at the bar, his eyes glinting with the kind of confidence that made her wary. She sat next to him, offering a formal smile, masking the storm inside her. The officer’s lounge had an easygoing air, but beneath the jokes and laughter, everyone knew there was danger lurking just beyond the island’s safety net.

The Captain turned to her, his gaze sharp. “What’s the story with your leg? Drunk accident or something more interesting?”

The question was casual, but she felt the scrutiny. He was measuring her, feeling her out. She smiled, cold and distant. “Ten men. One me.”

His eyebrow flicked up, impressed. “Julian,” he said, extending his hand. The handshake wasn’t just an introduction. It was an assessment.

Camilla noted the mark on his finger where a ring once sat. No ring, but a past. “You play chess?” she asked, the question loaded with purpose.

Julian smirked. “I’ve played a few games. You?”

“I’m interested in your tactics.” Her voice lowered, the challenge clear.

Julian laughed softly. “Problem is, we don’t have a chess board.”

Camilla leaned in, her eyes gleaming. “I never go anywhere without mine.”

Minutes later, they found a quiet corner, away from prying eyes. She set up the board, the pieces worn but deliberate. Julian’s smile was too knowing, too confident. This wasn’t just a game. It was a test, and he was baiting her.

“My grandfather carved this board,” she said, breaking the silence. “Pilot in the British Royal Air Force. Lost both legs in the war, but still flew missions after.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “A hero. Tell me more.”

Camilla obliged, but her focus stayed on the board. Julian’s moves were too precise. Not a single wasted motion. When he checkmated her, it wasn’t just a win. It was a message.

She hated being cornered, but there she was, pinned. Julian leaned back, smirking. “We playing again tomorrow?”

She nodded, feeling the weight of his victory. He had her in his sights now, and he wasn’t letting go. As he walked away, she watched, mind racing. What’s his angle? She needed to know, not just for the game, but because he was dangerous—and that might make him useful.

By morning, Camilla had Harrier on Julian’s trail. She wanted everything—his history, connections, weaknesses. She didn’t trust easily, and she wasn’t about to change that.

The base, nestled on a remote Scottish island, should’ve felt secure. But something tormented her, like a shadow lurking just beyond reach. The wind outside howled, but it wasn’t the storm that unsettled her. It was the silence—the calm before something much darker.

Next morning Camilla heard the sound of knocking on her door. She cautiously opened. It was Jack standing there, fresh-faced, eyes sharp. He stepped in without a word, scanning the room out of habit.

“Coffee?” she asked, fumbling with the jar.

“I’ll pass,” Jack grinned, his tone light. “I don’t need caffeine.” His smile faded. “Russian satellite came through again last night. Scanned us.”

He handed her the report like it was routine. To him, it probably was.

“Any tampering with the torpedo?” Camilla’s voice tightened. She didn’t trust the situation. Too much had gone wrong recently.

“It’s still in the box, x-ray-proof. Everything’s secure.”

Camilla nodded but didn’t believe it. Something didn’t sit right. The Ministry of Defence would act, right? Or would they miss the signs until it was too late?

Jack left to check the torpedo, and Camilla finished her coffee. She made a move over to HQ. Outside, the wind tore at her coat as she walked past the officers’ quarters. The sea crashed in the distance, and dark clouds rolled in, suffocating the island.

Her thoughts turned to Julian. She needed him on her team. But first, she had to deal with Harry, the MTB Commanding Officer. He wouldn’t give up his best man easily.

Inside the HQ, Harry scowled when she asked for Julian. They both knew what it meant to lose someone irreplaceable. Camilla kept her pitch short, just enough to get what she needed without tipping her hand. Harry finally gave in, reluctantly.

Later, she found Julian on the dock, inspecting his MTB.

“Captain,” she called, stepping up. “May I come aboard?”

Julian smirked. “No chessboard this time, ma’am?”

Camilla shot him a look. “Next time you try that, I’ll have you scrubbing the decks with your own toothbrush. Understood?”

“Understood, ma’am!” He couldn’t hide the gleam in his eyes, a challenge lurking there.

“Good,” she added. “The food on your MTB is better than the officer’s mess. But don’t let that slip. I need a private word.”

Julian led her to his quarters, grabbing coffee from the galley along the way. Once the door shut, Camilla dropped her usual banter. This was no time for games.

“The world’s a mess,” she started. She laid out just enough classified intel for Julian to grasp the stakes. He didn’t flinch. He saw the danger, understood it, and wanted in.

Camilla felt a weight lift, but she knew everything depended on Harrier’s background check. One wrong move could blow it all.

Back in her room, Camilla felt boredom creeping in like a predator. Her work on the island was done. Greg’s memory hit her hard, and the tears came before she could stop them. She headed to the gym, needing to burn off the emotions.

Her next mission was clear—an Army base in Edinburgh, then down to Maxley Scientific in Leicester. But for now, she was stuck waiting. The Watchers were gathering intel at Maxley, while the Movers prepped a secure base. It felt like a game of chess, every move requiring precision, but the waiting frustrated her.

Ben had gone silent, a huge storm was nearing, and Camilla hated the feeling of being trapped. Jack was on edge too, itching to get off the island. Time slipped away, and the longer they stayed put, the more advantage the enemy gained.

Finally, Harrier’s call came through late in the evening. They had the green light to move. The storm was just miles away, howling closer. There was no time to waste. The helicopter roared to life in the distance. Camilla felt the pressure building, she was heading to Maxley.

Maxley swirled in her thoughts like a maze of secrets. She knew it would be worse than she imagined. The question wasn’t if there would be danger, but how much—and who would survive.

Camilla’s helicopter was stopped at the military base in Edinburgh, frustration exploded from her as she stared at the officer breaking the news. She wasn’t allowed to continue on to Maxley Scientific. Why? She was on the phone, making call after call, trying to cut through the layers of bureaucracy that had her pinned down. The answers were vague, the delays maddening. There was nothing obvious in the logs, no immediate threats. So what was keeping her from going?

She could understand if the Russians or Chinese were making a move—camping outside Maxley, perhaps—but they weren’t. The Ministry of Defence had their eyes on the usual suspects: the three Russian “businessmen” roaming the country with barely concealed ulterior motives. So what was the problem? The silence at the other end of the line offered no clarity, only deepened the unease pulling at Camilla’s mind.

She forced herself to refocus, mentally reviewing her last case. It hadn’t gone well. People had died. The weight of it hung on her like a shadow, clawing at the back of her mind. She’d made the mistake of mentioning it when on the phone to Harrier. Her response had been sharp, cutting through her thoughts like a blade. “Back off, Camilla. Leave it alone,” she’d warned, her voice laced with concern. She was right. There had been an investigation, and all signs pointed to a Russian operation gone bad. Ben had been miles away when Camilla was stabbed. The report said Ben was chasing a Russian spy, but the memory of that night didn’t sit right.

Camilla sighed, knowing she was only digging up old wounds because of the stifling boredom and frustration of the wait. There was no room for ghosts here, not now.

Harrier, ever the strategist, had managed to get her hands on the technical systems plans for the torpedo. She knew it would occupy Camilla, knew she wouldn’t be able to resist combing through every detail with a fine-tooth comb. The courier handed the plans over to Camilla. But there was a catch. She could take top secret plans into the officers bar and sit there with a glass of wine while she worked. Thankfully, the officer’s living quarters were set up like a hotel’s accommodation. Room service it was going to be, then.

She ordered a bottle of wine and six rum chasers. When the knock came, Camilla opened the door just wide enough to grab her drinks before slamming it shut. She spread the plans across the table, scanning the connections, the intricate design, the flow of components. Everything seemed to check out, but the alcohol was beginning to cloud her focus—a deliberate decision. She needed the haze, needed to escape, if only for a few hours. Eventually, she gave in.

The plans had to be locked away in the secure vault on the military base. Camilla grabbed them, her movements deliberate but shaky. She staggered toward the door, pausing just long enough to assess how badly the alcohol had affected her. A quick internal check—she convinced herself she could still walk in a straight line. No problem, she thought. Just focus.

She pushed forward, making her way across the camp to the offices. The night air was crisp, sharpening her senses just enough to help her keep it together. As luck would have it, the Commanding Officer was still inside, working late. The glow of a desk lamp spilled out from the office window, a small beacon of relief.

Camilla entered, offering a brief nod. No words were needed—the CO understood. The plans were safely locked away in the vault with a combination that only Camilla knew. The heavy door sealed them in like a buried secret. Camilla muttered a quiet thanks, her voice gravelly from the night’s excess.

She made her way back into the night, the stillness imposing on her. Each step toward bed felt heavier, the adrenaline from the task fading. As she finally collapsed onto her bunk, her mind wandered back to the plans. They were safe for now. Camilla’s eyes closed.

Morning came too soon. Harrier was on her immediately, her voice crisp and commanding as she rattled off instructions. She was doing her best to keep Camilla engaged, to prevent the waiting from driving her over the edge. Breakfast was forgettable, just another tick on the day’s list. The mess hall was quiet, too quiet, and Camilla couldn’t help but wonder if cutbacks were the real reason for the emptiness. Or were the soldiers on exercise? Was something brewing that she hadn’t been informed about?

Just as despair threatened to sink its claws in deeper, Jack rushed up to her. “Ben just said, get ready, ma’am.”

Camilla nodded, though the news did little to ease the tightness in her chest. “Thanks,” she replied, then added, “Did you know I have the plans for the torpedo?”

Jack shook his head, his expression neutral. Camilla quickly filled him in, explaining that she intended to take them along.

The offices where the vault was were locked. Camilla needed to find the camp’s Commanding Officer to let her in. After a tedious search, she finally tracked him down at the married officer’s quarters. Camilla wanted to chat with the CO so she accepted his offer of coffee and sat down to exchange war stories—the old ritual of building trust, of loosening tongues.

When they finally made their way to the vault, Jack intercepted them, looking flustered. “The helicopter is getting ready to go,” he said, urgency creeping into his voice.

Camilla thanked the CO, grabbed the plans, and made her way back to her room to collect her things. But when she arrived, her breath caught. The door was ajar. Room service? She’d forgotten to tell them she didn’t need it, but still…

Caution flared. Camilla’s hand moved instinctively to her revolver as she crept closer, carefully peeking around the door frame. Inside, the cleaner was tidying up, but the room was a disaster zone. Clothes were strewn across the floor, papers scattered, the bed tipped over, and her chessboard lay on the ground, the pieces in disarray. Someone had torn through her life, looking for something.

Fury welled up in her, but she shoved it down, focusing instead on the immediate task. She stopped another officer in the corridor, her voice a razor’s edge. “Raise the alarm and find Jack. Now!” Camilla crouched down, picking up the scattered chess pieces with deliberate calm. She could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but she kept it locked in. She had to. There was no room for mistakes now.

Jack burst into the room moments later, eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Camilla looked up, her face a mask of controlled rage. “Yes, thanks. But we need to plan on staying here a few days. Someone’s gone through my things, and I want to know who.”

Jack hesitated, shifting on his feet. “Err, no, ma’am. ” He didn’t like contradicting Camilla, but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

Camilla narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on, Jack?”

Jack’s face tightened as he explained. “Ben’s here. He’s looking for you.”

Camilla’s frustration spiked. Ben? Here? Why hadn’t she been told? Just as the question burned through her mind, Ben appeared in the doorway, his presence a sudden, unwelcome weight.

Camilla shot Jack a stern look. “Go make sure everything is ready.”

Once Jack was gone, Camilla turned her full attention to Ben, her voice low and dangerous. “You disappeared on me, didn’t keep me in the loop, and now there’s been a break-in. You’ve got some explaining to do, Ben!”

Ben’s response was maddeningly nonchalant. “Shit happens, Camilla. I’ve got my own pressures, keeping everyone safe. Anyway, the coast is clear for you to head to Maxley. The Movers have jumped through hoops to set up a base. I’ll get a team to investigate this, but let’s focus on getting you there.”

Camilla’s jaw clenched. She glared at Ben, grabbed her bags and the torpedo plans, and stormed out. She didn’t like being played, not by anyone.

The helicopter ride to Maxley was silent, tension thick in the air. Camilla’s mind raced with worst case scenarios, and the unease that had been simmering for days began to bubble over. Something wasn’t right.

When they landed at Maxley, Ben and Jack got off first, with Camilla in the middle, the two Special Ops security guards Alec and Bingham bringing up the rear. The Maxley Board of Directors stood in a neat line, ready to greet them. Camilla wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, but she forced herself to play the game. She couldn’t afford to alienate anyone, not yet. Not until she knew who was friend and who was foe.

She was introduced first to Roger Wellington, the CEO. Camilla smiled politely, but her words were laced with a subtle edge. “Is everyone on the Board present right now?”

Wellington stiffened, catching the underlying challenge. “Yes, everyone is here,” he replied, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

“Good,” Camilla said. “I’d appreciate a chat with you first. Then, if the Directors could stick around, I’ll speak to them one at a time.”

Wellington nodded, leading Camilla to his office.

As they entered the heart of Maxley Scientific, Camilla’s plan was clear: stretch the conversation, gauge reactions, and see who among the directors would grow restless and who would stay composed. The Chief Scientist was to be saved for later, second to last, and the Deputy Chief Scientist would be her final interrogation.

The offices reflected Wellington’s wealth. Spacious, sleek, with walls of glass that projected transparency, though Camilla knew better. A carefully curated façade, no doubt. At the entrance to Wellington’s private domain was a reception desk manned by his Executive Assistant. A woman whose sharp, no-nonsense expression made it clear she was more than just a gatekeeper. She was the line between the outside world and the power within. For some reason, Wellington didn’t introduce them. It was a small omission, but one that stuck in Camilla’s mind. She remained silent, watchful, almost a part of the office furniture, yet Camilla could feel the intensity of her presence. Why ignore such a critical member of the team?

Wellington’s office was the largest Camilla had ever seen, stretching out like a statement of control. To the right, a bar gleamed under soft lighting; beyond that, a lounge area designed for comfort, not work. In the far left corner, a massive desk dominated the space. Camilla’s eyes flicked to the artwork. A collection of vibrant, bold pieces. The interior decorator had clearly been given free rein, and no expense had been spared.

Camilla sat down on a bright red leather couch, running her fingers across the material. It was soft, immaculate, as though it had never been used. Wellington moved with ease in this environment, a man accustomed to luxury, but Camilla knew that the trappings of wealth often concealed weaknesses.

Wellington broke the silence with a casual offer. “What’s your poison?”

Camilla smirked, declining with a nod. “Not a good idea right now,” she replied, watching for any reaction, any sign of discomfort or calculation in Wellington’s demeanour. But the man remained distant, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Camilla wondered just how much control Wellington actually wielded here—and how much was orchestrated by unseen hands.

“A glass of water or coffee would be fine,” Camilla said. Ben always warned her against accepting anything offered, but Camilla played a hunch. Wellington wouldn’t try anything—yet.

The conversation flowed smoothly, but Camilla’s mind was always two steps ahead. She observed everything—the way Wellington’s socks matched his tie, the careful way he chose his words. Was this a man who let others steer his life? Or was he just good at hiding his true self?

As the conversation continued, Camilla began to form a profile. This CEO might not be the force behind Maxley’s operations after all. Wellington was more of a figurehead, a face for the public. But if he wasn’t in charge, who was really pulling the strings?

Finally, Camilla shifted gears, subtly increasing the pressure. “According to the security logs, everything seems to be above board. Is there anything I should know about?”

Wellington’s response was quick, almost rehearsed. “Everything’s correct per the logs. I’ve checked them myself.”

Camilla nodded, but the unease hadn’t left her. She needed more, something concrete. But for now, she’d gathered enough to keep moving forward.

As she left Wellington’s office, Camilla knew the real work was just beginning.

Next up was the second-in-command, James Carter. Camilla’s strategy was simple—meet each person in their own environment, where they felt at ease, where they might let something slip.

Carter’s office was smaller, more personal, a reflection of the man himself. Photographs of his wife and three kids adorned the walls, alongside shots of him sailing—a yacht, no less, featuring prominently in three of the images. Camilla sized him up quickly. Carter was the kind of man who could handle a direct approach, so she went straight in.

“What do you think is wrong?” Camilla asked, her voice low and probing.

James sighed, leaning back in his chair, visibly frustrated. “I’ve no idea. I’m at a real loss, to tell you the truth. I manage the infrastructure here, not the actual science.”

Dead end. Camilla clenched her jaw, realizing she’d made a misstep. She should’ve taken a few days to get properly briefed by Ben. This wasn’t just frustration—it was a tactical error.

Camilla stood, cutting the meeting short. “Okay, everyone can go home, but they need to be available at a moment’s notice.” She glanced at Alec through the glass door, one of the Watchers, who caught the signal and immediately radioed Ben. Within minutes, they were all in the car, hurtling down the road to their new base.

The tension was palpable as they drove. Camilla, staring out of the window, spoke to Ben. “Let’s eat first, then have a meeting around six.”

Ben nodded, though it was clear from his expression that he didn’t fully know what to expect. But he knew one thing—Camilla was going to need answers. Fast.

Their destination: an old hotel which had been converted into a secure base. As they pulled through the gate, Camilla noticed a small gatehouse off to the right, where a security team had set up shop. The hotel grounds had all the makings of a fortress—high walls, a spacious car park, and a perimeter lined with gardens that concealed any movement from the outside. The hotel itself was grand with big Roman pillars at the front entrance.

As Camilla stepped out of the car, she was met by Eric, the Major in charge of the Movers. They shook hands firmly.

“You’ve done well, Eric,” Camilla said, her tone sharp but appreciative. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries—there were bigger things at play. Just as she made her way inside, Harrier appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I had no idea you were here,” Camilla said, her eyes narrowing.

“No one ever knows where I am,” Harrier replied with a sly smile. “That’s how I operate. I pop in and out, just like magic.”

Her appearance wasn’t by chance; she was there at Ben’s request, a buffer to help soften the blow. Ben knew Camilla’s patience was wearing thin, and Harrier was the best at defusing tension.

“Why don’t we show you around, get you familiar with the setup?” Harrier suggested, ever the diplomat.

“That’s a good idea,” Camilla agreed, her mind already working through potential strategies.

Eric, eager to catch up, joined them on the tour. Harrier led the way, explaining the layout. “You’re not on the top floor, Camilla. But your room’s got a great view and a big table.”

Sure enough, Camilla was satisfied with her room—a spacious executive suite with a panoramic view and a large desk for her work. The shower was generous too, a small but important comfort in the midst of all the chaos. Her room, a little oasis before the impending riot, she thought.

Camilla glanced at Eric. “Big step up from the last place.”

Eric smirked. “Yeah, that one was more beggars-can’t-be-choosers. At least the chef’s happy with the kitchen.”

Downstairs, Eric showed her the basement, where the real work happened. The meeting room had been soundproofed, and counter-surveillance systems were in place. Camilla’s office was huge—exactly how she liked it, with plenty of space to spread out her files and pin up pictures on the walls. Next door were Ben and Eric’s offices, followed by other workspaces and a fully equipped control centre with computers and monitors manned by a team of eight. The nerve centre of their operation. Harrier’s desk was situated so she could see everything going on.

Ben turned to Alec, “Status update?”

Alec, always alert, responded, “All quiet.”

Camilla, not surprised, said, “I guess that’s to be expected with the arrival of the investigation. But quiet never lasts. I have a feeling this could be a slow burn before the fireworks start. And when they do, it won’t be pretty. Hard to believe anyone would be stupid enough to challenge the British Ministry of Defence with a £400 million contract on the line. You’d have to be a complete idiot. Anyway, I’m starving—how about you lot?”

There was a chorus of agreement. For now, the battle would wait.

Dinner was set up with military precision. Roast beef, vegetables, and gravy were served in the officers’ dining room, followed by apple pie and cream. No one spoke much. Idle chatter wasn’t their strong suit—Top Secret lives didn’t allow for small talk. Harrier broke the silence with a question about Camilla’s chess pieces, while Eric mentioned his new holiday home in Spain, though he admitted he’d probably never see much of it. The moment of quiet was just that—a moment.

When dinner ended, they headed back to the basement. Now, it was time to get to work.

Camilla took her seat at the head of the table, eyes sharp and focused. “Let’s start with you, Ben.”

Ben looked relieved. This was his chance to bring Camilla up to speed. The stack of papers in front of him suggested it would be a long night. The lights dimmed, the projector whirred to life, and a man’s face appeared on the wall.

Ben started with a name that immediately set the tone. “Let’s start with Gordon Adams.”

Camilla leaned forward, a chill settling in her stomach. Gordon Adams—the head cleaner with access to sensitive areas. The description that followed wasn’t one Camilla had anticipated.

Ben didn’t flinch as he continued, “Adams is an unusual character. By day, he’s the Cleaning Manager with top-secret clearances, making sure everything’s spotlessly in order. But by night and weekend, he’s a different story. He’s a performer of sorts—likes to dress up as Spiderman. And not just any Spiderman, mind you. Crotchless Spiderman. Fully booked, too.”

Harrier and Eric couldn’t help but laugh. Camilla’s mind was racing. A man with that kind of double life was an easy target—someone who could be exploited, twisted.

“Okay, what does Spiderman get paid per gig?” Camilla asked, her voice cool.

“Roughly one hundred and twenty-five pounds each,” Ben replied.

Camilla did the quick maths in her head. “That’s around eight hundred and seventy-five pounds a week.”

Ben nodded. “Actually, more. He does four to six gigs every weekend.”

“That’s seventy-eight thousand a year,” Camilla added, the figure sinking in like a stone.

“And he earns twenty-eight thousand a year as a cleaner,” Ben confirmed. “Altogether, it’s close to a hundred grand annually.”

Camilla’s gaze sharpened. A man like that, living in both worlds, was a ticking time bomb. “A pervert like Adams could be easily compromised. What did Maxley’s background checks find?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” Ben said, his tone flat.

Camilla’s fury simmered beneath the surface. A £400 million contract, and they missed this? The kind of oversight that could cost lives. “Truly amazing. What else?”

Ben’s next words tightened the noose around the situation. “He did a gig for Alexander Berkanovski.”

Camilla shot up from her seat, adrenaline spiking. “Berkanovski!” she shouted—one of the three Russian businessmen known for espionage in the UK. Her fist slammed into the wall, a dull thud in the tense room. This wasn’t just a mistake; this was a breach. She turned to Ben, her anger tempered with sudden understanding. “I’m sorry for being hard on you, Ben.”

Ben nodded, calm under pressure. “It’s okay. I knew once you got the full picture, things would change.”

Camilla let the realisation settle. This wasn’t just an isolated perversion—this was the tip of something bigger. She pressed on, “How long has he been at this? And who’s his pimp? All these gigs—this could be part of a larger setup. What else do we know?”

Ben delivered the details with precision. “Adams was in the Army for about a year and a half, but got discharged for not taking life seriously, despite multiple warnings. Then he joined the British Police, lasted a year, and they let him go too. After that, he served a prison sentence of three years for theft. That was thirty years ago, so it might not have flagged in Maxley’s background checks. Since then, he’s been floating around with drug dealers and prostitutes. That’s our Gordon Adams.”

Camilla’s expression was steely. This was a man with deep vulnerabilities, someone who could be turned against them easily if he hadn’t been already.

She looked at Ben, her tone sharp. “Very well done, Ben. Anything else?”

Ben nodded, but his expression tightened. “That’s the worst of it on him. We’ve got a team on him twenty-four-seven. I’ll dig into how long he’s been running around as Spiderman and who his pimp is. Moving on, we’ve got Mr and Mrs Wellington. Both are swingers, open relationship. She’s bringing in a black male prostitute once a week—same guy, so far. Wellington himself had a thing with his PA until Oliver Jackson, the Operations Director, won her over. Financially, there’s nothing irregular—he’s worth nearly three hundred and seventy-eight million pounds.”

Camilla listened carefully, her mind racing with connections. The Wellingtons were playing their games, but was it just that? Or was there something deeper beneath the surface?

“Next,” Ben continued, “we have James Carter, the second in command. So far, nothing on him.”

Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “He’s got three different pictures of him in his office on the same yacht. That thing’s probably worth millions.”

“I’ll check into that,” Ben said, making a note. “Then we’ve got Johan Van der Linder, the Production Director. Solid track record, finances look fine, but he’s having a long-running affair with the same person. Tony Grenfell, the Chief Scientific Director—he’s bat shit crazy, but apparently, he’s brilliant. Every project he’s touched has been a success. He’s been headhunted three times by top organisations since we’ve been here. No relationships, no social life—he’s a complete recluse.”

Camilla let that sink in. A brilliant mind with no personal connections—dangerous, if not properly managed.

“Jonathan Chapman, Deputy Scientific Director, still lives with his parents,” Ben continued. “His brother’s a policeman with a good track record. Chapman never had a girlfriend. He’s into motorbikes and seems to live within his means. Betty Swanson, the Financial Director—sharp at her job, but she chews men up for breakfast and spends a lot of time on porn sites. Carol Cooper, aka CC, the Bookkeeper—solid with the numbers, but lonely. Nothing unusual on her. And finally, Head of Security Brian Hamilton. Ex-police, good track record, family man.”

Camilla leaned forward. “Do we know what Hamilton’s IQ is?”

“We’ll dig into his test scores,” Ben said, jotting it down.

Camilla nodded. “First thing tomorrow, then. You’re doing well, Ben. What active operations do we have running?”

“We’ve got listening equipment in the homes of all persons of interest, their cars, and all over the workplace,” Ben replied. “Ops team is on it twenty-four-seven. Eyes on Wellington and Spiderman around the clock. Manpower’s tight, though. We’re still working through the other 127 staff at Maxley.”

Camilla’s gaze darkened. She needed to process this information carefully. “Right. I need to digest all of this and figure out our next steps. Let’s have breakfast tomorrow and start the first strategy meeting at 09h00 hours. You’ve all done incredibly good work. Get an early night—tomorrow, we’re at battle stations. Except you, Harrier—I need a word.”

Eric and Ben left the room. Harrier didn’t miss a beat. “What do you need, boss?”

“Any update on Hunter?” Camilla asked.

Harrier’s eyes expanded. “He’s been offered a job at Military Command.”

Camilla leaned back in her chair, thinking quickly. “How did the background checks go?”

“Still ongoing, but we’re down to the small details. I’m confident they’ll work out. Should have it all wrapped up in a week, ” Harrier replied.

Camilla’s decision was rapid. “Get him on the next flight. He’s not ready for that job. He needs this first—needs to see how things really work before he takes on that kind of responsibility. Do we know who he’s talking to in Military Command?”

“Not yet,” Harrier said.

Camilla’s tone sharpened. “I want him here. ASAP.”

Harrier hesitated. “I get the logic, but bringing him here…”

“Letters can get lost,” Camilla interrupted. “Phone calls can be ignored. Video calls—detached. But face-to-face, that’s where the real deals are made. We can’t afford to lose him, so it’s chess, one-on-one. I’ll close it. Just work your magic, Harrier.”

Harrier smiled, offering a mock salute before leaving.

Camilla moved into her office, laying out the dossiers and images that Ben had briefed her on. The suspects were colourful, but that wasn’t unusual in operations like this.

Harrier popped her head around the door again. “Decaf coffee?”

Camilla smiled. “I’d love one.”

Harrier made the best coffee, and Camilla needed the taste without the kick. As she pinned the information on the wall in order of priority, Harrier returned with a steaming cup.

She pointed at the image of Spiderman and laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s funny or just plain sad.”

Camilla sipped the coffee, her mind turning. “Sad. He specialises in having zero integrity, which makes him dangerous. On another note, is there anything else I need to know?”

Harrier hesitated, running through the details in her mind. “No, nothing pressing. Everything’s on target. I like this phase of operations—the net’s tightening. It’s… exhilarating.”

Camilla grinned. Harrier thrived on the tension, the chase.

Alone again, Camilla stood back and studied the wall. This whole thing felt like sabotage. The motives, the players—it all pointed to outside interests, and the Russians were the likeliest contenders, with the Chinese or North Koreans next. The British torpedoes were fast and the deadliest in the game. If they worked as intended, they’d change the balance of power in the sea entirely. A burning pain came from knowing whoever was behind this had anticipated the investigation. They were ready, a step ahead, making them more dangerous.

Camilla’s mind flicked back to her conversation with Wellington. Something was off—Wellington didn’t seem to care as much as someone in his position should. Whether he was guilty or not, it was a glaring red flag. Camilla stepped out of the office, caught Harrier’s eye, and said, “Don’t forget to get an early night.”

She nodded, and Camilla headed to her bedroom. She needed the quiet, the space to think.

At her table, she unfolded her chessboard, the memories of her grandfather flooding back. His voice echoed in her mind: Birds of a feather flock together. Spiderman might just be the key to unravel everything.

Camilla was on the edge of a strange dream with crotchless when she snapped back. No time for that. She rolled out of bed and headed straight for a cold shower, letting it slap her awake. In the mirror, her face stared back at her. Make-up could wait. Maxley could wait.

Dressed in minutes, her mind already whirring with the complexities of the day ahead, she moved to her office. The door—slightly open. That was enough to jolt her senses into high alert.

Inside, a tall figure stood by the images on the wall. General Philip Morgan. The man appeared like a ghost, always when least expected. His presence was both a comfort and warning.

“Good to see you, professor,” Morgan said, his smile wide.

“General,” Camilla replied, apprehension unspoken between them.

Morgan didn’t waste time. He wanted an update. Camilla gave it straight. “Top suspect is Gordon Adams. Cleaning Manager with access to top-secret areas. Moonlights as crotchless Spiderman. He’s getting paid seventy grand in gigs every year. Someone’s feeding him. He’s the hotspot at Maxley.”

Morgan listened, absorbing every word, the weight of his presence shifting the air in the room. He asked how he could assist. Camilla didn’t hesitate.

“I need updates on all foreign operatives. Shortlist every spy in the area.”

Morgan nodded, eyes cold with intent. “That’ll be my number one priority.”

His timing was perfect. Before leaving, Morgan gave Camilla a firm pat on the shoulder and added in a low voice, “Watch yourself on this one. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

The words hung in the air after Morgan left. Camilla felt it too. Greg had died on their last mission, and this one was shaping up to be just as dangerous. Shaking it off, she headed out—and bumped into Ben.

“Was that Morgan?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” Camilla replied, keeping it brief.

Upstairs, Eric and Harrier were already at the breakfast table. Camilla scanned their faces. “You two get any sleep?”

Eric had. Harrier’s guilty look said enough. Breakfast was routine, the kind of meal where no one tasted anything, minds already on the day ahead.

They moved to the meeting room, the air thick with tension. Camilla broke the silence. “Anything happen overnight?”

Ben was first. “Checked in with everyone. Nothing.”

Harrier spoke next. “I spoke to Hunter’s Commanding Officer. He agreed he’s not ready for Military Command, so he’s coming to us today.”

Ben perked up. “Who’s Hunter?”

Camilla filled him in. Harrier reassured them. “Hunter’s been vetted thoroughly. No issues.”

Camilla smiled, nodding. “Good work, Harrier. Now, today’s priority is Adams. We need to find his handler, the one feeding him. That could break this open. But don’t get tunnel vision. We’ve got multiple threads here. We are getting a full list of every spy in the UK—their names, locations, agendas.”

Ben and Harrier nodded, sharp and focused. Camilla continued. “How does Adams’ communicate? Ben?”

Ben rattled off the list. “Gmail and Twitter, though he’s not very active. We’ve got a fake Facebook account. He accepted our friend request. He’s close to the 5,000-friend limit. No dark web activity so far. He’s slow on the keyboard, bad spelling. We’re checking for dead drops or innocent-seeming posts. Basic spy-craft.”

Alec appeared in the doorway. “Cleaner just got his regional newspaper delivered.”

Camilla half-smiled. “Thanks, Alec. ” Harrier was already suggesting the military code-cracking team take a look at the paper.

Camilla knew they needed CC1—the elite code-cracking unit. Eric offered ground support. “I can get out there and do some surveillance. And maybe bring a few more hands to the game.”

Camilla nodded. “Let’s get those extra hands.”

Ben visibly relaxed. The team was pulling together. Camilla added, “And let’s not forget, Adams isn’t alone. Someone’s feeding him leads from somewhere.”

The maze was growing clearer. But every step forward felt like it could trigger something lethal.

They adjourned. Camilla returned to her office, pinning notes to the wall, connecting dots. Adams was at the centre of something far bigger. The real players were still in the shadows.

Harrier poked her head in. “Hunter should be here by dinner.”

Camilla glanced up. “Willingly or kicking and screaming?”

Harrier grinned. “Willingly Camilla.”

Camilla chuckled. “How many suitcases?”

Harrier paused, smirking. “I’ll spy on him when he arrives.”

Moments later, she returned with a report. “Two foreign operatives in the area.”

Camilla took the report and circled a third name. The usual suspects—Russia, China—were already in play. Now North Korea was in the mix.

An emergency briefing was called. They gathered quickly, tension thick. Ben grabbed his phone, “I’ll get onto Military HQ for a situation report.”

Ben’s call confirmed the Russians and Chinese were already being watched. North Korea? Unchecked. Not for long. Camilla laid out the strategy, razor-sharp.

“We go through the front door on this one. Full recon. Move in. Arrest everyone. Strip everything—files, computers, the works. Leave nothing.”

Ben and Harrier mobilised, gathering intel. The plan was in motion.

Hunter arrived, his tactical mind on-point. Camilla welcomed him, giving a quick tour of the office.

Camilla’s secure phone rang, so Harrier whisked Hunter away for the full tour, seamlessly slotting him into the team.

But unease clawed at Camilla. Hunter was stepping into Greg’s shoes, and that wouldn’t be easy. Hunter didn’t have the full picture. After dinner, she pulled him aside.

“I need to be upfront with you. You’re taking over the role of someone who was more than just a colleague. His name was Greg. He was killed on the last mission.”

Hunter met her gaze. “What happened?”

Camilla explained the raid. “We took fire. Tactical, but fatal. Your role won’t be like his, but there’s danger. We’re talking £400 million and state secrets.”

Hunter didn’t flinch. “I’m in, all the way.”

Camilla nodded, relieved. “Good. Though I still haven’t figured out how you beat me at chess.”

Hunter laughed. “Care for a rematch?”

“Now? ” Camilla said.

Before they could continue, Harrier reappeared. “Next meeting?”

The tension in the meeting room was electric. Camilla started. “Anything new?”

Harrier reported. “CC1 found nothing in Adams’ newspaper.”

Ben added. “Picked up a possible radio signal near Adams’ house. Could be short-wave comms. We’re still checking.”

Camilla nodded. “Good. Anything else?”

Ben continued. “Wellington’s at his club. Mrs Wellington’s rent boy is on site. Gordon’s got a gig tonight. We’ve got extra hands on the Koreans tomorrow.”

The pieces were moving. The operation was escalating.

Everyone took positions in the Ops Centre, including Hunter, tension palpable. Nine guests were on their way to Gordon’s depraved show, and Camilla’s team was ready. Each face caught on camera was analysed.

Then MI5 got a hit—Josh Barron, known drug dealer. Another piece in the puzzle.

Harrier couldn’t help but laugh. “Has the show started?”

Camilla shot her a look. “Keep it together.”

Ben stayed focused. “Any link between the Wellingtons and drugs?”

“Nothing solid yet. We could arrange a drug test Monday,” Ben suggested.

Camilla nodded. “Do it. No one exempt.”

Just then, Ben’s team reported. “Rent boy’s gone.”

Camilla tensed. “Can we get his place wired?”

Ben sighed. “Too risky. The building’s full of paranoid dealers.”

Harrier jumped in. “I can help with that. I’ll see if the council has any flats overlooking.”

Ben nodded, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take any help.”

“I’ll get onto the council tomorrow,” Harrier added.

“We’ll monitor his phone,” Ben said. “And if the team can get close, we’ll plant a tracker on his car.”

The train was picking up speed, and F2-1C was hurtling towards something explosive.

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