“Lock that in a box with the other documents and see that they are burned. They must never be released.”
She nodded. “Prime Minister.”
“Thank you, Home Secretary.”
She turned to walk away. Stopped.
“Have we heard from Hewett?”
“No, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine. He’ll pop up somewhere, somehow, one day soon. He always does.”
“Mexican tonight? Take away? My treat?”
“You, Acting Prime Minister, have yourself a date.”
Cole resigned the next day. He was succeeded by Lane, who faced an uncertain political future. Within days she was announced to the public and hours later it had started. A new word would sweep across the British Isles. It was to become the most commonly spoken word in the history of the country. A wave of new opinions, divided families, destabilised financial houses, worried millionaires and their optimistic near cousins the entrepreneurs. One word had created an arena of trepidation among the people of Britain. One word.
Cade and his team had rid the country of a two word crime group – that called itself the Seventh Wave. They had started as misfits, led by a charismatic man who called himself the Jackdaw. As with all groups, they prayed for good fortune and it came in the form of a set of documents the value of which ran into many noughts. What it brought was the threat of wholescale disruption, ruin and riots.
Alex Stefanescu was Europe’s most wanted. Past tense. His body had finally surfaced upstream, having been lodged against a wharf for a week or so. His soul had been visited by the ghosts of a thousand or more. Sailors, coal-merchants, spice traders and lightermen had come to pay their respects, drifting through him, mocking him and dragging him down into the darkest reaches of the river.
He emerged onto the surface of a cool, misty and ever-present river. A passing skipper had spotted him and raised the alarm.
By the time divers had recovered the body, across from the old Battersea Power Station, it had bloated hideously. Its head was twice its normal size, eyes bulging, lips tight over teeth, limbs much heavier and a stomach that was grotesque in shape.
Rats had dined on the best parts and urinated on the rest, swimming around him like sharks eyeing up a surfer. To them he was a light lunch – nothing more. He would have despised them.
The media reported on a handless corpse and rumours spread like wildfire that a new criminal group was present in the city. Fingerprints weren’t an option, but DNA was and dental records, faxed from a willing dentist in the city of Craiova who said, for the record that he would know his work anywhere and that yes, the teeth belonged to Alex Stefanescu.
The man who considered himself the king of the gypsies had never become the Gypsy King. That title had gone to his brother, real name Luca Stefanescu, the firstborn and brother to Stefan and Alex. Luca had recognised a chance to better himself, had changed his name, entered the United Kingdom and gained an education. What followed was genuine success, where with a university backing he became a young Conservative, studied politics and gained a following. Rising through the ranks, he found himself just a few runs of the ladder away from running a country.
He had set a goal. And he was almost there. A few more years and he could really open up the border, create wealth and opportunity for his people, and above all be worshipped. That was until his little brother had provided evidence of his plans. The government watched and waited and saw that the rumour was true. A country with the reputation of Britain simply couldn’t allow it to happen, but equally couldn’t endorse murder by one of its own units.
Luca’s homeland provided the answer in the form of a former Romanian operator, with a Russian weapon, a Finnish bullet, a car from Germany, and gloves, hand crafted in England by the best in the world. It was a perfect example of cooperation and existing in harmony, at a time when the storm clouds that were gathering sought to rupture the very heart of the European Union.
Luca lay on a metal tray that was as cold as his body. He was drained of life and hope, and his dreams of a better future.
Above him his brother Stefan, eyes of blue and brown marble-cold skin, a man for whom the truth simply didn’t exist.
Beneath him, right at the very bottom, at the new Prime Minister’s wish was the handless corpse of their brother Alex. His coal-black eyes stared up at the steel tray above him; vacant, filled with hate, a sneer on his rigid face. He was now just another handwritten tag in a fridge full of bodies.
His mother always said he would come to nothing, and at his brutal hand she had made the journey to heaven, torn to pieces, left to die.
At least they would never meet. Instead, she could stand and watch over them, shaking her head in dismay, holding back a tear for each of her boys.
Three brothers. Her three beautiful sons. What had become of them? She was mortified. But now they could cause no more harm, and that meant she could finally rest.
Cade woke before her. Laid for a while, admiring the view. It was something he never thought would happen. Only days earlier they were both stood on a freezing, windswept platform, in the lap of the gods, battling against threats both knew could change many lives. They had survived. They had made it.
They had also survived what many said was the longest journey on the planet, where the next day he had found her asleep on an overly large bed, with the fine cream curtains wafting in the warming breeze. Overhead, a three-bladed fan beat against the air, its rhythmic sound soporific to an already exhausted traveller.
He climbed quietly out of the bed, gently pulled a cotton sheet over her naked body, kissed her gently then left. Outside, the morning was saying goodbye to the night, beginning to announce itself to the world. It was by far his favourite time of the day.
He found his favourite running shoes, just where he had left them, laced them, knotting them twice, selected a playlist on his phone, tucked the earphones in, just so. Then he ran, and as he did so he let go of the demons that had knotted around him over the last few weeks.
Soon he started to feel the resistance of a gentle incline. He acknowledged his senses, isolating themselves once more. His nose was now alive with the scent of the forest, his eyes squinting to avoid the piercing rays and his ears embracing the ever-changing sounds, the most notable of which was the distant pounding of waves upon a shore.
He picked up the pace, feet gently landing on pine needles, crushing them, lifting their scent into the air. Tall trees swayed in time with the ocean breeze. He was alone, and it felt wonderful.
It was quite possibly the most beautiful place in the world.
The story was almost over. A trilogy that had begun on an isolated beach in the Land of the Long White Cloud would also end there, but not before he had completed his final act – every run ended this way. Phone off, dropped onto his shirt, shoes next, left in an orderly pile.
He looked up the beach, about half a mile. A lone figure stopped raking up the seaweed. His powerful tribal-tattooed arm swept the perspiration from his forehead, then waved a greeting.
He waved back – for he was a friend and one who would come to him in a heartbeat. Just say the word, brother.
He ran, timing the entry into the Pacific Ocean, headfirst, into the blue, oxygenated bubbles fizzed all around him, the sea crashed above him; he was through the waves, each vying for his attention, tugging, turning, twisting. The sixth wave was powerful, the seventh more so.
He surfaced, blew away the stresses of the chaos and the almost constant fear of protecting a city and its people. Just let them drift away, trapped in the riptide.
It was good to let go and even better to be home.
In an hour he would be back at his summer house which he called Spindrift, it was his father’s favourite name for a boat, but Cade had never been a natural sailor.
He was greeted by fresh coffee, and a smile that said thank you – for last night – possibly even ‘I love you’. Not quite, but almost.
Business shirt, blue, checked
, crisply ironed. Nothing else.
In the far corner of the kitchen, on the stainless steel worktop, a phone sat in a cradle. A small blue light flashed every half second.
“I see you have a message,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. He was still warm and smelled of the ocean and the forest.
He pressed the button, and an English voice began to speak.
“Hello Mr Cade. You don’t know me, but I think you could help. At least they say you can. Can you ring me on this number? As soon as possible? Please.”
Acknowledgments
It was on the heart-breaking morning of saying goodbye to my dear old dad for the very last time, in a hospice in Kent, England, that the inspiration for the Seventh Wave trilogy began. Three years later, Seventh was published, followed quickly by its sequel Seven Degrees.
I have to thank the ‘old man’ for giving me the drive to finish the story. “Tell that story son – you need to, and people need to read it.”
I must also thank Claire, a six degrees, lifetime, slightly crazy, but such great company friend. Our paths crossed many years ago when as complete strangers we helped a mutual colleague who needed defending at a time of crisis. Claire was ‘ex-job’ – retired early with injuries sustained on duty and has continued to challenge my writing and my thoughts, but never my patience. Allowing someone to see the writing at its rawest takes courage. Reflecting upon it and providing feedback is equally brave.
To Mum. For your support and love when times were really tough. I know you are desperate to read the final book in the trilogy. And honestly, I can’t wait for you to finish it. Times were tough, often very, but we made it, didn’t we? I hope having your son in print means as much to you as it does me.
My children, Stephanie and Andrew. We have a relationship that goes way beyond parent/child. You are both, first and foremost, my friends. And that means that at times we can push the boundaries way beyond where they should be! I love you both equally, it’s impossible not to. I hope you enjoy your cameos.
Amanda. My always. Boy, what a year it’s been! I put the writing on hold to nurse you back to health, but it was your sheer determination that got you through and I am so in awe of your courage. I am quietly terrified that you won’t enjoy this story – to the end. Living under the same roof but never divulging the script has been tough. I love you more.
To my readers across the globe; Australia, New Zealand, Canada, The United States, United Kingdom, even a small town in India. Your feedback and genuine warmth are always so humbling. I hope that one day you can turn this from a door stop into a prized possession, alongside the truly greats of modern fiction.
To Kitty – for believing in an aging old Brit and for daring to challenge a sentence or ten! And on the subject of proof reading. I want to say a huge thank you to Lee, who Mother Nature decreed would have a special skill in the world of error spotting. I won’t say what her gift is but needless to say she has eyes as sharp as an eagle.
To the Twitter team. A world of online authors who are there for each other, and me, day and night. Despite the rumours, Twitter has been an incredible platform for me. To name but a few, David Perlmutter, Michael Jenkins, ‘Dennis Bisskit’ and the many, many great authors who inhabit a website called www.londoncrime.co.uk the brainchild of a truly lovely man who I shall call Jim, for that is his name. Lastly, on the author front it would be remiss of me, not to mention Donna Siggers. Donna and I met on Twitter. Since then, she has been supportive in so many ways. She’s also won awards, and that inspires me to try harder.
To the characters in the series. You know who you are. Some of you are still propping up the thin blue line so require an air of anonymity; some have moved on, but with each of you there is a bond stronger than many could ever imagine. I said last time that you are the mortar in society’s brickwork – I really cannot better that. Thank you for your support, great banter, for keeping our loved ones safe and above all thank you for allowing me to craft a character out of you. It’s never easy. I hope they meet with your approval!
To Russell, I say this. You may have moved, but you are but a short journey away. Quite how you manage to deal with my endless emails is beyond me. I only hope that one day you might reply. Thanks for the new logo – looks great. Simple, yet great. That’s the logo, not you. You are just great. For a Southampton fan. In his late forties.
This final chapter was intended for release in time for Christmas 2018, but fate dealt a few dark cards. In a way, perhaps it was a good thing. I’m positive that the story is better for a break. Coming to the end was cathartic, yet strangely sad. When a writer creates a character, they become a part of their lives – if mine have embedded themselves in your hearts and minds, then my work here is done.
There is no better feedback than listening to someone saying, “I couldn’t believe you did that to (insert character name).” Makes me smile.
I intend to bring Jack and the team back before Christmas 2019 in a new, standalone story that I just can’t wait to write.
Thank you for supporting me in everything I do.
It would be a travesty if I did not mention two wonderful people, once strangers and yet now friends, confidantes and mentors, occasionally humble students, sounding boards, passionate, eager, energetic and so supportive, they are Rebecca Collins and Adrian Hobart, the directors of Hobeck Books.
I feel we discovered each other when I was about to call time on my hopes and aspirations to finally be recognised as a genuine author and Hobeck were seeking new talent.
The planetary alignment was completed with a shooting star that lit up a velvet sky. I am so thrilled to be working with them and the other members of the Hobeck team. Thank you. x
Lewis
About the Author
Lewis Hastings is a pseudonym. He was born in 1963 (a by-product of the long, harsh winter of 1962) in Kent, the Garden of England.
By virtue of his father’s role as a Prison Officer he became somewhat nomadic, moving from county to county during his formative years. As quickly as he made friends, they became a distant memory.
His school life was a heady cocktail of fun, misery and abject failure which explains why he decided not to pursue a university career. He forged out a highly unsuccessful and miserable career in sales; a way to pay the bills and provide a home for his growing family. In 1988, a cathartic event changed his approach to life, and he spent two frustrating years trying to forge a new career as a Police Officer. By doing this he would in fact continue a family tradition stemming back to the early 1800s.
His career commenced with the Nottinghamshire Constabulary at a time of enormous change and he was soon posted to some of the most beautiful and dangerous locations in the county where he learned the noble art of policing, including community, intelligence and vice work (the latter, whilst challenging, at least offered a secondary income).
In 2003, wearing a different hat, he found himself in New Zealand, soon realising that the age-old maxim about excrement, locations and days of the week still rang true. Considered a subject matter expert in border related matters, Hastings brings absolute accuracy to all of his plots – having instigated the real life investigation into an international syndicate he can say with authority that this story is very true.
This is his fourth book. The first, an autobiography, Actually, The World Is Enough has attracted positive reviews for its ability to make the reader laugh and cry, often in the same sentence.
Hastings’ second book, Seventh, is a gritty crime thriller and the first part of a trilogy called The Seventh Wave.
The third, Seven Degrees has authenticity, dark humour and diverse characters which allow it to standalone in a sea of crime thrillers written by current and former law enforcement officers. Seven of Swords is the long-awaited finale.
Hastings is married with two children, a lake-loving Labrador, and lives in a house.
Hobeck Books – the home of great stories
We hope you’ve enjoyed
reading this book by the brilliant Lewis Hastings. To find out more about Lewis and his work please visit his website: https://lewishastings.wixsite.com/is-the-author.
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Also by Lewis Hastings
The Angel of Whitehall
Twelve women hunted by a deadly enemy
A young African woman’s body is found slumped in a London side street. Her stomach slashed open, a single diamond hiding within.
A shameful secret that must remain hidden
Former British police officer, Jack Cade, is the only man who can help unravel the mystery. Piecing together the fragments of information that an old man’s fragile memory reveals, Cade unearths a people trafficking conspiracy with links to the heart of the British Establishment.
They want his source silenced. Cade is the only person who can protect him. But who can Cade trust?
Reader reviews
Seventh
‘Emotions run high reading this thriller and I feel totally spent now.’
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 67
