The Cleaner

Meet John Milton

He considers himself an artisan. A craftsman. His trade is murder. Milton is the man the government sends after you when everything else has failed. Ruthless. Brilliant. Anonymous. Lethal. You wouldn't pick him out of a crowd but you wouldn't want to be on his list. But now, after ten years, he's had enough — there's blood on his hands and he wants out. Trouble is, this job is not one you can just walk away from. He goes on the run, seeking atonement for his sins by helping the people he meets along the way. But his past ca

The Cleaner

A career of state-sanctioned murder has taken its toll. Milton is troubled by nightmares, a long line of ghosts who torment his dreams. He resolves to make his next job his last and, then, perhaps, he can start to make amends for everything that he has done. Sharon Warriner is a single mother in the East End of London, suicidal with fear that she's lost her young son to a life in the gangs. After Milton saves her life, he promises to help. But the gang, and the charismatic rapper who leads it, is not about to cooperate with him. As London burns through summer riots, Milton finds himself in unfamiliar territory, dealing with an unfamiliar foe. And when his employer sends another agent after him, the odds against him are stacked even higher.

Mark Dawson

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

PART TWO

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

PART THREE

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

PART FOUR

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

PART FIVE

51

52

53

54

55

56

EPILOGUE

57

58

59

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Mark Dawson

The Cleaner

“We deal in lead, friend.” Vin, ‘The Magnificent Seven’

PROLOGUE

The road through the forest was tranquil, the gentle quiet embroidered by the gurgling of a mountain rill and the chirruping of the birds in the canopy of trees overhead. The route forestière de la Combe d’Ire was pot-holed and narrow, often passable by just one car at a time. Evergreen pine forests clustered tightly on either side, pressing a damp gloom onto the road that was dispelled by warm sunlight wherever the trees had been chopped back. The misty slopes of the massif of the Montagne de Charbon stretched above the treeline, ribs of rock and stone ru

It was a quiet and isolated spot, the outside world excluded almost as if by the closing of a door.

Milton had parked his Renault there, nudged against the shoulder of the mountain. It was an nondescript hire car; he had chosen it because it was unremarkable. He had reversed into the space, leaving the engine ru

Milton had scouted the area and knew it well. To the north, the road eventually led to Saint Jorioz, a medium-sized tourist resort that gathered along the shore of Lake A

Milton heard the engine of the BMW long before he saw it. He collected the rifle and slipped behind the trunk of an oak, hiding himself from the road but still able to observe it. The wine-coloured estate car was in second gear, struggling a little with the steep camber of the road. It emerged from the sharp right hand turn, its lights lit to illuminate a path through the gloom.

The car slowed and turned in towards the Renault. Milton held his breath, his pulse ticking up, and slipped his index finger through the trigger-guard of the rifle. The driver parked alongside and switched off the engine. Milton could hear music from the interior of the car. The passenger side door opened and the muffled music became clearer: French pop, disposable and inoffensive. The passenger bent down and spoke sharply into the car and the music was silenced. For a moment all Milton could hear was the crunch of the man’s shoes on the gravel, the rushing of the water and the wind in the leaves. He tightened his grip on the rifle and concentrated on keeping his breathing even and regular.

The driver’s side door opened and a tall, dark ski

Milton recognised both of them. The passenger was Yehya al Moussa. The driver was Sameera Najeeb.

He stepped out from behind the trunk and brought the HK53 to bear. He flicked the selector to automatic and fired off a volley of shots. The bullets struck Najeeb in the gut, perforating her liver and lungs. She put her hand to her breast, confusion spread across her face, and then pivoted and fell back against the side of the car. Najeeb shrieked, moving quickly, ducking down beneath the line contour of the car. Milton took two smooth sidesteps to his right to open up the angle again and squeezed off another burst. The scientist was trying to get back into the car; the bullets tattooed his body in a line from throat to crotch.

The fusillade sounded around the trees for a moment. Frightened birds exploded into the air on wingbeats that sounded like claps. The echo of the reports died and faded away and then, short moments after the brutal outburst of violence, all was quiet again; the wind rustled through the trees, the water chimed beneath the bridge, a nightingale called from high above.

Milton paused. There was another sound.

A second car approaching.

Hiding would have been pointless; the bloody tableaux would have given him away. The car emerged from the mouth of the forest. It was a Renault Megane, painted blue with white and red chevrons screen-printed across the bo