No Tomorrow

“Wood's third novel to feature this fascinating antihero demonstrates once again the author's keen talent for balancing great character development with fast-paced action. It's difficult to root for someone who does not personify the typical hero, but Wood makes the reader care about a cold-blooded and ruthless killer. Definitely give this thriller a shot.”

—
Library Journal

“Compelling . . . the tension builds to a gorgeous crescendo.”

—
Mystery Scene

“If there's anything . . . Tom Wood knows, it's creating scenes that crackle with suspense, fascination, and copious action. . . . He creates the kind of taut drama that makes the pages fly. . . . You're going to enjoy this top-notch killer drama.”

—Critical Mystery Tour

“Tom Wood is the new master of the dark, intricately plotted chase thriller, a genre he's turned into a witty, if violent, cross between Robert Ludlum and Lee Child. . . . Few writers have taken us as deeply into the nuts and bolts of the spy world with such an entertaining sense of skepticism about those who seemingly secretly protect us.”

—
The Australian

“
The Game
is a strongly plotted story, exciting and thrilling from beginning to end. [It is] full of international intrigue, [and] one is never quite sure what Victor will do next. . . . Cool under fire and always the professional, Victor is a compelling ‘good bad guy.' Definitely
recommended for readers who enjoy their action nonstop and unpredictable.”

—Mysterious Reviews

Praise for
The Enemy

“Tom Wood has done his research and it shows. Tactical accuracy, globetrotting locales, and plenty of twists to keep you guessing to the last page.
The Enemy
makes James Bond look like a wannabe.”

—Brad Taylor,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Widow's Strike

“A hard-hitting and exceedingly smart thriller that races along with intensity and intrigue. Tom Wood grabs the reader from the opening scene and delivers a powerhouse of a novel with equal measures of high-octane action and fascinating details, creating a world for his characters that feels as real as it does dangerous. . . . Fans of Lee Child and Vince Flynn will not want to miss
The Enemy
.”

—Mark Greaney, national bestselling author of
Dead Eye

“From Bucharest to Bologna, and from Minsk to Moscow, the action is riveting.
The Enemy
is a thriller on steroids. . . . In Victor, [Wood] has brought to readers a character to rival Jason Bourne.”

—Gulf News

“A truly great read featuring an unforgettable character . . . this is a thriller to the nth degree. . . . Readers will crave to see this one appear on the big screen.”

—
Suspense Magazine

More Praise for the Thrillers of Tom Wood

“The scenes are vivid and the plot revelations parceled out at expert intervals . . . an impressively intricate thriller . . . exciting.”

—
The New Yorker

“A nonstop, breathless, trimmed-to-the-bone thriller with action sequences that are absolutely state-of-the-art. It's the best chase novel I've read in years.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Joseph Finder

“Jack Reacher meets Thomas Crown in this electrifying thriller.”

—Simon Kernick, author of
Ultimatum

“Authentically brutal.”

—
The Daily Telegraph
(UK)

“Wood is a name we'll rightly hear much more about.”

—
Daily Mail
(UK)

“A superlative fiction debut. Nonstop action that veers and twists from one explosive gun battle, betrayal, and double cross to the next. . . . Thriller fans will be eager to see more from this bright new talent.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Crackles like the early work of Robert Ludlum. . . . Wood brings an appealing and enigmatic main character into the mix, creating a refreshing and relentless story line.”

—
Booklist

“This bang-up thriller is just begging for the big screen.”

—
Library Journal

“This book isn't high-octane; it's rocket fuel on steroids.”

—CrimeSquad.com

“A must for thriller fans.”

—Shots Crime and Thriller Ezine

The Killer

Bad Luck in Berlin

(A Penguin Special)

The Enemy

The Game

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. This is an authorized reprint of an edition published by Sphere as
Better Off Dead
. For information address Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group; 100 Victoria Embankment; London, England EC4Y 0DY.

Copyright © Tom Hinshelwood, 2014

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-0-698-15605-0

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

For my parents

Bonn, Germany

T
oday was all about waiting. Some things could not be rushed. Patience and preparation were necessary for the successful completion of even the most routine professional killings. Such jobs could be considered routine only because of the preparation that went into them and the patience displayed in their execution. If corners were cut in the lead-up to the job—should any contingency not be considered and planned for—mistakes would surely follow. Mistakes would also occur if the job was undertaken with anything less than the requisite calm and diligence. In this instance, considering the target, adherence to these two protocols was not only necessary but imperative.

He was a man somewhere in his mid-thirties, but maybe older, maybe younger. It was hard to be sure because almost all of the intel on him was unverified. It was either speculation or hearsay, rumor or guesswork. He had no name. He had no residence. No friends or family. His background was nonexistent. He was not a politician or drug baron or war criminal. He was not military or
intelligence—at least actively serving—but he could not be called a civilian either. The only thing that was known with any certainty was his profession. He was a killer. The client had referred to him as
the
killer, warning that he had recently dispatched another team sent after him. If a book had been written on the art of professional assassination, he would have authored it. No such book existed, of course. If it had, the team getting ready to murder him would have memorized every word.

He had an unremarkable appearance. He was tall, but no giant. He had dark hair and eyes. The team's women could not decide if he was handsome or not. He dressed like a lawyer or banker in good-quality suits, though ones that were a little too big for his frame. When first they saw him he had been clean-shaven, but he now sported a few days' beard growth. The only notable thing about him was his slight limp, as he favored his right leg over the left. Not severe enough to take advantage of, they agreed.

A million euros sat in a Swiss escrow account. It was theirs upon providing proof of the killer's death. His intact head, preferably, or at the very least irrefutable photographic or video evidence.

They were a tight quartet—two men and two women. All Scandinavians: two Danes, a Swede, and a Finn. They had worked together for years. Always the four of them. Never using anyone else. Never operating if any of them could not be present. They were friends as well as colleagues. It was the only way to guarantee trust in the business of contracted killing. When they were not working, they socialized whenever they could. They took turns hosting the others for barbecues, dinner parties, and movie nights. They had been more than friends at various times, but those times had passed. Interteam relations
were bad for business, they had eventually agreed. Their assignments were inherently dangerous. They could not afford to be distracted.

There was no leader because they each had unique skills and talents and therefore inherent superiority in their own fields of expertise. When a bomb was used it was used under the instruction of the Danish demolitions expert, who named his devices after former lovers. When performing a long-range kill the Finnish woman, who had the most rifle experience, held seniority. When poison was required the Swedish chemist made the decisions in his authoritarian baritone. When shadowing a target the second Dane, who was an exceptional actress and knew the most about surveillance techniques, gave the orders. They operated democratically when no single team member held obvious authority. The arrangement worked well. Egos were kept in check. Jobs ran smoothly. No one got hurt—except the target. And never more than they were paid to be. The Scandinavians were not sadists. Except when they were hired to be.

It had been a unanimous conclusion that today they could only wait. The target was even more difficult to corner than they had been led to believe from the intel provided. He had no idea he was under surveillance, but his routine preventative measures bordered on the obsessive. Yet he was smart to use them. He was, after all, being hunted, and so far had given the team no opportunity to strike. Not only was he reputed to be an exceptional killer, but he was also proving exceptionally hard to kill. A good combination of talents, they all agreed, similarly agreeing that they should adopt some of his precautions into their own repertoire when this was over. Like him, maybe one day they would find themselves on the wrong end of a contract.

He was staying in a grand hotel in the city's central district. Aside from the main entrance, the hotel had three other ways in and out. They could watch them all, given their number, but in doing so spread themselves out too thinly to act when he showed. He never departed via the same exit nor returned through the same entrance twice in a row—until he did, obliterating any chance they had at predicting his next choice. The Finn, who was something of a statistician in addition to being an accomplished sniper, snapped a pencil in annoyance.

The target had a deluxe guestroom on the second floor. He had also booked the room next to it. That made it problematic to know in which he slept. The door that joined the two rooms made it impossible. It seemed he slept during the daytime. At least, he spent most of his time at the hotel during daylight hours, though never for a duration that would be conducive to a proper sleep pattern. The single longest period of time he could be verifiably in either of his rooms was five hours. Often he was in the hotel considerably longer, whether in the bar, restaurant, fitness center, or just reading a newspaper in the lobby. He never arrived at or left the hotel at anything close to the same time. The only habit he showed was in opting for the stairs, never the elevator, despite the limp.

Not that the hotel was a good strike point. The rooms he'd booked were located near the elevators, where foot traffic was common. They had little to no chance of orchestrating a kill without the interruption of other guests. It was hard not to become frustrated. They were used to choosing where and when to finish a job, not having their target decide for them where not to make it. They kept their annoyance in check, reminding one another to stay cool. This was all to be expected. Preparation and patience.

He appeared to have no routine outside the hotel. Sometimes he patronized street vendors peddling artery-clogging junk food. At other times he dined in restaurants serving the most exquisite and expensive cuisine. One afternoon he might spend several hours browsing exhibits in a single museum. The next he'd read a book, moving from café to café with it, never staying in any one establishment for more than an hour at a time, and sometimes for only a matter of minutes. When they had figured him so impersonal as to be almost a recluse, he then spent an evening charming women in a cocktail bar.

He had no mobile phone, but at what the Finn deemed random intervals he used Internet cafés or pay phones. They found no traces of his activities when the Danish surveillance specialist then used the same terminal or phone booth. They debated whether such activities were even necessary for him or if they were merely for show, to trip up and distract any undetected tail.

“It's working,” the Swede said.

They had no idea why he was present in the city. It could be for any number of reasons. Perhaps he was preparing for a job of his own, getting to know the city and his area of operations. Maybe he was on the run and keeping incognito where he hoped his enemies could not find him. Or could this even be how he lived day-to-day when he was not himself working? It was no life, they all agreed, however many zeroes he could command for his services. If every waking moment had to be spent in a perpetual sense of alertness, then there had to be better ways to make a living. It made them appreciate how fortunate they were. They looked forward to this job's completion and their next get-together. It was the Swede's turn to host and his wife was universally adored. She taught physics but
could be a professional party planner, as they would often tell the Swede to his pride.

A hit on the move proved just as troublesome to organize as one based on location. The target used buses, taxis, subways, aboveground trains, and walking with no discernible pattern. Distances were irrelevant. He might walk three miles to visit a coffee shop, yet take a cab for two blocks or spend an hour on the subway only to exit via the same station. How much the limp bothered him on such journeys, they could not tell.

In open areas he stayed in crowds and never walked in straight lines. When on narrow streets he kept away from the curb and close to storefronts. His hands were always outside his pockets. When he drank coffee on the move he did so by holding the cup in his left hand.

“So his primary hand is always available,” the Finn observed.

“What if he's ambidextrous?” one of the Danes asked.

The Finn replied, “Less than a one percent chance of that. For all we know, he uses his left hand to make observers think he's left-handed.”

“Let's assume he is ambidextrous,” the second Dane said. “Whatever hand is occupied, we consider him just as dangerous.”

The other three nodded.

They operated from a vehicle that was changed daily, renting a different van each morning. They would take turns sleeping in the back compartment while the others worked. They had multiple changes of clothes and other accessories to make sure he never recognized who followed him on foot. Sometimes they lost him in order to maintain their cover, but that was to be expected.
Take no risks
, they would tell one another. They knew he would
return to the hotel at some point, because the Danish surveillance expert had hacked into the hotel's registry system. They knew how long he was staying, how much he was paying for the two rooms, even what he ordered from room service and that he had requested feather-free bedding and smoking rooms.

“But he hasn't smoked a single cigarette in all the time we've watched him,” the Swede noted.

“No assumptions,” the Finn reminded him. “This guy's only consistency is inconsistency.”

“You sound like you respect him.”

“I do,” she said. “He's a lion.”

“A lion?”

She nodded and grinned. “His head will look great mounted above my fireplace.”