Day after day, week after week, carrying the fight to an enemy that was on the ropes but didn’t have the sense to go down.

Even when it was over, he didn’t have the time to breathe.

He was one of the best of the best. He had shown talents that proved he was needed to wheedle the woodworm. The ones who wouldn’t surrender, the ones who had to be hunted.

So he didn’t stop.

He never stopped.

When the battle was won, the occupation began. The Bear lived in the ruins he’d created. Picking off resistance wherever he was needed. There was nobody better at it than him, so he was the man who did it.

The hunter, the killer, taking no prisoners.

Eight? Or was it nine years since the first person fell in his sights? He’d lost count of the years, lost count of the deaths, and now none of it mattered or made sense.

He blinked. He was back.

He turned his head and looked to a black corner next to him where a rat was sniffing the air and scratching some rubble. The Bear stared; the rat paused, an eye glinting as it tried to decide if he was a threat.

He wasn’t.

The Bear lowered his hand. The rat sniffed his index finger and then darted away as he tried to stroke the top of its head.

He watched it retreating back to the shadows, then settled again, eye to the sight, same as always.

He saw the peeled-paint door opening.

He squinted, watching as first one man, then another, and then another exited through the doorway.

They weren’t happy, he could see it, and he knew why.

He smiled.

He shifted the rifle on the rest he had made out of rubble and old rags. He didn’t need to worry about the breeze and rain off the river. He was close enough. The bullets he’d polished and cared for would blast through the wind without giving it a second thought.

They just needed the right target for the first shot.

He scrolled through them.

Docker, docker, docker, driver, docker, seaman, too young, too old . . . suit.

One of them was wearing a suit.

Smart, dark, well cut, probably tailored. The man wearing it was walking to the car, squinting in the rain, one hand up to protect his hair.

“Hello,” the Bear said quietly, and the rat in the shadows stopped sniffing and looked at him again.

The Bear pulled the trigger.

It felt intimate, the violence passed between them like the brush of a lover’s lips.

They were one hundred yards apart, but still locked in an embrace.

Time seemed to stop.

Then there was the telltale spray.

Then the man in the suit dropped down dead.

The Bear breathed out, worked the rifle bolt without moving his elbows or head, then fired again. Like idiots in a silent film, the men from the warehouse were looking down at the body in the suit. One wiped a hand across his own blood-spattered face and stared at it.

The Bear shot him next.

The bolt click-clacked, smooth on its fresh oil.

The Bear breathed out through his nose.

Then shot the kid just behind the ear.

The bolt click-clacked, but this time he heard brass on brass as the ejected cartridge hit another in the rubble near his elbow.

They were ducking now, eyes looking up and around. He could see that a couple of them had pistols in their hands. The streetlamp next to them flickered as the city electricity supply labored under the strain.

One more.

He shot the one crouching on the wrong side of the car.

He deserved to die for being an idiot.

The Bear shifted slightly, trying to mark a target through the side windows of the vehicle. The streetlamp’s flicker and the rain made it difficult. He blinked, waited for a shift in a shadow, a sign, something to kill.

Someone shot out the streetlamp.

The Bear waited for his eyes to adjust.

Everything seemed blue, deep blue and black.

He waited.

He sighed. He’d only shot four of them. He’d wanted more. He drifted his aim back to the door, which was still closed, the paint sucking the light out of the sight. He scanned the car again.

Nothing.

He frowned.

Four would have to do.

He thumbed the safety and then, using his elbows, pushed himself up to his feet. He waited a second, the rifle still in his shoulder, his eye near the sight, as he scanned the scene one last time.

Nothing but the pooling blood.

Time to go.

The Bear slung the rifle over his shoulder, then picked up his satchel and StG 44 assault rifle. He turned, took a step, and dropped through a gap in the floorboards down to the floor below. It was almost pitch black, and although his night vision was still weak from the streetlamp, he moved fast. He’d spent long enough beforehand tracing the route out of the warehouse. He knew every broken floorboard, every overhanging beam.

He was the Bear; he didn’t make mistakes.

He moved like a slick black cat in the nighttime shadows. Smooth, fluid, light on his toes, with soft words on his lips barely louder than the breath that carried them.

“Four steps, turn right, drop down . . .”

He stopped only once, at the blasted hole in the wall, on the ground floor where he had gained access.

He listened to the falling rain slapping on the cobbles. The alleyway was empty.