05:51 a.m. – 64°11'N 51°44'W, 22 nautical miles west of Nuuk
Former Icelandic patrol vessel "Freya", now unregistered
The cutter cut through black water like a blade. Below deck smelled of diesel, wet wool, and old secrets.
Marcus Vale sat on a metal bench in the mess, wrists zip-tied behind him, breathing through the pain. A purple bloom was already spreading across his cheekbone where Gareth's second punch had landed after they dragged him inside.
Gareth stood opposite, coat off, sleeves rolled, forearms corded and scarred. Mira leaned against the bulkhead, wrapped in a borrowed Royal Navy duffel coat three sizes too big, hair still dripping ice water onto the teak deck.
No one spoke for a long time.
Finally Vale lifted his head. His smile was crooked, almost fond.
"You hit harder than I taught you."
"You taught me everything," Gareth answered. "Including how to spot a traitor."
Vale's eyes flicked to Mira. "Still keeping poisonous company, I see."
Mira blew him a kiss with gloved fingers. "Careful, old man. Poison's my love language."
Gareth pulled a steel chair, spun it, sat backwards. "Start talking, Marcus. Why sell me? Three hundred and eighty billion isn't pocket money even for you."
Vale tested the zip-ties. They didn't give. "It was never about the money, son."
"Don't call me son." The words cracked like a whip.
Vale's smile died. "Fine. It was about the future. The City was dying, slow strangulation by Brussels, Washington, Beijing. ORPHEUS was supposed to be Britain's parachute. Black funds to buy influence, silence enemies, keep the lights on when the empire finally collapses. You were… collateral."
"Collateral," Gareth repeated, tasting the word like spoiled meat. "They put my name on a kill list in twelve countries. My mother still lights a candle every Sunday."
Vale looked away. "I voted against killing you. Harrow overruled me."
"And tonight you sent Typhoons to finish the job."
"Precaution. You've become… unpredictable."
Mira laughed softly. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about him."
Gareth stood, walked to the chart table, opened the waterproof pouch, slid the original ORPHEUS USB across the surface.
"Everything's on here. Names. Accounts. Dead-man triggers. You're going to help me burn it all, Marcus. Every pound, every favour, every life you bought with my death."
Vale stared at the drive like it was radioactive. "If that ledger goes public, half the Cabinet falls. MI6, MI5, GCHQ, they'll all be gutted. You'll hand Britain to her enemies on a silver platter."
"Maybe," Gareth said. "Or maybe Britain gets to start clean."
He drew the Glock, laid it on the table beside the drive.
"Two choices. You sit down with me right now, give me every code, every handshake, every offshore vault. We cauterise the wound together. Or I put a round in your knee and we do it slower."
Vale's eyes flicked to the pistol, then to Gareth's face. He saw no mercy there. Only winter.
He exhaled, long and defeated. "Untie me."
Mira stepped forward with a combat knife, sliced the zip-ties. Vale rubbed circulation back into his wrists, then reached for the laptop bolted to the bulkhead.
"Passphrase is your birthday backwards," he said quietly. "You always were sentimental."
Gareth didn't smile.
07:20 a.m. – Wheelhouse
Greenland's coast rose ahead: black rock, white ice, sky the colour of old steel.
Vale worked in silence, fingers flying. Lines of code reflected in his eyes.
- £87 bn rerouted → UK Treasury covert resilience fund
- £94 bn → NHS black budget (pandemic contingencies)
- £199 bn → Crown contingency (monarchy protection post-Elizabeth)
Every transfer now carried Gareth's digital signature, but the destination was no longer personal accounts. It was the state itself. Clean, untraceable, and impossible to weaponise against him.
Mira watched the numbers climb. "You're giving it back."
"I'm weaponising it," Gareth corrected. "If anyone ever tries to reopen ORPHEUS, the money detonates into daylight. Checkmate."
Vale closed the laptop. "It's done. You've just neutered the most powerful slush fund in British history."
"And you," Gareth said, "are going to disappear for real this time."
Vale looked suddenly old. "Where?"
"Somewhere warm. With no internet and no extradition. You'll live. That's more than you gave me."
The cutter slowed. A small wooden jetty appeared out of the mist, a single Zodiac tied alongside.
Vale stood. For a moment he looked like he might say something, an apology, a goodbye, a curse. Instead he just nodded once and walked to the rail.
Gareth followed him out onto the deck. The wind cut like razors.
At the gangway Vale paused.
"I was proud of you," he said to the sea. "Still am."
Then he climbed down into the Zodiac and cast off. The little boat vanished into the ice fog within minutes.
Mira came to stand beside Gareth. "You let him live."
"He taught me mercy is a luxury," Gareth said. "Today I could afford it."
She studied his profile. "And now?"
"Now the ledger is clean, the money is home, and every name that mattered is either dead or terrified." He turned to her. "War's over."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
He looked east, where the first pale blade of sunrise was cutting the horizon.
"No," he admitted. "But the next one won't be fought with money."
Mira slipped her hand into his. Cold fingers, warm blood.
"Good," she whispered. "I was getting bored."
Behind them, the cutter's engines rumbled back to life. Course: south-southwest. Destination: anywhere but here.
The wolf had burned the forest to save the kingdom.
Now he was free to hunt again.