Chapter 13: The Soldier
[The Crown and Anchor, Camden — May 18, 2008, 2:15 PM]
Sebastian Moran sat alone at the end of the bar like a weapon someone had left unattended.
James spotted him from the doorway—corner seat, back to the wall, sightlines to both exits. Military habit. The kind of positioning that was automatic for men who'd spent years in places where doorways were kill zones. He was drinking whiskey, no ice, and reading a folded copy of the Telegraph with the focused disinterest of someone who didn't care about the news but needed his hands occupied.
Priya's file had been thorough. Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the 1st Battalion, Royal Anglian Regiment. Three tours in Afghanistan. Distinguished marksman—confirmed kills at distances that made James's stomach tighten when he read the numbers. Discharged dishonourably in 2006 after an altercation with a commanding officer that left the CO with a broken orbital bone and Moran with the end of a twenty-year career.
Since then: freelance. The polite word for contract killer. Three known employers had tried to retain him exclusively. All three had been refused. Moran worked alone, chose his own jobs, and answered to nobody.
The drug trial with Jerry had cleared two days ago. Two kilos of Mehmet's Turkish product, transferred through a chain of cutouts so clean that Jerry's people never knew the supplier's name and Mehmet's logistics coordinator never knew the buyer's. Five percent broker fee—five thousand pounds, deposited through Marcus's layered accounts. Jerry was satisfied. Mehmet was pleased. The system worked.
But systems needed protection. And protection required someone like the man at the end of the bar.
James crossed the pub. Sat down across from Moran without asking permission. The stool creaked. Moran's eyes came up from the newspaper—grey, flat, the colour of overcast sky above a firing range. They moved across James's face, his hands, his posture, cataloguing threat level with the efficiency of a machine designed for exactly that purpose.
"Colonel Moran."
"Don't call me that." The voice was clipped. Southern English, officer class, the vowels rounded by education and flattened by years of talking to soldiers. "I'm not a colonel anymore."
"Fine. Moran." James folded his hands on the bar. "I'm not here to hire you for a job."
"Then you're wasting both our time."
"I'm here to offer you something better than jobs."
Moran set down his whiskey. The glass met the bar with a precise click—controlled, deliberate, the way everything about this man appeared to be. He didn't speak. He waited. The silence was a test, and James recognised it because he used the same technique himself.
"You've been freelancing for two years," James said. "High-value contracts, selective targeting, excellent operational security. But freelancing is reactive. You wait for the phone to ring. You execute someone else's decision. You go home. Repeat." He paused. "That's not what you trained for. You trained to command."
Something shifted behind Moran's eyes. Subtle. A door that had been locked, rattling in its frame.
"You don't know what I trained for."
"I know you had a battalion. I know you led men in combat. I know you made decisions that kept people alive, and I know you lost that—not because you failed, but because you held someone accountable who deserved it." James held Moran's gaze. "The army took your rank. It couldn't take the instinct."
Moran picked up his whiskey. Drank. Set it down again. Same precise click.
"Who are you?"
"James Moriarty. I'm building something, and I need someone who can think tactically, not just shoot accurately."
"Building what?"
"A network. Criminal, yes. But structured, disciplined, planned. Not the usual mess of thugs and addicts stumbling through operations. Something with architecture." James leaned back. "I don't need a gun for hire. I need a strategic partner. Someone who understands command, logistics, operational planning. Someone who can take my designs and make them survive contact with reality."
Moran studied him. Thirty seconds. A minute. The pub murmured around them—afternoon drinkers, a football match on the television, the clatter of glasses. James kept still. Patience was the currency here. Moran wasn't the kind of man you rushed.
"Every employer I've had," Moran said finally, "has tried to buy me with money or scare me with threats. You're the first one who's tried to sell me a mission."
"Is it working?"
The corner of Moran's mouth moved. Not a smile. An acknowledgment. "I'll think about it."
James nodded. Stood. Reached for the bar and settled Moran's tab—three whiskeys, twelve pounds. A small gesture, but gestures mattered with men who watched everything.
"First employer who didn't try to intimidate me," Moran said.
"You can't intimidate a tiger," James said. He buttoned his jacket—the Westwood, dark navy, a uniform of its own kind. "You can only give it a reason to follow."
He left. Walked two blocks to where Kevin waited in the Audi, engine idling, pine air freshener turning slowly in the dashboard vent. The same air freshener. The same car. James wondered briefly if Kevin had bought a bulk pack, or if the original had simply survived two months of London driving through sheer chemical stubbornness.
"How'd it go?" Kevin asked.
"Seed planted."
"Will he come?"
"I don't know."
James pulled out his phone. Checked messages. Jerry had texted: Second order. Five kilos this time. Same quality. The network was compounding. Mehmet's product, Jerry's distribution, James's brokerage. Five percent per transaction, scaling with volume. The maths were beautiful.
His phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
"Tell me more about this 'something better.' Tomorrow. Same place. -SM"
The tiger was curious.
Note:
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.