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Duty

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He doesn't like killing people. It comes with the job, and the job needs doing, but he worries sometimes that he's not much different from the bastards on the other side.

Freedom is priceless, people say. What they mean is that freedom's fucking expensive. Sometimes you pay in insomnia and a seasick conscience; sometimes you pay in your own blood.

He died for his country. That's how his best friend's gravestone is going to read, once it's ready. They're still carving it. He got them to show him a drawing; he doesn't expect to see the real thing. In a few days he'll probably have the grave next door.

He's got a war to fight. Some of it's revenge, yeah, and he's going against orders, doing this. But some of it's plain cold duty. This is an enemy that's too knowledgeable and too ruthless to turn your back on.

He checks his weapons: Walther PPK, Armalite, ammunition for both. Semtex. Detonators.

He's ready.

He'll do what he can for his country's freedom. And he's going to make those CI5 murderers pay.