Archer Fade got up from the desk and stared out of the window. She always did this, before a mission. Scotland stared back at her, unseeingly. Fade sighed and shuffled the papers in front of her, trying to see sense in random titbits of information. Ten murders in ten weeks, all between 10-10:30pm on a Wednesday. All by a single bullet in the head. But where would the murderer next strike?
Today was Thursday. She had less than one week to find the place. How could she possibly find out where? Archer looked down at the map in front of her. The cities that the people were murdered in only had one thing in common: the victims were all murdered in an alley and stuffed in a dustbin. The cities that had been struck were:
Isle of Arran
Archer almost screamed in frustration. She had known this mission, just sitting and working things out, wasn't her forte. But no. Mr Borges had just given this to her, despite her protesting. Fade knew he hated her, and she hated him equally, with his glistening bald forehead and big, puffed red cheeks. She had cried when Miss P had died. Miss P was the closest thing she had ever had to a mother, and the only person she had ever trusted and cared about, and it made it worse when Mr Borges had arrived as the new head of R.E.B.E.L., fat, self-assured, slimy and now it was as if Mrs P had never been there.