Neath A Pilgrim. Autumn. S.W coast of England. Daybreak. Recent past.

Pilgrim stumbled onto the pebble beach of the deserted cove. Her bare feet were bloodied. She clutched a torn coat about her slim body. Her lengthy hair was plastered to her face with sweat. Unsteadily, she moved to the shore and stopped, letting the cold waves lap her bruised ankles where the zip-ties had been. She gazed with crystalline blue eyes at the steel-coloured water. The wind buffeted her pale, aquiline face. Indigo clouds rimmed the sky, stretching over the sea where a solitary boat bobbed. She still yearned, pitiably, for a normal life.

She shivered, not from cold but from exertion. She’d left them dead. What did they expect? She turned her wrists inward and gazed down through tears at the blackened bruises. She’d been so careful all these years. Who’d given her away? Why ask? It could only be her. There was no one else. She’d had to accept that. Then, what had she said or done? She mentally flicked through the last few clients' requests to her secret storage facility – The Vault. La Petite Ingénue, a priceless painting by Solière. She recalled the surveillance of the Principle and the meticulous research to authenticate its provenance. Nothing there; it had run like clockwork. Before that, there were the fragments of the crown from the Ottoman dynasty. Again, nothing. She had checked and double-checked – she always did. Then what?

She was vigilant to the point of obsession about privacy. Ritualistic in daily life, she moved in and out of humanity like a thief, never starting conversations as she travelled. No verifiable details were on file.

So they knew about her – but they didn’t know all – even she didn’t know all. The harsh memory of their indifferent brutality metered out on her body began crushing her. Pilgrim unleashed her anger, opening her mind and allowing all those forces that lay menacingly on the fringes of her consciousness to rise in retribution. Embracing them, her mind became molten as the heat of unfettered fury hit her, coursing white hot as it melded with her soul. Her vision blurred as she stared forward unseeing, her eyes iridescent, began to spark and fleck.

Altered and lost, Pilgrim, was oblivious to the sudden drop in the wind, the immediate hush of the sea as the surface flattened to glass. It drew back only to surge forward, covering the beach on either side and climbing the cliff face. Gaining momentum, its steel patina folded to inky black. Nautical flags fell limp, and all wildlife cowered. The small fishing boats, prone on their sides in the harbour, lifted under the incoming surge, straining against their moorings as the massive swell entered the quay.

Pilgrim choked back a cry as her anger subsided, her plight mocking her. As quickly as the natural environment had become ominous, those changes fell away. The sea flushed to its former hue and resumed its slow rhythmic brush against the shoreline. The wind picked up, moving along listless clouds and causing the tattered flags once again to snap against their masts. Exhausted, she lifted her coat sleeve to brush away her tears.

She needed a friend—maybe Hansford. No, he’d shown no interest in friendship. She looked up. A seagull flew in and arced toward shore. She watched as it swooped overhead. She would find a friend. Turning, she trudged up the beach. That’s when the bullet hit her, searing through her back and throwing her onto the shale.