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Joe Slater, a 22-year veteran who has been 'retired' by the SAS, is on his fourth beer in a London pub when two men accost a young woman sitting at a nearby table. Joe does not know that the woman, Dr Sarah Grainger is a scientist who has decided to run away from her job at a biotech company. He knows only that he does not like seeing the woman forced to accompany two men against her will. His decision to intervene triggers a series of events that neither he nor Dr Grainger could have foreseen. Excerpt: My neighbour was still staring into her G&T, oblivious of the new arrivals. The next moment they were both heading in our direction. When they were just a few paces from my table, she glanced up. Her expression registered shock and fear. Horse-face stopped right opposite me. "Please to stay seated, Sir. This is official business," he said. I couldn't place the accent. Belarus or something from that area, Serbian maybe. I'm better at placing Middle East accents. I was marginally impressed that he'd pegged me as potentially troublesome, but not surprised. My size tends to trigger that kind of reaction. His companion smiled at the woman. It looked like the kind of smile a cobra might give to a mouse. "Now, Ms Grainger," he said, emphasizing the Ms, "don't do anything foolish. You know you have to come with us." The woman looked around wildly. She seemed in a total panic. She looked like any second, she'd make a break for it, which wouldn't go well for her. Broad-as-a-bus saw the same thing for his hand shot out and seized her wrist. "Please, no silliness," he said softly. "Let go of my wrist, Gustaf," the woman said, somehow getting both fright and fury into her voice. Ah well, life is full of tipping points. At least, that's how it's been in my world. Two men, one certainly armed, the other probably. One looming over me, the other some six or seven feet away, my side of the woman's table, getting heavy-handed. I could have made a reasoned intervention, questioned their right to disturb the lady, but what the fuck? The places and situations I'd been in, that kind of soft-pedalled intervention would get you dead the next instant. So, I did the thing that came most naturally to me. I stood and picked up my table in the same movement. The sudden lift sent my drink bouncing into horse-face's chest, gifting him with half a pint of real ale artfully painted across his shirt, tie and jacket. This would certainly have annoyed him if it wasn't for the fact that he was probably more bothered by the edge of the table that I rammed into his belly, sending him sprawling...
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