Nineteen years ago.
Charles DuPonte heard a tap on his blacked-out car win- dow. Pressing the small button on his expensive leather door, the window slowly retracted. "Is it done?" he asked.
The man shook his head, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin and mouth. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain what had just happened. "Err, we have a problem Sir."
Charles's lips formed a tight line. Breathing heavily through his nose he pulled hard on the door's release. Exiting, he slammed the door shut. Inhaling the cool night air, he adjusted the collar on his coat, looking towards the small cottage.
The cottage crouched low into the grassy embankment as though it was trying to hide. Through the darkness he could see the harsh, unevenly sized grey stones that made up the walls.
(...)