Living in Cardiff Baine works as a hitman for hire, his assignments come to him via anonymous referrals, and we meet him in the middle of a job that introduces his underdeveloped emotions and extraordinary abilities.

DI Brendon McCullum works the case of Baines latest victim and when a young detective commits connected unwittingly with the murder suicide in front of him, he delves deeper into the case with a personal crusade.

Baine is attacked by a supernatural entity and is then met by Gabriel, the head of the 11th Order along with Michael and Raphael. Gabriel shows Baine the history of the warring archangel factions and their expulsion from heaven. The Grigori and the 11th Order both seek the object known as Metatron's Cube, a holy artefact that holds God's secrets of creation. The Grigori, headed by Lucifer and including Samyaza and Azazel, are meanwhile tracking Baine as he is a direct descendant of Metatron himself and the only one capable of retrieving the cube.

Baine decides that he wishes to seek the cube for his own ends; both Baine and DI McCullum are lead by their investigations to a charismatic priest called De Payens. De Payens heads The Knights Templar, who were designated by god to protect the cube, using Baine as their sword. De Payens has been corrupted and has been using Baine to dispose of personal targets.

Baine discovers the book of his father Metatron and with it the links to his family line and begins a fight to gain his independence free from his puppet strings. He begins to feel the pangs of affection for a nameless librarian that he knows only as his dancer, the thought of her and a life beyond servitude become his motivation. Framed for the brutal murder of De Payens at Lucifer’s torturing hands he is arrested. Lucifer visits him in jail and tortures him for information he manages to escape after making a promise to kill Lucifer.

Frustrated by his inability to control Baine, Gabriel enlists McCullum by exploiting the detective’s abandonment by his father by claiming to be his true father. McCullum soon discovers that many levels of the police are members of Gabriel’s 11th Order.

During the tracking of Baine and under Gabriel’s control McCullum kills the mother that he believes has betrayed him over the truth about his father.

Both Gabriel and Lucifer are struggling with the invading sense of humanity as they choose to stay within the human shells that they occupy. Gabriel begins to embrace mans darker nature whilst Lucifer after accosting a now psychologically damaged McCullum for selfish reasons, soon begins to feel a love and compassion towards him.

Raphael, Michael, Azazel and Samyaza decide to combine and embrace the money and power of man’s world, turning their backs on the mystical elements of their age old quest. Behind Gabriel’s back Baine is captured by the four and has to be rescued by Lucifer and McCullum. The angels Michael, Azazel and Samyaza are killed whilst Raphael escapes with Baines book. Lucifer saves McCullum life during the struggle by infusing him with her essence, this leaves her severely depleted.

The cube is tracked to an ancient burial ground and the survivors converge to battle for the cube. Baine, Lucifer and a shell of McCullum join forces to oppose Gabriel. Gabriel reveals that he has murdered Baine’s dancer as an attempt to free Baine from his own humanity. It is discovered that the cube requires a willing sacrifice to operate the cube, realising what he has done McCullum, makes the sacrifice as an act of atonement. This allows Baine and Lucifer to defeat Gabriel and Baine uses the ultimate power of the cube to vanquish it from existence. Baine kills a now deleted Lucifer after making that promise earlier.

Now fully human Baine tracks Raphael to his hideaway where he has made fortunes with the combined Grigori and 11th Order’s resources.

Sample Chapter

The car boot was dark, claustrophobic and stank to high heaven; the vehicle appeared destined to find every one of the potholes and bumps found on the Cardiff streets. Every impact jarred the trapped occupant’s broken arm making him repeatedly swallow a recurring scream. 

The man was around six foot one fourteen stone and curled into the small dank space; a difficult and awkward search had already confirmed that there were no items of any usefulness to be found.

Baine retreated into his mind in an attempt to separate the pain from his arm, as the broken bone ends jarred and scrapped together with every involuntary movement. He recounted the events that had led to his incarceration, there were three men sitting in blissful comfort amongst the cars plush seating. All three were large and heavy set with faces that told a hard tale through scars and imperfections stemming from badly healing dangerous wounds. They had approached him in a manner denoting some competence, but without displaying any formal training. They were thugs not soldiers and they were obviously under orders for retrieval not elimination. He knew where they were all now heading, and he knew who would be waiting for him at the other end. His host would be undoubtedly eager to meet him, but unlikely to be extending any hand of friendship.

Jon Sinclair was a villain, and not the kind that you would see on a weekly basis being portrayed on any soap opera. Definitely not one who’d fit the stereotypical mold, of a dark suit and a cockney swagger. The product of a middle aged, middle class writer without so much as a toe dipped into real life. The trouble was that this actually was real life, where the blood is dark and warm and the only person calling “Cut” does so in the blinding reflection of a sharp blade.

Sinclair’s medium sized Cardiff empire incorporated the foundations of the enviable drug trade on which the business was built. A small protection racket, a very profitable money lending arm which will always find a home in cities with a poor underclass and various other schemes of varying degrees of illegality. Most recently, as a lot of criminals seem to gravitate toward, Sinclair had begun to find that the legitimate arms of his income were beginning to bear far more fruits than the illegal ones. His branches into the property market had made him more money in the last five years than everything else combined. The regeneration of the Cardiff Bay area had made his squalid low rent houses incredibly valuable. The Welsh Assembly had begun pumping millions of the taxpayer’s money into the regeneration project. Sinclair began selling the falling down rat infested buildings at an unbelievable profit to the very authorities who had been for many years, ineffectually attempting to put him behind bars.

As far as Baine was concerned he had no feelings for the man or his business one way or the other. However someone considered one of the many skeletons in Sinclair’s closet a black building block that they were not able to allow to stand.

Baine had been walking in Sinclair’s shadow for over four months now, trailing the man’s habits, associates and regular routes looking for a gap. Sinclair was a reasonably cautious man, used to protecting himself from rivals and the authorities. But time and his movement into legitimacy, had dulled his edge and lulled his senses, it was into this grey area that Baine walked into.

The car slowed to a halt and rose on its suspension as the men shifted their weight and departed the vehicle, in the dark Baine cleared his mind and set his body. The car boot lid slowly opened, Baine felt the men’s apprehension and nervousness, and a ghost of a smile momentarily passed his lips looking strange and misplaced on his hard set face. The dim light from a nearby streetlamp filtered through the night, illuminating Baine’s prone form. His obviously broken arm seemed to reassure his captors, raising their spirits and pushing back their inexplicable fear of the smaller fallen man. Two of the large barrel-chested thugs pulled Baine from the car whilst the third glanced around the deserted street. He allowed himself to slump and stagger, relying on his captors for support. Baine surveyed his surroundings as they headed for the rear entrance of a large seemingly derelict factory building. The street was empty and isolated and the lack of potential witnesses pleased Baine as they went inside.

“Mr. Baine” a large voice boomed from behind a ratty looking desk, all Sinclair was missing mused Baine was a silky white cat to stroke. He fought hard to suppress the laugh bubbling in his throat; he still had to maintain the part of the incapacitated and subdued. The third thug had stayed outside, guarding the door, Baine’s arms were clamped either side by thugs one and two, the broken arm pain had subsided.

“Tell me son, did you think that I wouldn’t see you skulking in my shadow?” Sinclair stood and moved around the desk, he pulled himself to his five foot four frame. Baine did not need to see the man’s shoes in the dark gloom to know that he wore lifts. He carried himself with the anger and bitterness of many short men. Sinclair was stocky with a now softening build of weightlifter too old to uphold his once proud physique. He wore an expensively tailored blue pinstriped suit accessorised with flashy jewelry. The jewelry was designed to scream that he no longer belonged in the council house gutter that he had once crawled out of.

“You’d better answer me you prick”, Sinclair now stood full bore in Baine’s face. The lack of response and more likely the lack of obvious fear from the captive man was beginning to infuriate Sinclair. He was a captain of his industry who had lived his life surrounded by sycophants. Baine’s stooped position brought him face to face with Sinclair who grabbed a handful of hair and painfully yanked Baine’s head back, spittle spraying wildly from his now feral mouth.

“Did you believe that you could get close to me, did you think that I wouldn’t see an amateur like you coming, did you think that I couldn’t snatch you up any time that I saw fit, did you honestly believe that it wouldn’t end like this, in an empty room, face to face, with no-one to hear the screams?”

Baine lifted his head and looked Sinclair square in the eyes for the first time, his reply was low and ice, “Actually, I was counting on it”.

Tony Beck sat in a parked Astra overlooking Cardiff Bay, the cold grey water called imploringly to him, patience he thought, just a little while longer.

Tony’s life had effectively ended around five months ago when he had stood in a police morgue. He’d been identifying his nineteen year old daughter Amy, dead and bloated and lying prone on a wintry metallic table. He had buried his wife two years ago; she’d been devoured from the inside by a ravenous cancer. His daughter had been his only life ever since and now she too was gone, taken by another cancer, Jon Sinclair. Amy had been the warmest, brightest person Tony had ever known. She had been studying to be a nurse, determined to emulate the care and invaluable help and support that she had received during her mother’s illness. To make ends meet during her studies Amy had taken a part time job in one of Cardiff’s small private clubs as a barmaid. Unbeknownst to Amy or her father, it was one of Jon Sinclair’s clubs. Being an attractive young woman Amy found herself increasingly uncomfortable at the ever growing attention of some of the clubs male clientele. Some of whom had made it abundantly clear that they expected a personal service above and beyond the serving of drinks. Amy had told her father who demanded that she never return; unfortunately Amy had been raised correctly and felt the need to work out her notice. She intended to leave the job properly whilst informing the club owner precisely what she thought of the practices being carried out under his roof. Her naked body had been fished out of the city's river four days later, the police confirmed that she had been raped and strangled. The subsequent investigation turned over no suspects and the club’s manager protested that Amy had never turned up for work.

Tony had tried to push the police to go after the club owner but had been taken aside by an older detective who filled him in on the life and times of one Jon Sinclair. He was warned in no uncertain terms as to what could happen to him if he continued to make waves. He was also informed as to the amount of police officers that supplemented their income by working as “Security Consultants” for Sinclair Enterprises. The detective had looked worn and damaged, with a face scarred by the strain and hopeless struggles of the job. He handed Tony a small white business card with just two things printed on it, the word “Baine” above a mobile phone number.

Tony had sold everything he owned and the proceeds now sat in a small black leather carry case on the back seat of the Astra. Tony’s breath caught in his throat as the small mobile phone sat on the car’s dashboard gently vibrated. His hand hovered above the phone closing his eyes and pausing briefly before he answered.

“Hello, Baine?” Tony asked nervously.

“It’s done” answered the calm steady tone.

Tony slumped forward, the last five months anguish loosened its grip from around his heart ever so slightly.

“As I requested?” Tony kept his eyes closed as he tried to picture Sinclair on his knees, begging for his life.

“Exactly” came the reply, “Money?”

“Where you told me to leave it”

“Make sure that you’re long gone” Baine’s voice demanded.

Tony looked up and out into the misty dawn breaking over the river, “Don’t worry, I will be”.

Tony pressed the end call button on the mobile; he opened the car door and stepped out into the light drizzle. He walked tall to the rivers metal barrier, climbed over and plunged headfirst into the welcoming embrace of the dark water.