Four Days Later
London, England
2100 Hours

Martin didn't like chauffeurs, not with a car like his. The XFR was a vehicle you drove yourself, because even in the evening, it made sense. Sierra Vanguard's Section Head was a man that had an understated presence amongst his peers, and knew how this game would work. It was one that he twisted to his exact specifications, and it was that which made him able to perhaps work with such a crazy team of operators. He turned left, heading into Knightsbridge, the pubs, clubs and lights from closed shops filling the air with an atmosphere that London always experienced on a Friday night. This wasn't his destination, of course. The M4 loomed, and even Martin wasn't going to stop himself from flaunting the horses under this bonnet.

Following Pakistan, Hassam had been taken in a visibly shaken state, one that Martin didn't mind. Let his operators have fun with the guy, so long as they could still interrogate him. They'd thrown him into a secure facility run by MI6 in Caithness, at the opposite end of the country from London, but they had a man to crack still. Martin had seen his ugly face, and had words too. Not nice ones, either. They now had a chance to at least chill out, and the end of the week didn't mean the end of duty, but it did mean a chance to at least get a drink in. Not here, this place was not the environment to grab some drinks in. George and Thom would definitely understand that, there were no real classy establishments. Maybe not Drevan and Cassie, but Martin knew that he wasn't going to some lowlife bar to go for a chilled glass of vodka.

The Hammersmith Flyover passed by quickly, as traffic thinned out on the major thoroughfare exiting the capital, the M4 Motorway, and Martin checked around in all his mirrors. It would be one form to fill out if the police snapped a picture. A very large "Classified, MI5" and a reference number would force any police to cease and desist. Any recognition of the car's plate by a police scanner, an immediate no-go was issued. It was a licence to speed, a little illegitimate in the way he used it but Martin knew that this was business of a different matter that it was worthwhile for. So Martin had no qualms about putting his foot to the floor. The supercharged Welsh V8 roared, and the rev counter flickered forward, as Martin shifted into sixth, the car now pushing out 160mph, on a road where the limit was effectively half and a little more than that. Passing by a few saloons, the black beauty was now passing the exit for Heathrow, and headed for the west.

High Moor, Oxfordshire
30 Minutes Later

The tiny village was a speck, a tiny white sign illuminating the entrance as Martin slowed down from his modest speed of 90 on country roads, the car able to do a distance that most would call an hour and a half in a third of that. The evening had finally turned to night, and it was now dark,  This job did have it's perks, and today, after a good day's job, Martin felt like a drink. "The Pear Orchard" was like many British pubs, quaint, and small in it's size, with a beer garden, yet it catered more towards a gentleman's tastes. Rather than the piss that was normally sold, they had good whiskey and vodka. Perhaps again, Drevan and Cassie didn't get what real whiskey was like, but when you spent £100 on a bottle, only then did you buy something worthwhile. Anything else was stove lighting fuel, in Martin's thoughts. You had to do it properly. Pulling into a parking spot, Martin clambered out, seeing the other cars of the rest of his team parked up. An Audi RS6 Avant, a Jeep Cherokee, and a Aston Martin DB AR1, a real exquisitely rare car for Britain. They stood out amongst various Mercedes, Range Rovers and BMWs, for certain, but still fitted in somewhat. He clambered out of his Jag, the Englishman adjusting the position of his cuffs on his suit, as he walked into the bar.

Finding them at the far end, it was a quiet place, with mainly upper class hunters and "toffs" of all types in here, the wooded and stoned construction and the way that this place felt was distinctly something else. It felt calm, with no music, no nothing. The smell of a light cigar and pipe smoke in the air, illegal of course but still consumed. A quiet hubub. It wasn't a loud, over the top place. It was an establishment to relax in, and spend a lot of cash. Looking around, Martin gave a rare smirk, looking at his team. His dark grey suit, and shaved bald head was one that was hard to forget, but could be changed very quickly if the situation demanded it.
"Hello, chaps." Martin greeted the group, as he then looked back at the bar, and then took his suit jacket off and placed it on one of the chairs, a white shirt and his black tie on underneath, his physique from his wrists and hands showing that Martin still had the legacy of a very dangerous field operator about him.
"I'm grabbing some drink, I'll be right back." He added, walking away from the group's table, and heading straight for the bar.

"Belvedere Dabrowka, one bottle. My usual, fix it to the tab." He simply said to the well dressed fellow on the other side of the bar, as he nodded. Polish Vodka, no less, and it cost £150 a bottle, such was the way in which was brewed. Insignificant batches went out, and for something that ought to have felt like d
"Certainly." The barman replied, grabbing a whole bottle of vodka and four glasses, knowing Martin. He didn't need a fake name, because he knew full well that if someone did burn him over these last few years, he'd have found out a very different way than getting poisoned. That he just knew- if Martin was going to be killed, this would be the very wrong place to do it. Many, many factors made it very difficult to do so- no less that Martin's real name was probably as scattered in the wind as his false identies had been. He could be Richard Michaels tomorrow, or Ahmed Al-Qasid, the man that was Martin Duncan Thatcher was probably as real as they were. No less, as he took the bottle and the tray of shot glasses back, he couldn't help but smirk again.

"It's a shame that our mutual friend couldn't join us, they don't partake in this stuff. Oh well. Thom, put that fucking blunt out. Establishment had a word with us last time when they found the Afghan variety on you, and those souvenirs are even getting on my nerves." Martin said, as Thom took the pipe out of his mouth, dousing it out with his thumb as he put it down, Martin pouring glasses. There was no specific mention of work here- references were fine, but keeping the work of Sierra on the down low was good. They had no need to be totally hush hush here, but if someone asked Martin or the people what they were up to, or overheard it, they'd sound like a group of work mates from the city or somewhere like that.
"Alright, boss. It cools my nerves."
"Ice baths and Rohypnol do the same job. I won't go into it. Anyway." Martin simply replied, an ice cold stare over at Thom as he put the pipe away, Martin finishing the pouring of the vodka. That trick was one that he had used a few times- a lively character had to die. Some alcohol, Rohypnol, and a bath of ice, and you threw them in, unconscious. Coroner always ruled suicide by drugging in that instance, from a nightclub. Very little suspicion for a particular target. Always.
"Work never ends, but we can take this opportunity to at least put our minds off it." Martin added, as he screwed the top on the expensive bottle of vodka.
"To the team." He said, as he raised his own shot, putting it up, looking at each individual member closely, before then clinking his glass, and downing the shot.