Prologue

Intelligence Agencies have been using children in covert operations for decades. By now, it's something of an open secret. Children can perform missions that adults simply wouldn't be able to do. They are smaller, think more creatively, and adults usually don't suspect them until it's too late. Since the Second World War, British Intelligence has run several programs that involve the training and utilization of agents between the ages of 10 and 18. Overall, these programs have been quite successful, and many years ago, the criminal elite began to take notice…

Kilsyth Academy is an underground complex located in an undisclosed location in the Scottish Highlands. Founded in 1965 by the former Kingpin of the UK drugs trade, Peter Kilsyth, the school houses the children of some of the world's wealthiest criminals. Kilsyth Academy is no local grammar school; the 6-mile-wide complex encompasses an indoor firing range, a state-of-the-art fitness suite, assault course, school buildings, plush living quarters, swimming pools, and a cavernous indoor garden. Located within Peter Kilsyth's vast estate, an army of lawyers, and expensive bribes, or horrific threats to concerned council workers has kept both the construction and existence of Kilsyth Academy a well-protected secret. Within the cavern walls, around 120 students learn a vast array of extra-curricular skills; from corporate espionage to the subtler tactics of urban warfare.

FOR FEAR OF REPRECUSSION, THE NAMES OF ALL KILSYTH ACADEMY AGENTS HAVE BEEN CHANGED.

My name is Jennifer Kelly. When I was nine years old, my father was sent to prison for arranging eleven murders, and I was taken from my home in Dublin to a secret academy for the children of the wealthiest criminals in the world. Over the next seven years I learned every skill a master criminal could possibly need, from shooting rifles, to hacking into central banks. I'll explain all this later, but right now, I'm upside down in an SUV, sliding down a grassy embankment on the edge of some random motorway, with a ten-year-old passenger who won't stop screaming, and a storm of bullets whizzing overhead. Nice one, Jen.

In fairness to the ten-year-old boy in the passenger seat, he'd been having a fairly rough weekend. His parents, billionaire property investors, had been shot by a pair of snipers whilst they were out relaxing by the pool. A security guard had managed to rush the boy inside and into a panic room, but hit squads are often quite a persistent bunch. In fact, if I hadn't left a few of their guys riddled with .40 caliber shells, they may easily have been successful. But hit squads aren't the only persistent buggers running around with guns, and despite their botched attempt at a kidnap, I'd managed to get my target safely into the back of a Range Rover I'd nicked from his dearly departed parents' garage, and cruising comfortably towards our extraction point on the outskirts of Edinburgh before all hell inevitably broke loose.

Now, the unfortunate thing about getting in the way of a hit squad that was probably just paid somewhere in the region of £100 million for a job is that they tend to get a bit pissed off, especially when you run off with one of their targets. That's the shortened story of how I ended up careening off the motorway under a hail of gunfire, with a convoy of black saloon cars chasing me down. Again, I'll explain later, maybe after I've gotten the Range Rover back onto its wheels.