This book would not exist without the support, hard work, and enthusiasm of a great many people, and I would like to use this space to distribute a plethora of vast and resonant Thank Yous. First and tallest, to my literary agent Harry Illingworth, who leapt on the manuscript with the tenacity of some kind of small Yorkshire dog and dragged it into the publishing world by his teeth. Harry’s youthful vigour has served as an inspiration to a jaded and disintegrating husk like me. Cheers, boss.
To my editor, the peerless Natasha Bardon, who carved a bloodier and more commanding swathe through the text than the Black Hawk Company ever managed; to Jack Renninson (who picked a far better title and wrote much better copy than I ever managed) and Vicky Leech; to the wise and measured Caroline Knight; to superlative cover artist Richard Anderson (hot DAMN is he good); and to all the production staff at HarperVoyager: you have made the book, in some cases literally. Thanks to the bally lot of you. (Any lingering typos and mistakes are, of course, all mine.)
To Francesca Haig, who donated her time and energies to the Authors for Grenfell auction[1] and who, when I was lucky enough to win her lot, went far, far beyond the norm in her level of review, feedback, enthusiasm, and absolute loveliness: I cannot thank you enough. (And anyone reading this should rush out to buy Francesca’s magnificent books.) To Kat Howard, for most excellent editorial feedback (Kat’s books are also stellar).
To my advance readers, cultural companions, sounding-boards, and suggesters-in-chief: Adam Iley, James G Smith and Laz Roberts. Thanks, chaps, couldn’t have done it without you. You’ll get yours.
To everyone who suffered through my early work and provided feedback and encouragement (or insufficient discouragement to stop me): Adam King, Bambos Xiouros, CP Grisold, Claire Gavin, DBF, Damian Francis, Dan Williams, David Winchurch, Ed Sayers, Jon ‘Global Head’ Brierly, Lexie Harrison-Cripps, Lisa Perry, Paul Bridges, Paul Fallon, Paul McEwan, and Paul Restall. Your mental and emotional sacrifices were not in vain.
To my colleagues, past and present, sadly too numerous to name (although a special shout-out to Steph Brown and Jon Atkins for inspiring parts of Foss and Lemon’s travel banter): I wonder what it was about working with you lot that led me to write about a bunch of shiftless, morally ambiguous mercenaries devoid of loyalty and compassion and perennially doomed to fail? We may never know. And no, none of you is Lemon.
To my parents, and my teachers, who razed me and tort me to rite gud. To my remaining friends and family, for maintaining an appropriate level of polite interest. To my daughters, for eventually going to sleep and giving me a chance to write anything at all.
Finally, and most wholeheartedly, to my wife Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. For encouraging me, supporting me (always emotionally, often financially, occasionally physically), gracefully handling both my absences and my presences, and for shouldering so many burdens; for being the person who told me to stop wittering on about maybe writing a book and get on with it; for being my absolute rock, and the greatest source of fun I’ve ever known: thank you. You are the single best thing in the world. MWAH.