# Read the first page of Slow Horses by Mick Herron

Read the opening of Slow Horses by Mick Herron free, no signup. Disgraced MI5 spies exiled to a dead-end department chase a shot at redemption.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/slow-horses-mick-herron
- Genre: Thrillers
- Year: 2010
- ISBN: 9781641292979
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9781641293006&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9781641292979
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9781641292979

## The opening

This is how River Cartwright slipped off the fast track and joined the slow horses.

Eight twenty Tuesday morning, and King’s Cross crammed with what the O.B. called other people: “Non-combatants, River. Perfectly honourable occupation in peacetime.” He had a codicil. “We’ve not been at peace since September ’14.”

The O.B.’s delivery turning this to Roman numerals in River’s head. MCMXIV.

Stopping, he pretended to check his watch; a manoeuvre indistinguishable from actually checking his watch. Commuters washed round him like water round a rock, their irritation evident in clicking of tongues and expulsions of breath. At the nearest exit—a bright space through which weak January daylight splashed—two of the black-clad achievers stood like statues, their heavy weaponry unremarked by non-combatants, who’d come a long way since 1914.

The achievers—so called because they got the job done—were keeping well back, as per instructions.

Twenty yards ahead was the target. “White tee under a blue shirt,” River repeated under his breath. Adding details, now, to Spider’s skeleton outline: young, male, Middle Eastern looking; the blue shirt’s sleeves rolled up; the black jeans stiff and new.

Would you buy new trousers for a jaunt like this? He stuffed the information away; a question to be asked later.

A rucksack on the target’s right shoulder listed, suggesting weight. The wire coiled into his ear, like River’s own, might have been an iPod.

“Confirm visual.” River, touching his left ear with his left hand, spoke quietly into what looked like a button on his cuff. “Confirmed.”

A gaggle of tourists crowded the concourse, their distribution of luggage suggesting they were circling the wagons. River skirted them without taking his eyes off the target, who was heading for the annexe platforms; those which waved off trains towards Cambridge, and points east.

Trains generally less packed than the northbound HSTs.

Unbidden images arrived: of twisted metal scattered along miles of broken rails. Of trackside bushes lit with flame, and hung with scraps of meat.

“What you have to bear in mind”—the O.B.’s words—“is that worst sometimes does come to worst.”

The worst had increased exponentially over the last few years.

Two transport cops by a ticket barrier ignored the target but studied River. Don’t approach, he warned silently. Don’t come anywhere near me. It was the small details on which enterprises foundered. Last thing he wanted was an audible altercation; anything that startled the target.

The cops went back to their conversation.

River paused, and mentally regrouped.

He was of average height, this young man River Cartwright; was fair-haired and pale-skinned, with grey eyes that often seemed inward-looking, a sharpish nose and a small mole on his upper lip. When he concentrated, his brow furrowed in a way that led some to suspect him of puzzlement. Today he wore blue jeans and a dark jacket. But if you’d asked him that morning about his appearance, he’d have mentioned his hair.

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