Number Seven gripped his glass too tightly and stared out of the window. Behind him he could hear the other Blanks milling around, filling glasses, waiting for someone to say something to make this wake official. He raised his glass but it was empty. He’d drunk a tumbler full of what had smelled like an excellent single malt without even tasting it.

Behind him one of the women cleared her throat.

'What does it matter what you say about a man after he’s dead?' It was Number Four, the shorter of the two women, asking the traditional opening question of a Blank wake.

Number Seven turned to face the others in time to see Number Four down her drink. It always made him wince to see her drink like that, partly because she was so small and partly because she looked so young. It didn’t matter that he knew her to be twenty eight. Even in her immaculate black suit, with her blonde hair slicked back she looked more like seventeen. Give her pigtails and an oversized school uniform and she’d pass for twelve.

'Well I say that he was the gayest man I ever met.' That was Number Two, the other woman in the room. Tall where Four was short, tanned where Four was fair, Welsh accent showing around the edges of her words. Currently a red-head but Number Seven knew that it was a wig. Her suit was just as smart as Four’s but it struggled to contain her biceps and shoulders every time she folded her arms.

'Gay like a Spartan,' said Number Five and drained his drink. Face from South Asia, voice from South London. His suit was rumpled. His suits were always rumpled, as if he had some deeply ingrained, working class objection to dressing well. He was the smallest man in the room, shorter than Number Two and not much taller than Number Four. He was so slight that it was easy to underestimate him but Number Seven suspected that he was entirely constructed out of sinew and bone.

'I think he may be the toughest man I ever met but he was as camp as a row of tents,' said Number Three, voice like a distant rumble of thunder.

Three finished the last of the drink that he’d been nursing. He was a big, dark man, even taller than Number One had been, and darker than Number Five, with shoulders that looked like they belonged on a wardrobe rather than a man. He rubbed the back of his head, recently shaved because he’d finally admitted to himself that he was going thin on top, still getting used to the feel of it.

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Of all of them Three had been the closest to Number One. They’d been juniors together and promoted the same year, just months apart. Number Seven still remembered their pride in their status as newly minted Blanks.

'You could trust him with your life,' Number Six paused and drained his drink. 'Even if you couldn’t always trust that he wasn’t checking out your arse.' He was easily the best looking person in the room. Tall and slender with the kind of unearthly good looks that belonged on the stage or the screen. Either handsome or pretty depending on how he felt on any given day, grey eyes and unruly red-blond hair.

'That wasn’t just him. Everyone checks out your arse,' said Number Three.

Number Two gasped in mock surprise.

'What?' said Three, 'I’m straight, I’m not blind.'

Number Two spotted Seven’s glass and filled it for him. It was against all tradition to have an empty glass at a Blank wake.

Number Seven cleared his throat, 'You could trust him with your life, but you couldn’t trust him with your gun. He was forever taking mine and the only time I got one back it was slimy.'

'Ewww,' said Number Four, lips curled in disgust.

Seven downed the drink in one, this time feeling the whiskey burn, tasting it, briefly.

It was tradition that had them there, in the back room of the Special Forces Club, standing around a small table groaning under the weight of bottles of expensive spirits.

In the centre of the table was a bottle of Gran Patrón Platinum that had been in the bottom of Number One’s desk. He must have been saving it for something, but no one knew, or would admit to knowing, what. The bottle was still untouched. How long would it be before any of them could drink tequila without thinking about One?

Seven reached for the bottle of Patrón. There was no funeral to save it for, no family to pass it on to. Right now Number One was on ice somewhere, waiting for them to catch his killer. Eventually the boss would have him shipped up north and put in the ground with only someone from HQ by the graveside.

Seven twisted the lid off the bottle. 'What were you lot doing when you heard?'

'Story time,' said Number Two. She grabbed a fresh glass and held it out for Seven to fill. 'OK, picture this, I’m in San Francisco…