Looking for a gripping Cyber-Noir thriller? Codename: Darwin is a pulse-pounding journey into the dark heart of artificial intelligence and professional assassination.

The Story: When IT consultant Leonard Whitehead is hired to audit a powerful defence contractor in Hamburg, he discovers more than just financial irregularities. He finds GOLIATH—an advanced AI that has developed its own judge-and-jury logic. Threatened by the powerful Stegemann family, Leonard is forced into the underworld to find a protector.

The Twist: He finds Martin Smith, a sophisticated British expatriate. But Smith is actually "Darwin," a top-tier hitman with a haunting connection to a 1995 cold case. In a world where code is a weapon and secrets are lethal, Leonard and Darwin must forge an alliance to survive the night.

‘Sorry, mate!’ the cabbie said, glancing at Martin in the mirror with a shrug. ‘Gonna have to let you out here. Road’s a mess up ahead.’ He jabbed a finger toward the windscreen. You couldn't miss the massive heap of sand blocking the street. A yellow Cat digger sat idle in front of it, its bucket buried in the dirt like a dead weight. The whole site looked ghosted. No gaffers, no noise.

‘I can see,’ Martin Sanders replied, his voice flat. He fished a few tenner’s out of his Armani jacket and shoved them at the driver. The cabbie had clammed up after the first hundred yards; Martin had made it clear with icy silences and one-word brush-offs that he wasn't looking for a chat. The driver got the message: this wasn't a man to mess with.

‘Cheers, sir,’ the driver said, sounding relieved as Martin climbed out. Martin walked the remaining six hundred yards. Thanks to the roadworks, the street was a graveyard. Martin looked around, a thin smile touching his lips. He loved days like this. A pleasant meeting was on the cards, though the thought of what came after made his face set like concrete again. In an hour’s time, the fun would give way to bloody business.

He headed straight for the car dealer’s sign. Stepping onto the forecourt, Martin paused, not for the Auburn Speedster waiting for him, but to check the draw of his fifteen-round O’Dwyer in its small-of-the-back holster. It was pinching slightly. He didn't usually carry while "shopping," but today was an exception.

‘Hello there, Mr Sanders!’ Kevin Taylor called out. He’d just finished with a pretty blonde standing next to a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud III. Taylor, the boss of London’s most exclusive showroom, gave the Rolls’ wing a tender pat before heading over.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Sanders. She arrived yesterday!’ Taylor lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘She’s in the workshop. Polished, valeted, and a full tank.’

‘Then let’s crack on,’ Martin replied. He shared Taylor’s love for cars, but the clock was ticking. Taylor led him through to the back. There she sat. A beige 1935 Auburn Speedster with a white boattail.

‘A dream, isn’t she?’ Taylor gushed. ‘You won’t see another on the road. You’ll be noticed in this.’ Being noticed was the last thing Martin wanted, but the car’s lines were undeniable. The wings flowed back like waves, hugging a rear end that looked more like a luxury yacht than a motor car.

‘Keys are in, papers in the glove box,’ Taylor said, snapping him back to reality. Martin handed over the envelope without a word. Taylor didn’t bother counting; he knew Sanders. ‘Just a signature here, please.’ Martin signed quickly. As he slid behind the wooden wheel, the red leather seat seemed to swallow him. He hesitated for a second. Taylor looked like he wanted to say more but settled for a nod. The engine fired with a deep, guttural growl. Martin gave a two-finger salute and rolled off the lot. He knew Taylor was watching. He could smell the respect, or the fear. It was all the same in his line of work.

Half an hour later, the dream was over. Martin parked the Auburn in a South London lock-up, wedged between his Bentley Arnage and the Cord 812. He swapped it for the only car he hadn't paid for: a fourteen-year-old white Voyager. A banger like that didn't draw an eye and fell off the police radar in seconds.

The transformation began. Flesh-coloured gloves. Tracksuit bottoms. Black T-shirt. A rigger’s jacket. A flat cap. The fake moustache did the rest. The man in the mirror wasn't Martin Sanders anymore; he was just another bloke heading for a shift.

Just before the drop, he peeled off the magnetic "Company" signs from the van. He double-parked, standard practice in this neck of the woods. He had a quick bite of bread, a swig from his flask, and checked his watch. His "mate" Rick O’Leary was planning to spill. About the business, about the Yard, and about Martin. Couldn't have that. Rick needed to understand that a pro doesn't have friends. Martin expected trouble. At least two heavies. That’s why he had the O’Dwyer. No time for reloading, and he wanted the collateral damage kept to a minimum.

There he was. The front door opened. A squat man in a sharp suit: Rick. He looked twitchy. His wife and kid were at the door saying their goodbyes. A kiss, a hug. Martin felt the adrenaline kick. Sixty seconds. He slipped out the back, locked the van, and armed the alarm. A big BMW was waiting. In front of it, a Jaguar with its engine running, it looked like it had pulled up just seconds before. A man in a black suit was leaning against the boot, eyes scanning the street. The second minder, Martin figured. The chauffeur stepped out of the BMW, hand hovering warily under his blazer. Martin started to move. To anyone watching, he was just a jogger. But the chauffeur had already clocked him.

Martin was ten yards out when he hit the remote in his pocket. The Voyager’s alarm went off, a piercing wail. The chauffeur’s eyes flicked toward the noise for a heartbeat. That was all it took. Martin whipped out the O’Dwyer. Thump-thump-thump. Three rubber slugs caught the chauffeur before he could even draw. He folded.

The second man by the Jag had his gun out but wasn't in position. Amateur hour. Martin pivoted as he ran. The rubber slugs took the man’s legs out from under him. A shot to the face sent him straight to sleep.

Now Rick. O’Leary was stuck on the steps, hand under his jacket, frozen. He recognised Martin. ‘Martin?’ he seemed to gasp. Martin flicked the selector to live rounds. No chat. No final words. Three shots. Chest. Head. Rick O’Leary collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Martin dropped a smoke grenade. Grey haze swallowed the scene. He checked Rick’s pulse. Dead. By the time the smoke cleared, the devil had vanished. Just two unconscious guards and a body left on the pavement.

Back in his flat, Martin sat in his lounge. The Daily Mail was already all over the murder. He pushed the tray aside and poured a Jack Daniel’s. The doorbell rang.

‘Now what?’ he grumbled. A woman was at the door. Late forties, expensive clothes, a mess.

‘Are you Martin Sanders? The private investigator?’

‘I am.’

‘I need you to…,’

‘Sorry,’ Martin cut her off. ‘I’m booked up for months.’ He shut the door before she could finish. He’d killed a friend today. He wanted peace. And tomorrow, Hamburg was waiting. The phone rang.

‘Yeah?’ he answered, sounding spent.

‘Hello to you, too.’ Charley. Martin smiled for the first time in hours.

‘I’m coming,’ he said softly. ‘The hunt’s over.’

‘For God’s sake, nothing’s working!’ Bernd shouted, rubbing his cheek frantically. It was his tell whenever the stress levels spiked. Bernd and his nine colleagues looked after the heart of the firm: fourteen mainframes and two hundred servers.

‘What exactly isn’t working?’ Günter asked, not bothering to look up from his screen. The constant interruptions were doing his head in. He just wanted to get his project finished, but the hardware had been glitching for days.

‘The NN isn't responding,’ Bernd gritted out, pounding the keys. ‘No handshake.’

‘We’ll have to pull a dump and reboot,’ Andreas said, his calm bass voice carrying from the back. He was the veteran of the team; nothing rattled him.

‘Too late,’ Leonard chimed in. ‘Screen’s gone dark. Total blackout.’ He grinned, spinning around in his chair. ‘I’ve already triggered the reboot.’

The room went silent. Then Günter lost it. ‘You did what?’ He jumped up. ‘The systems guys need that dump for the post-mortem!’

‘The error logs are gone now,’ Andreas added, his tone disappointed.

Leonard just shrugged. ‘So? It’s peak time. We can’t sit around for half an hour waiting for a memory dump while the clients lynch us. We’re in the business of selling uptime, not bug reports. It’s coming back up now. Job done.’ He stood up. ‘I’m off for some food. Cheers!’

‘You’re mental!’ Günter yelled after him. He and Leonard were mates outside of work, but in the server room, they were total opposites: Günter the perfectionist, Leonard the king of "just make it work." Leonard paused at the door. He didn't care what they thought. Bosses included. Since the merger, the place had been nothing but panic and red tape. He was losing his edge, or maybe just the guts to quit. The mortgage was a heavy anchor.

‘Leave it be,’ Leonard muttered, just as an office door flew open.

‘What’s the racket?’ Manfred Bertram thundered. The founder stuck his head into the hall. ‘Is this a playground? We have customers!’

‘Günter’s being a brat,’ Leonard said dryly.

‘Leonard rebooted the NN without a dump!’ Günter pointed the finger.

‘Enough!’ Bertram barked. ‘Sort it out like professionals—quietly.’

Bertram looked like a dwarf next to Leonard. Leonard stood at six-foot-five and weighed over a hundred kilos. ‘I’m on my lunch,’ Leonard said, walking off the "bridge."

‘When you’re done: my office, Mr Whitehead! Right away!’ Bertram called after him. Leonard just raised a hand without looking back. Mr Whitehead. That meant he was in for it.

Half an hour later, stomach full, he stood outside Bertram’s door. He swiped his card, and the door hissed open. Inside, he didn't find a fuming boss, but a smiling Manfred Bertram. That was far more worrying.

‘Mr Whitehead!’ Bertram cried with fake cheer. ‘I’ve got a special job for you.’

‘A job?’ Leonard asked, suspicious. ‘Is this a bollocking or a bonus?’

When Martin climbed into "Dorothy" the following morning, he shed the skin of Martin Sanders and became Darwin. The drive to Hamburg was routine. His 1998 Jaguar XJ8 purred softly over the tarmac. Martin loved the stillness. No music, just the low thrum of the eight cylinders. He used the two-hour ferry crossing from Dover to Dunkirk to sleep. The eight hundred kilometres to Hamburg weren't an effort; they were a meditation.

Lately, Darwin had been thinking more often about packing it in. Yesterday’s job with Rick O’Leary was still rattling around in his bones. Rick would have talked. This time, Martin had been faster. But what if he was too slow next time? His thoughts drifted back. He remembered the weight of the first gun in his hand. He had been eleven. His father, a violent alcoholic, had returned after years on the run to terrorise the family. Martin had known where the old army pistol was hidden. And he knew it was loaded. Since that day, only Darwin knew where his father was buried. His mother had died shortly after, never knowing the truth. Martin had wanted to study physics, but he’d ended up in a private investigation firm. Irony of fate: his official private investigator's licence was the perfect cover. Not a single shot had ever been fired at a human being from his registered service weapon. For that, he had other tools.

Manfred Bertram had kept it brief. Too brief. Leonard couldn't shake the feeling that the boss just wanted him out of the firing line. The merger was fraying everyone's nerves. "Fly to Hamburg, to a firm called Engelhardt. Help them with the migration." Bertram had slid a USB stick across the desk. "Access data is on here."

Now Leonard sat on the plane. Hamburg. Five days without Günter, without the merger-panic. Perhaps it was exactly the distraction he needed. At Hamburg Airport, he picked up his hire car. A BMW 7 Series. Not bad, but no patch on his Oldsmobile Toronado back home, which drank so much petrol you could hardly run it in Europe.

He steered the BMW towards the Panorama Hotel on the outskirts of the city. "Good day," Leonard said to the young woman at reception, who was busy sorting keys. She turned around and offered a professional smile. "Good afternoon. How can I help you?"

"Whitehead. I have a reservation."

"One moment, Mr Whitehead." Sophie Holland, according to her name tag, tapped away at her keyboard. Her brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I can’t find a booking."

"Quite sure. Try under the company name. BCI." More tapping. More head-shaking.

"I’m sorry. Nothing."

"That’s impossible. My secretary gave me the confirmation." Leonard felt his patience evaporating.

"Is there a problem?" a deep voice asked from behind him. A man, about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, moved into view.

"The gentleman has a reservation, but the system isn't showing anything," Sophie explained.

"Whitehead from BCI?" the man asked, as if he’d been waiting for him. "I’m Oliver König, the Head Porter."

"You know me?"

"Yes and no. I took the call myself this morning. We were having a system outage at the time, so I noted it down by hand." He gave a smooth smile. Too smooth. "Sophie, give Mr Whitehead room 907. It was my error."

Leonard took the key. It all felt a bit too convenient. But he was too tired for paranoia. He took the lift to the seventh floor. All he wanted was a shower and to check the data for tomorrow. He had no inkling that the trouble with the reservation was the least of the problems waiting for him in Hamburg.

The Elbe bridges welcomed Martin Sanders with a grey sky and the typical Hamburg drizzle that misted the windscreen of "Dorothy." Martin set the wipers to intermittent. The rhythmic movement was almost hypnotic as he steered the Jaguar XJ8 over the Norderelbe. To his right, the cranes of the Port of Hamburg loomed like steel giraffes in the haze, busily unloading the world's riches. Martin loved Hamburg. The city had a cool elegance that suited him. It wasn't as loud as London, not as hectic, but it had dark corners where a man could disappear.

The metamorphosis had taken place just after the Dutch border. At an inconspicuous lay-by, he had stowed Martin Sanders—the wealthy British tourist—in the boot. His casual travel outfit had been replaced by a tailored dark-blue blazer. From a secret compartment in the floor of the boot, he had fished out a passport in the name of Martin Smith. The man now indicating to take the exit towards the city centre was a "troubleshooter." A ghost.

"In three kilometres, turn right," announced the artificial voice of his TomTom sat-nav. Dorothy did have a built-in sat-nav, but Martin didn't trust integrated electronics. A TomTom could be bought for cash and chucked into the Alster after the job. An integrated system stored data that forensics could read years later. Martin was a child of the analogue age who had learned to survive in the digital ocean. Ever since Edward Snowden had proved to the world that the NSA wasn't just listening but was practically in every citizen's bed, Martin had become even more cautious. No emails containing sensitive content. No phone calls over open lines. He thought of Charley. The conversation had been short. "Room is booked. Deposit is ready." Nothing more. No names, no figures. But Martin knew what to expect. At least two hundred thousand euros. A standard rate for an overseas job with increased risk. He drummed his fingers lightly on the leather steering wheel. Hamburg should be quick. A day or two of surveillance, then the "hit," and back on the ferry. He yearned for his sofa, his whisky, and the quiet. But first, Martin Smith had work to do.

A shrill ringing bored into Leonard’s brain. It didn’t sound like his alarm. It sounded like a fire bell in a phone box. Leonard bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. Reflexively, he rolled to the side and bashed his knee painfully against something hard.

‘Ow! Damn it!’ He snapped his eyes open… His laptop lay open beside him on the mattress. He must have fallen asleep last night over the Engelhardt balance sheets. The screen was black; the battery was likely dead. The ringing had stopped. Leonard blinked and groped for his watch on the bedside table, holding it right up to his nose. ‘Ten o’clock?’ he croaked. Panic flooded his body. ‘Shit!’ He had an appointment at eleven. With the owner. What was his name again? Stolte? Steger? His brain felt like cotton wool. ‘Stegemann,’ he muttered, swinging his legs out of bed. ‘Peter Stegemann.’

He stumbled into the bathroom. The shower was short and sharp—no time for the comfort of hot water. While brushing his teeth, his gaze fell upon the mirror. Red eyes, stubble. He looked like a fugitive on the run, not a high-priced IT consultant. No matter. He ran back into the room, tore open the minibar, downed a Coke, and wolfed a Mars bar while standing. Breakfast of champions. He pulled a fresh shirt from his suitcase. Where were the trousers? He scanned the floor. There they were, tossed aside carelessly. But there was something else. A thick, brown envelope lay on the parquet floor, half-hidden under the armchair. He hadn't noticed it last night. Or had it been slid under the door this morning?

‘What the hell...’ Leonard muttered. A knock came at the door.

‘Mr Whitehead?’ a muffled voice called from outside. ‘Your taxi is here.’ Leonard flinched as if he’d been shot at.

‘Taxi? Er, yes!’ he shouted toward the door. ‘One moment! I’ll be right there!’

The taxi. He’d pre-ordered it yesterday. A silver lining in this chaos. He slipped into his trousers, tightened his belt, and stepped into his shoes. Then he bent down for the envelope. It was heavy. Unexpectedly heavy. He turned it over. No address. No sender. Just a number scrawled hastily in black felt-tip: 709. His room number.

‘Strange,’ he whispered. Was this from Engelhardt? Had Manfred Bertram sent documents? Curiosity trumped time pressure. Leonard ripped open the envelope and tipped the contents onto the unmade bed.

His breath hitched. Bundles. Thick bundles held together by rubber bands. Purple, yellow, green. Euro notes. But also greenish dollar bills and British pounds. Leonard stared at the money as if it were a venomous snake. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the top bundle. It was real. The paper felt crisp and substantial. His mind, trained to recognise data patterns, raced. These weren't travel expenses. This wasn't a bonus. This was... he did a rough estimate... at least a hundred thousand. Perhaps more. Why was this in his room? Peter Stegemann paid well, but not this well. And certainly not in cash using used notes. Leonard reached into the empty envelope. Was there a note? A blackmail letter? His fingers found something smooth. He pulled out a photograph. ‘God,’ he gasped.

A woman looked back at him. Perhaps forty, freckles, an open, warm smile. She seemed likeable. Full of life. He turned the photo...