Killing It

by Asia Mackay

WEASEL: DIMITRI TUPOLEV

  ALERT: POP DAY!!!!!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  DIMITRI TUPOLEV WOULD DIE today. I stood next to my bike in a small side street in Notting Hill, rubbing my gloved hands together and jiggling my legs in a futile attempt to keep the cold out of my limbs as Robin sang Aerosmith through my earpiece.

  I winced.

  ‘Robin. It’s 5.30 a.m. Please shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Sorry. Just trying to kill time.’

  ‘Well you’re killing my eardrums.’ My motorbike helmet meant my earpiece was crammed into my ear.

  I’d had a bad night’s sleep. I always do just before a Pop; my mind races with details that we might have forgotten, a threat we haven’t yet anticipated. But this time it was different. I had doubts. This was a first. The intel I got from Dasha’s friends was going against everything the Platform was reporting. Not that there was any point bringing this up with Sandy. He was convinced Dasha was playing the part expected of her.

  Robin crackled in.

  ‘Weaselmobile is leaving the garage.’ There was a pause. ‘Confirmed sighting. Weasel behind the wheel.’

  I got on my bike and started the engine. The sun had yet to rise and the streets were dark and empty. The Ferrari should pass me in three minutes. After two I saw a flash of orange go past, the street lights reflecting off its shiny exterior. I waited until he turned a corner and was out of sight and then followed him.

  I heard Geraint in my ear.

  ‘Weasel on correct route to airport.’ Back in the warmth of Unicorn’s office he was following Dimitri’s progress from the tracker inside his watch.

  The streets were empty. London was still sleeping.

  I caught sight of the Ferrari as I reached Kensington High Street.

  I kept him in my sights as I followed him down through Hammersmith. He weaved in and out of the few other cars on the road. The remote detonator was fitted on my right handlebar. I kept glancing down at it. This was what it came down to. Me pushing the button. Finishing the mission. Popping the Weasel.

  Coming up to the Hogarth roundabout I looked up at the signs to Chiswick and thought of my husband and daughter tucked up at home, thankfully oblivious to what I was doing as they slept.

  Robin crackled into my ear. ‘I’ve switched vehicles. Paramedic Robin reporting for duty.’ Robin would now head straight to the crash site with Geraint and Nicola on standby to intercept any 999 calls from concerned motorists, ensuring ours was the only emergency vehicle dispatched.

  ‘Roger that. Weasel in sight. Fifteen minutes from kill zone.’

  Dimitri zoomed past Chiswick and accelerated as he entered a near-empty M4. I kept my distance and checking my speedometer worked out he must be doing at least 95 mph. Good to know our prediction he wouldn’t be able to resist the empty roads and the Ferrari’s 500 horsepower engine was correct. The higher the speed the better the odds of a fatal crash. Although the tighter the window I had for hitting the button.

  ‘G-Force, check in with traffic report please.’

  There was a pause before he replied. ‘Looking totally clear. Checking live camera feeds at junctions 13 and 14 and road is practically empty. And . . .’ I heard the tapping of keys – ‘no upcoming incidents.’

  Everything was on track. So why was I gripping the handlebars so tightly?

  *

  I could no longer see the orange of Dimitri’s Ferrari. He must be going over 100 mph by now. ‘Weasel out of sight. Confirm location?’

  ‘He’s about to turn off on to the M25, he should be—’ Geraint broke off with a yelp. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘G? Come in? Come in?’ I knew things had been going too smoothly.

  ‘Shit, sorry. Burnt my tongue on my coffee.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m chasing down Weasel now.’ Once on the M25 we would be within five minutes of the kill zone so I could now risk following him closely.

  I accelerated, feeling the vibrations between my legs as the Ducati roared down the motorway. This type of speed felt good. I was flying. With the dark motorway lit only by the overhead lights and the streak of the few other cars on the road it felt more like a computer game than real life. Just another simulation.

  As I approached the turning for the M25 I caught sight of the Ferrari. Dimitri had slowed down to make the junction, giving me time to catch up. I now couldn’t let him out of my sight.

  There was one car between us as he passed a sign warning of a speed camera. He didn’t slow down, and a second later there was the inevitable flash. I reduced my speed as did the car in front. I may’ve been able to expense it but I didn’t need attention drawn to my proximity to Dimitri in the run up to his death. Even with the anonymity of my helmet and an Eight-registered number plate.

  Entering the M25, Dimitri was a little further ahead but still in view. I overtook the car in front and was soon parallel with the Ferrari. I looked over and saw Dimitri behind the wheel. A dark hulk of a man hunched over the steering wheel. His wedding ring glinted in the early-morning light. If only he knew the wife who had commissioned that ornate symbol of their marriage was in on this plot to end his life.

  My motorbike’s presence alongside the Ferrari made Dimitri accelerate further. Needing to prove he was the fastest on the road. I let him take the lead but stayed close. The radio range of the detonator was nearly ten metres.

  We were now in the final stretch, nearing the tell-tale yellow arrow. But where was my buzz? My satisfaction in knowing it was all about to be over? Nothing but a nagging feeling in my stomach and a head full of doubts. Were they well founded? Or was this just from being out of the game for a year? Had becoming a mother changed me? Lessened my ability to do the nitty-gritty of what this job entailed? I clenched my jaw. I was starting to sound like Sandy or Bennie now. I shook it off. I knew myself. I was just as good at my job as I always had been. And if my instincts were telling me things were off there had to be a reason.

  We were three minutes from approaching the mark. Conditions were ideal. There were only two other cars in the distance, far enough away they would be at no risk from any impending crash. My finger hovered over the button. I needed to push it as soon as he was level with the tell-tale streak of yellow paint. Timing was everything.

  Two minutes to go . . .

  Something had given me a jolt.

  What was it?

  Dimitri’s ring.

  Why was that sticking?

  Dimitri’s Cartier-commissioned Russian wedding ring. Three interlocking rings, bound together in a symbol of marriage.

  Three.

  The power of the three.

  Does Dimitri know the Dragon wants him dead? . . . Dimitri knows the Dragon is angry but he thinks the power of the three will keep him safe . . . The Dragon doesn’t care about the three.

  Could it be?

  That ‘the three’ weren’t three men but three rings.

  Dimitri thought his wedding ring would protect him from the Dragon.

  But why would he think that?

  My blood ran cold.

  Because he was married to her.

  Because Dasha was the Dragon.

  The Dragon.

  Not a ruthless man with investments to protect but a ruthless woman with children to protect.

  Dimitri’s many enemies would be much more proactive at finding ways to hurt him when he was back on home turf. Our sources had picked up chatter on how the kids would be at high risk of kidnapping.

  The Dragon was a menacing presence circling Dimitri. A fire-breathing, fearsome enemy. Ruthless . . . Intimidating . . . Calculating . . .

  My mind was racing. Images flooded my mind.

  Dasha at the head of the table at bonfire meetings.

  Dasha sucking on her vape, swathes of smoke surrounding her.

  The Dragon.

  Dasha holding her children close. The steely glint in her eye.

  The Dragon Lady.

  Dasha had the connections. The
money. The knowledge. Everything that could intimidate Dimitri’s business associates.

  Sixty seconds to go . . .

  Dasha was the Dragon. And she had been wanting Dimitri dead long before Platform Eight and VirtuWorld came on the scene. Her helping us had nothing to do with making a strike against The President. She had wanted anyone to do the job.

  She had tried to recruit Dimitri’s business associates to arrange his assassination and failed. And then along came the Platform. Asking for her help.

  But who was helping who?

  Was she working for us or were we working for her?

  Did it really matter? We had the same objective. Dimitri needed to die. She had her motives, and we had ours – his desire to keep the VirtuWorld software private meant he was a threat to our country, a threat to the wider world. He was a die-hard supporter of The President who was putting patriotism above profit.

  30 seconds . . .

  But what if he wasn’t?

  What if Dasha, the wife who wanted him dead, had set him up? Set all of this up? Everything we had heard about the Dragon was how far-reaching their influence was. All the intel we had received over the course of the last few months could have been tainted.

  Surely someone who could manipulate and cajole her way from Russian outsider to shortlisted head of the Parents Association would have no problem using the underground branch of Her Majesty’s Secret Service to do her dirty work? What no one at the Platform seemed to realise was that Dasha was a formidable force to be reckoned with. A whirlwind of diamonds, fur and unnerving social ambition.

  She was capable of anything. Especially when it came to protecting her children. She had bought a church a new roof just to make sure her daughter’s best friends would be at her birthday party. She’d had a boy who was thought to be bullying her son relocated to another country. If this was how she reacted to the small stuff, how would she react if she thought their actual physical safety was being threatened?

  The Ferrari was seconds away from the yellow mark.

  This was it. Time to press the button.

  My hand hovered over it.

  And then I put it back on the handlebar.

  *

  I was going to get hell for this. It could even be the end of my career, but I couldn’t do it. I slowed my speed and watched Dimitri roar off into the distance.

  I had better be right. These nagging doubts had better not be down to baby-brain. Otherwise I had just potentially fucked my whole career because of hormones and a hunch.

  Part Two

  Crawling

  crawl, v.

  Gerund or present participle: crawling.

  Move slowly on the hands and knees or with the body close to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘WHAT THE FUCKING HELL happened, Lex? What the fuck? We’re totally fucked now.’ Sandy raised a fist to punch Unicorn’s office wall, then remembered it was solid concrete and thought better of it.

  ‘I told you. The button didn’t work.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘I pressed it four times and nothing.’

  Sandy walked up to me until he was inches from my face. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Sandy.’ My eyes didn’t waver from his. ‘Run tests if you want. The button didn’t work. Technology sometimes fails. Shit happens.’

  He broke eye contact and stormed up to the whiteboard, still covered in all our notes for the Drunk Driver plan.

  ‘Shit shouldn’t happen to us.’ He turned back to look at me. ‘Not on a mission we’ve been prepping this bloody hard for.’

  ‘We just need to move to the Back-up. Everything is in place.’

  ‘You mean the plan that at the last projection gave us a success rate of thirty-four per cent? Do I need to remind you again exactly what’s at stake here? Fuck!’ He picked up his mug of coffee and threw it against the wall. Broken china clinked to the floor as dark liquid streaked down the wall. ‘I’ll be in my office trying to convince the Nyan that we’re still up to the fucking job.’

  *

  I lay on my back under the dining table in the meeting room. The bottom of the table was covered in carvings. Every time we lost a Rat, someone from their unit would come under here and engrave their name and dates of service into the table. Within London there were many memorials marking the names of those who had given their lives to serving this country. But we didn’t exist. We were never to have our name up on a board anywhere. This was as good as it got. It was our way of honouring our fallen comrades. A small reminder that even if no one else knew, we did. I came here every now and then to think, to clear my mind, and to try not to dwell on how long it would be before my name was up there. As I traced out the names of departed Rats with my finger I thought of whether I had made the right call.

  ‘The greater good.’ That’s what we repeat to ourselves when faced with an order that makes us pause to question whether we can be the ones to do it – to push the button, pull the trigger, inject the syringe. Just like the soldier in face-to-face combat who spots the wedding ring of the man he’s about to shoot, or the fighter pilot who thinks he sees a school next to the target’s location, you may stop, then take a breath and think, ‘If I didn’t, someone else would.’ The order has been made. The Committee decrees who lives, who dies and what is an acceptable sacrifice. Our job is just to do their bidding. And not to fucking think about it.

  I hadn’t saved Dimitri. He was still a dead man walking. I had just delayed his execution by a few days. If I stalled again Sandy would be on to me and all hell would break loose.

  I needed to look over all the intelligence myself and set up a few meetings. Dimitri either wanted VirtuWorld kept private just for Russia or available for international sale on the black market. He was either a President-supporting patriot or a money-loving capitalist. I needed to know a hundred per cent for sure which it was. My phone beeped. A text from Dasha.

  Alexis. You missed that big meeting this morning. Can you see me urgently so we can talk about what happened?

  I imagined her attempting to control her rage as she wrote that message knowing her communications were being monitored. I had no intention of seeing Dasha until I had done my own investigating. If she was the Dragon there would be a trail. I just needed to find it. I couldn’t go to Sandy until I had proof.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing under there?’ I looked up at Sandy’s upside-down face. He didn’t give me time to reply. ‘Get up. To save this mission you need to head out on an op. You leave in four hours.’

  I got up from under the table and faced him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A simple break-in. The Nyan are furious about the failed Pop and getting nervous. They’ve said if we want to keep them on side we need to do them a favour.’

  I grimaced. ‘So we’re their bitches now? They can use Rats to run errands for them?’

  ‘Don’t give me shit, Lex.’ Sandy smacked his hand against the wall and pointed at me. ‘You were the one who failed to make the Pop. You have some making up to do. If I were you I would do everything your boss fucking says without questioning him. All they want you to do is break into some restaurant, crack a safe, and steal a brown envelope inside it.’

  ‘And we have no idea what’s in this envelope?’

  ‘Right now this op is the only chance we have of saving us all from Russian world domination. The contents of the envelope are confidential and way beyond your security clearance. You do this, we’re good with them, and there’s still a chance to salvage this fucking disaster.’

  He had a point. Chances were the Nyan were now spooked. We needed them on side. This little job should only take a few hours and I could come back to the Platform afterwards and do some research of my own in peace when the office was empty.

  ‘Fine. Give me the details.’

  *

  I hated going into an op unprepared. The envelope I needed to obtain was apparentl
y time sensitive and the Nyan were not budging on it being undertaken today. To make up for going in blind I was going to wear a head camera linked back to the Platform so that Geraint and Sandy could see what I was seeing. We didn’t even know what model the safe was so I was going to need all the help I could get. The only upside was that the restaurant, a basement dive in Kensington famous for its Russian dumplings, was closed today so at least I didn’t have to worry about the inconvenience of other people.

  By the time daylight had disappeared we were ready to go. Rats were probably the only people who actually liked the clocks going back and darkness enshrouding London by teatime. The quicker nightfall came, the quicker we could get to work and the quicker we could get home.

  *

  Robin and I pulled up outside the restaurant in a Platform-issue white van. I’m pretty sure the aggressive and erratic way Rats drove their vans were how ‘white van man’ got his terrible reputation.

  I checked my gun and zipped it into my suit. Sandy crackled into my earpiece.

  ‘Green light. Cameras down.’

  The restaurant was on a quiet side street and I was able to slip out of the van and up to the front door without spotting anyone else.

  ‘Blowing the door.’ I affixed a small charge to the lock, stepped back and pressed the button. A small pfffttttt emitted as the lock was blown. The alarm keypad by the door was counting down. I fixed another Geraint gadget to it. The beeps from the keypad started counting down and then sped up until they went silent and the lights turned green. ‘Thanks, G-Man. I’m in.’

  Sandy cut in. ‘Safe is likely to be in the back room. I’ll guide you through.’

  ‘You ever been here before?’

  ‘A fucking Russian restaurant? Are you kidding me? Don’t worry, I can read a blueprint as if I was right there with you holding your fucking hand.’

  I descended the stairs leading into the main restaurant.

  ‘Door up ahead. Turn right once through. It’s the last door at the end.’

  I crossed through the tables and chairs and opened the double doors at the back with a ‘Private’ sign on. I turned right and passed the kitchen and a couple of other doors before I reached the end of the corridor and a grey door that was slightly ajar.