Trust Me

by Nell Grey

  Dear Annie,

  It’s been over two years and I’ve not had a reply from you. I get the hint, don’t worry. You’re still angry with me, and Callista tells me you’re not reading my letters.

  You’ve obviously moved on, and I mean nothing to you. If you can’t be bothered, then I’m not going to be some creep who’s stalking you. I’m getting on with my life too.

  I’m off to Afghanistan next week. So, this is goodbye. For real.

  You were my best mate, Annie, and I loved you. But I was kidding myself. You never felt the same way about me.

  I’m never being that sucker again.

  My rule is that I’m taking all my opportunities now. And I’ve had plenty, Annie. Girls throwing themselves at me. They all love army boys ‘round here. Never any numbers. Never get in deep.

  Cal told me how hurt you were.

  You’re so unbelievably stubborn, you know that?

  Never bothering to read any of my letters has hurt me too. And this letter’s a complete waste of time, anyway. But, I’m writing it for me, not you.

  I guess, we’re quits.

  Now Cal’s moved, I don't suppose I'll see you again.

  All the best in your life, Annie.

  Jac

  I stare at the angry and bitter words. My stomach knots; and the empty hollowness, the sadness that’s consuming me, makes me sigh out loud.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  I shake myself.

  It was years ago. So, why am I doing everything to stop myself from crying?

  I’ve been dumped.

  Argh! It was me who opened this particular Pandora’s box of letters, and here I am getting a taste of my own medicine.

  At least I know what happened to Jac Jones. Wounded by me, he turned into a tart. Taking his opporunities. Isn’t that what he did with me?

  But, putting that aside, what really gets me is that he’d gone off into combat believing that I didn’t care about him. I had no idea how much I’d hurt him. Thank God, he came back unharmed.

  Wiping my eyes, still bruised and remorseful, I go back downstairs, to the food I’m preparing for us, to put the chicken casserole I’ve made into the oven.

  Not that there's any point. After posting that letter, writing those words, there's absolutely no chance, he'll turn up tonight for a cosy meal for two.

  ◆◆◆

  Sion waited on the South Bank by the crowded McDonald's restaurant. London’s Embankment was teeming with tourists, even on a grey and drizzly winter’s day, like this one.

  “Wanna coffee?”

  A tall man in jeans and a padded jacket sidled up to him.

  “You paying? Or are you still struggling with Government cutbacks?”

  “Alright, alright. I agree, it’s not exactly The Ivy, but if you wanna go mad I’m sure I can stretch to a cheeseburger.”

  With the code word 'The Ivy' confirmed, they sat down at a table in a corner by a group of Japanese students.

  It was the perfect venue, so public that people wouldn’t pay a blind bit of notice to them. The practised art of intelligence.

  He’d been sending in details of his jobs, as instructed, since the start. But, this was the first intervention, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the development.

  The assassination of the Albanian gang leader would be tricky enough, without the added pressure that MI5 wanted a new ‘hands-on’ approach in his operations. This job was no longer purely about gangs and crime. It was now a question of British national security.

  "Why now?"

  The spook ignored Sion’s question and stirred a sweetener into the paper cup.

  “Have you found a place to do the job yet?”

  “Yeah. The front of Prifti’s property’s well-secured. Pretty much impregnable. But they’ve been very slack at the back. There’s no high wire fencing, alarm system or cameras. And best of all, no dogs.”

  Sion hadn’t found anywhere opposite the house. This wasn’t like the films, where the sniper set themselves up on a flat rooftop, or across the street in a conveniently located derelict flat. The cocky Albanians had bought a large detached house in London’s suburban South Woodford, with electric gates and a big drive filled with a range of premium cars.

  “I’ve been trialling it out. The shrubbery at the back’s pretty dense, and there’s easy access over a five-foot wooden fence to a back cutting. I can leave a vehicle two streets away, so no problem getting from there quickly. The only hassle is the weight and size of the sniper rifle.”

  His handler listened carefully.

  “You’ll need to be outta there fast. Once they spot you, it’ll be mayhem. These guys are properly tooled up. Flashy cars ain’t the only things they’ve been collecting.”

  “Did you see the Tesla?” Sion smirked, “Good to see that they’re taking their carbon footprint seriously.”

  “Yeah. Green gangsters. We’ve had eyes on Prifti too. He’s got minions all over the patch servicing him. Some use cover outfits; fast food shops, that sort of stuff, for laundering. Others swagger around like a biker gang. They’re thugs, mostly; doing his dirty work for him.”

  Concealed in the bushes, Sion had watched the gang through the large conservatory windows.

  “Prifti’s a little shy. He doesn’t do much out and about stuff, except in the evenings. In general, people tend to visit him at the house.”

  Over the course of each day, several of the men, including Prifti had used the patio out back to smoke their cigarettes and vapes.

  They had strict house rules, it appeared.

  The spook looked around uneasily. The Japanese students were taking selfies. The last thing he wanted was him and Sion in shot.

  “What’ll be interesting is the Scousers’ next move after you do the job.”

  “Think it’ll start a turf war?”

  “We’re depending on it. With Prifti out of the way, the Albanians’ll fold like a bad poker hand. We want them out of London, and we’ll use all our powers to make that happen.”

  So, that was why Sion was being pulled in now.

  A double whammy.

  MI5 wanted to rid London of the Albanians, and the National Crime Agency wanted to see how far up the chain they could go with the Scousers.

  Would the Scousers be able to put two and two together?

  “Can you guarantee that this won’t work its way back to me?”

  The spook looked directly at him, reassuringly, “We’ll look after you; trust me.”

  Easy enough for him to say. Sion was the one who was up to his balls in it with the nutters. The fall guy, if this went tits up.

  It was a win-win for MI5. If it ever came out, they could brush Sion off as another ex-squaddie diversifying into private security, hired by a criminal gang. MI5 would melt away and Sion would be left high and dry.

  Or dead, more likely. And very wet. At the bottom of the river Mersey.

  For now, he didn’t have to worry about that. All he had to do was to fire the shot, and then get the Hell outta Dodge.

  ◆◆◆

  "You came?”

  I'm confused. His note on the letter was pretty damning. And the letter he chose, a goodbye.

  "Uh... yeah.”

  He's carrying a folder full of drawings and a bottle of red wine.

  He stares at me.

  "Oh! You didn't think I'd... Look, it's not a problem... I can come another time...don't be...”

  "No, no, don't be silly. There's plenty of food. I wasn't sure that's all.”

  He holds the red wine out towards me. His edginess is making me tense too.

  This evening’s already a disaster, and I'm sure he's regretting turning up. I can't, for the life of me, work out why he came.

  Struggling what to say, I check the rice boiling in the saucepan, hoping I can make it stretch to three.

  “Where’s Maureen?”

  “In the lounge. She wants dinner in front of the telly.”

  An awkward silenc
e.

  He turns his attention to the wine, avoiding the strained atmosphere building between us.

  “Corkscrew?”

  “Top drawer.”

  He opens cupboard doors until he has two wine glasses in his hand. He pours one for me.

  “You’ve got a tattoo.”

  “Yeah, my battalion. Welsh Guards. Got it before my first tour.”

  He rolls up his T-shirt sleeve for me to see it all. It’s inked across on his large bicep.

  “Cymru am byth? Wales forever? On an English boy like you?”

  “Not so English these days,” he says warily.

  We’re skirting around each other, but it’s brewing. And I’m struggling, so I check the food and get the plates out.

  “Annie?”

  His stormy tone sets me even more on edge.

  “Hmm?”

  “You opened up the past when you decided to help yourself to my stuff.”

  I can feel my cheeks burning.

  “Yeah, about that…”

  I take the rice over to the sink and begin draining it through a sieve.

  “I shouldn’t have…”

  “No. You shouldn’t,” his voice rumbles.

  There it is.

  Being told off riles me.

  I can feel my temper rising.

  He’s the one that buggered off, right after he screwed me.

  A notch on the bedpost.

  Like all the other girls he went with after.

  “They were my letters, Jac! You sent them to me.”

  I start loading the plates noisily with the chicken casserole and rice.

  “After ten years of you not being arsed to read them, it was only right that they got returned to sender.”

  I turn to face him full on, a plate of food in my hand.

  “Not being arsed?” I thunder.

  He has no right to talk to me like that.

  “That wasn’t how it was.”

  He glowers back at me and I refuse to look away.

  “How was it, then? Exactly?”

  “You broke my heart.”

  “So… you decided to break mine too.”

  I look away.

  I did step over the line taking the letter… and I’ve nothing else to say except…

  I mutter the words moodily; finally relenting.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch. He knows only too well how hard it is for me to ever back down.

  He takes the plate of food from me, sets it on the table and hugs me.

  His arms wrap around me, enveloping me. My head is buried in his chest as he holds onto me tightly, the tension between us melting away.

  “Wanna start over?”

  Neither of us let go. Until I remember the food.

  “Dinner’ll be getting cold.”

  We pull ourselves apart.

  “Is this plate for Maureen?”

  He takes it through to the darkened lounge where Mam is watching a soap.

  She’s coughing as we go in.

  I catch my breath. In the pale light of the television, her face is drawn.

  “You still got that tickle?”

  “I can’t seem to shift it.”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  I come back with the glass and Jac moves the side table for her.

  “You sure, you don’t want to join us?”

  “No, cariad, talking all afternoon’s done me in, it has.”

  There's no other choice, but to have dinner with him, alone. Sitting across the kitchen table from him feels strange. A little too formal, especially after our fight.

  He watches my fork playing with the rice in the casserole juice.

  "You alright?"

  “Bit sad, that’s all. I wish we’d have kept in touch.”

  “Me too.”

  He’s suddenly studying his plate too.

  “I’m sorry that you went into battle and I never wrote back. If anything had happened, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  Jac cuts across.

  “It didn’t Annie, so don’t beat yourself up.”

  I brood on it for a bit.

  “It’s not just that. Callista came to see me in New York. You could’ve come over too. It would’ve been a laugh.”

  “You could’ve come to Belize. Swam in the coral, seen the turtles.”

  We talk about these places for a while.

  I clear the plates and we look at the drawings he’s brought with him. Finely drawn pen and ink etchings of tropical fish and turtles.

  Emboldened by the wine, it slips out.

  “So… you waited for me. For how long?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Too long. Idiot that I was.”

  “And how did that rule work out for you, after? Were you the complete tart you said you’d be in the letter?”

  He’s amused to see me fishing.

  “I was twenty when I wrote that. Put it this way, it’d been a very long, dry spell. There’ve been plenty of women in my life, Annie, don’t you worry. Just as you’ve men had in yours.”

  I take another sip of wine.

  Had Callista been blabbing to him too?

  Suddenly, I don’t want to dredge up the ghosts of lovers past either.

  “You’re right. Let’s leave it be. Old friends. Fresh starts, what d’you say?”

  I take a sip of wine.

  With a quirky look on his face, he drinks too.

  “Yeah. The future.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ---------✸---------

  He’d been hidden from their view every day and evening for a week; spotting the characteristics of the men, learning their habits. Sion had lain flat for hours. Watching. Hidden from view in the dense shrubbery, fighting the creeping cold that moved through his muscles into his bones. Staying silent and still, blending in with the vegetation around him.

  He’d spotted Prifti easily. He was a smoker. Sion had studied him closely as he stood by the back door enjoying his cigarette. And he was a creature of habit.

  The gang members were all armed, from what he could see. Each carried at least a handgun. And they were brazen about it too, wearing their holsters in plain sight. It wasn't something he’d seen before in the UK. No wonder the security services wanted these bad boys gone.

  As the MI5 agent had said, his main challenge would be getting out of there quickly, before the fireworks went off. With the weight of the sniper gun on his back, there was a real possibility of a pot shot from one of Prifti’s heavies. If he went for a smaller rifle, his range and accuracy would be compromised. And that could also cost him his life.

  So, he practised his escape over the fence each night. And a week of practice later, he was confident that he could move fast out of there when he came under pressure and fire.

  He’d been in touch with Irish, his Scouser contact, and they’d agreed on a price for the job. It’d be wired to his offshore account.

  Earlier that day, he’d texted him the coded confirmation.

  ‘I’ve taken a look at the holiday you recommended and will make the booking later today. I’ll be in touch when the payment goes through.’

  Now it was all up to him.

  He had no choice but to do it.

  It was Monday afternoon; the best time for his mark to be there, with only a few of his homies hanging around.

  He was dressed in black, his face obscured by a balaclava. The gun was set up on its bipod, camouflaged in a dense laurel bush. He had a clear view of the patio where the men smoked, and he was as close as possible to the perimeter for his escape. The silencer was on.

  Prifti had been having a smoke on the patio each day at around three. In the week that Sion had watched him, Prifti’s nicotine cravings had shown surprising regularity.

  The February gloom suited his purpose well, as he sat and waited patiently. He could see the men clearly in the lit-up conservatory. They were playing pool. He considered venturing a shot
through the window, but the angles weren’t ideal. Best stick to the plan and wait for Prifti to appear. He hoped he’d be alone.

  Keeping patient, he practised his breathing as he looked down the sight, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

  When that trigger was pulled, all manner of shit was going to be flying from the fan. And he didn’t want any of it hitting him.

  He’d go back to Jac’s place, his safe haven where no one would ever find him. And then, there was Claire from The Cross Keys. She was the other reason why he stayed with Jac. Claire was unfinished business. Not even started. But, chatting to her every evening was fast becoming the best part of his day.

  He couldn’t get her out of his head. She was exotic; different to the other girls around there. Almond-shaped eyes. Long, dark, wavy hair. She was slender but with curves in all the right places. And behind her chatty banter, he could tell she was shy, reserved even. And she had that edge to her. You can’t kid a kidder. She hadn’t been dealt an easy hand in life, either.

  He snapped to attention.

  There was a movement at the back door.

  Positioning himself, with his eye focussing through the telescopic sight, he fixed on the face of the man who emerged onto the patio.

  Prifti.

  He was alone. There was no holster or belt to be seen about his black jeans. He looked relaxed, a little tired even.

  Sion’s luck was in. He studied him intently through the crosshairs as Prifti took a cigarette out of the packet he was holding, moving his hand to his back trouser pocket to retrieve his lighter.

  He took a long satisfying first drag.

  His last, Sion thought glibly.

  Prifti suddenly tilted his head back towards the house.

  Was someone else coming outside to join him? Or, was he being called back inside?

  Sion froze statue-still, hunched intently over the sight.

  Exhaling steadily to regulate his breathing, he had a clear shot. The time had to be now. Now.

  Sion coolly pulsed the trigger.

  To the trained ear, a faint whistle could be heard as the bullet sliced through the air. And, with one swift, fluid move, Sion had already half disassembled the gun as Leon Prifti keeled backwards.

  A dull thud.