One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  Back home, Sam stood gazing out of the lounge window, the white net curtains shielding her from the outside world, from nosey neighbours behind curtains of their own. She moved away from the windows and flipped the bird to whoever might be watching her now. She wouldn’t miss the street, nor the town. The Cornish coast with all its seaside splendour would be far nicer, far more scintillating and a damn sight more welcoming than this dreary Manchester suburb. A place overlooking the sea, somewhere she could call home, make a new life for them all, would do her the world of good.

  And there would be no need for any more pills; she was sure of that. Emptying the last four from the inside pocket of her bag, she tossed them to the back of her throat followed by a gulp of almost-cold tea. She winced as the capsules cascaded down into her stomach. Taking several deep breaths, Sam worked on clearing the anxiety in her chest and got to work on her laptop with her next quest: how to access the dark web. While Seedy Sid was still an option, organizing something with him in person was a huge risk to undertake, and one she might not need to take at all if there was a safer way. From her understanding, the dark web was a way of staying anonymous. She could arrange her transaction and get the job done, and no one would know she was involved.

  It took her several hours to get the results she wanted, and it was almost time to collect the girls from school when she came up for air. Gaining access to the space had been easy enough, it seemed, though she’d take a longer look at things later when the girls were doing their homework upstairs. But for now, she had a good understanding of how things worked.

  She knew that what she wanted to do was . . . doable.

  Maybe she could get her tablets from the dark web, too, she thought, get them posted rather than relying on chemists’ shift rotations or finding a place further away from home that didn’t know her. Her ‘tea lady’ was expensive and inconvenient, too, and not exactly local, but for the odd days when she needed a stronger jump-start or a sleepy peaceful day she had her uses. Or was buying her pills online too risky? She supposed she could use a private box rather than her home address for deliveries, but even that was traceable. Nonetheless it was worth looking into when the main business was taken care of. There had to be ways to safely receive goods.

  Gathering her bag, she left the house to go the long way round to school, towards the shopping mall that had a supermarket with a resident chemist, one that she hadn’t been to for a couple of weeks.

  Those were getting harder and harder to find, it seemed.

  Chapter Fifty

  “Come on, girls. Time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

  A whiney chorus of ‘Oh, Mummmm’ filled the lounge as two young faces turned to their mother, trying for sympathy. It wasn’t working, not tonight.

  “You stayed up last night, remember? I left you reading in bed, if you recall, rather than lights out. You’ll be getting bags under your eyes like I have if you have another late one, and trust me, you don’t want that.” Sam was helping the girls pick toys up and put them back in the cupboard as was the rule at night – all toys had to be put away.

  “Come on, quickly now. If you get upstairs and ready for bed in the next five minutes, you can read for ten more.” There was a sudden flurry of activity as two skinny little bodies raced up the stairs together in an attempt to get ready within the allotted time. Two sets of soft brown curls bounced out of view and Sam stood at the bottom making sure no one tripped in the stampede to be first. They were a joy to call her own. The sound of the little girls chattering while they were supposed to be brushing their teeth made her smile as she picked out odd toothpaste-frothy words from her spot downstairs. They were going to a friend’s birthday party at the weekend and both had new dresses for the occasion. Victoria wanted to know what Jasmine was doing with her hair – up or down.

  At their age?

  “Pigtails!” Jasmine had yelled, and Sam could imagine white specks of toothpaste splattering the mirror. Nothing a wipe with the towel later wouldn’t fix. Her heart missed for a moment as she realized they might be fatherless by then. Would they still want to go? Would it be appropriate, even? She waited until her daughters were finished in the bathroom, then climbed the stairs and popped her head around each bedroom doorway and peered in. Victoria was ready, a book in her hands, lips moving slightly as she read the words to herself to help make sense of some of the longer ones. She looked pretty in her pink nightie, her teddy tucked in at her side. Next, Sam checked in on Jasmine, who wasn’t quite ready. She was still picking a book to read from the bookcase behind the door, a little finger resting on her lip as she pondered her choices.

  “Need a hand choosing?”

  “I’m okay, thanks, Mum. But why don’t you tell me a story instead?” Two bright, twinkling eyes looked up at her and Sam caved in.

  “Come on, then. Jump into bed. I’ll tell you a short one because I’ve lots to do tonight, all right?”

  “All right.” Jasmine slid under the covers and Sam pulled the blanket up to her chin. She sat on the edge of the bed and recited one of Jasmine’s favourite stories, about how all the cats and dogs nearby crept into the forest late at night. Of how they’d each tell stories and light a bonfire to sleep next to for warmth in winter. Then they’d all awaken at dawn and wander back home so nobody would know they had even been out. Oh, the stories they would tell one another – the same stories that Sam recited to her own children as she watched them slowly drift off to sleep, eyelids fluttering as they fought to stay awake, in the warmth of their cosy beds. As Jasmine drifted off now, Sam kissed her forehead gently and turned off the bedside lamp. The light from the hallway was enough for her to see her way out.

  “One more minute, Victoria, then lights out please,” she called as she pulled Jasmine’s door almost closed. Victoria nodded that she understood.

  Back downstairs, Sam poured herself a glass of red wine, set her laptop on the sofa beside her and turned the TV on for a bit of background noise and comfort.

  Comfort? You’d better get used to being on your own.

  Clicking the anonymous browser icon, she resumed her search for someone to kill her husband – preferably while he was away in Croydon. She found the whole dark web thing fascinating and had been careful not to let her natural inquisitiveness get the better of her and click a link to something she might regret later. The headlines and the post titles urged the viewer to click and read, or in many cases observe, and even though she was anonymous, she knew full well that you can’t un-see something you’d rather not have seen in the first place.

  But it wasn’t all weird stuff. Yes, there were links to encourage you away someplace else, but most of the stuff on offer wasn’t much different than the hits from an old-fashioned search page from way back.

  She typed a term for what she wanted and hit enter. Then she waited, sipping her red, for results to come home.

  “Wow, so many to choose from,” she mumbled as the screen began to fill. There was clearly a market for knocking people off. Her finger hesitated over her mouse pad as the cursor blinked, waiting for her decision. She made her selection, then sat back and took another sip of wine.

  When the page had fully loaded, she read the brief description of what was on offer. Beside it was a link to get in touch and discuss requirements. She took a deep breath. Then another. The cursor flashed tantalizingly but Sam didn’t click it. Instead, she reverted back to the search results and read a couple more descriptions before choosing one more and clicking through. As the last page, she read what services were on offer but this page had a somewhat different feel to it than the one previous. It seemed, well, less matter-of-fact and more “Let’s solve a problem.” There was something she liked about the way the words flowed; it felt a little more harmonious.

  And it was that harmonious feel that caused Samantha Riley to make her decision. Funny that it was important at all, she thought as she clicked the link.

  Her husband’s killer had been selected.
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br />   Chapter Fifty-One

  Since Duncan had called to say don’t wait up, again, Sam had snuggled up on the sofa under a fleecy blanket all on her own. Again.

  It was like being single half the time.

  Not much will change there, then.

  She kicked the throw off her legs and poured another glass of red, grabbing the remote control before resuming her comfortable position. She rested her head back on a cushion, feeling a little drowsy, the wine and pills mixing as they shouldn’t. A calmness blended with a slight numbness embraced her whole being and she slid further down the sofa before selecting a program she’d recorded a few days ago. After her recent research and actually making contact with a professional hit man, she wanted something that would simply wash over her and didn’t require much brainpower. The food program would do the trick. Sam clicked select and the music started, followed by the deep voice of a male presenter that she’d seen on a show before but couldn’t place where. No matter; it wasn’t important.

  She settled in for the program to finish the job that had been started by the substances she’d consumed. Not five minutes in and her eyes were fluttering a little, as if she was going to go to sleep, and drowsily she wondered if perhaps bed was in order. An early night, a nice deep sleep always did you good. But as the presenter chattered on, something stirred inside her mind and began to pull her back to the moment. Sam reared bolt upright on the sofa like a corpse coming back to life on an old Frankenstein movie, and did her best to focus. Suddenly alert to what he was talking about, she asked herself if she’d misheard him in her drowsy state. But no, the presenter’s words were mountain-stream clear and the meaning just as cold. She turned up the volume. No, there was no doubt about the topic of this particular food program.

  Naturally occurring poisonous foods.

  Tossing the throw aside, she swung her legs down to the floor and listened intently. The segment was on the dangers of green potatoes and their potentially lethal ingredient – solanine.

  “I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” she said to herself.

  Apparently, it wasn’t. She sat there thoughtful, drinking in the information, knowing she could use it somewhere in her plan. Fate had once again shown her something she could use in the demise of her husband, though when and where she’d add in later. Her mind snapped into gear, turning over the possibilities, as she took in the extent of what solanine could do. Yes, large quantities of it could be fatal, but it was no longer that common in modern-day potatoes you bought from the supermarket. Not unless you purposely grew such potatoes, like the Incas had done thousands of years ago, but even then, they had had a process for degrading the solanine before they ate them.

  As the program went on, Sam knew she could incorporate the idea somehow: it was a natural substance and the notion of using it too good to be missed. But Duncan would have to consume more than his fair share of potatoes, even supposing she could find enough green ones to do the deed with, never mind convincing him to eat them. But distilling it and using it to immobilize him – well, that was another matter. Diarrhea, vomiting, drowsiness, mental confusion, shortness of breath and weak and rapid pulse were all symptoms that’d slow him down considerably, and the poison would likely never get picked up, because why would anyone be looking?

  The more she thought about it, the more it made sense: Duncan was a big man, and strong too, so if someone broke into his room, he’d certainly be able to put up a fight and defend himself, even against a surprise attack in the dead of night. But if he had been slowed down beforehand by mental confusion and gastro problems, it would make the assassin’s job much easier.

  Sam’s face broke into a sick smile as she stood listening to the rest of the show. Solanine looked to be the answer, but how to get it?

  She shut off the television and fetched her laptop.

  By the time she heard a key turn in the front door, it was nearly eleven o’clock. She closed her laptop and smiled winningly.

  “Hi, darling. You look bushed. Can I get you something to eat or drink?” she asked cheerily.

  A delighted but tired Duncan replied, “I’d love a proper mug of tea and a sandwich if you can be bothered. I’m done in.”

  Sam watched as he all but collapsed onto the sofa, resting his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. “No bother. Stay where you are. I’ll bring it in,” she said with a smile and a spring in her step as off she went through to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a loving wife attending to her exhausted husband’s needs.

  Tomorrow, a trip to the garden centre was in order. A bag of green seed potatoes with plenty of eyes should do the trick.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Luke was sick of the sight of his small, functional room at his parents’ place, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers. At least it was cheap, and, with no money to speak of and no income prospects on the horizon, he knew he’d be staying put for a while longer.

  Currently, he was nursing a mug of coffee at a corner table about a mile away. As a precaution, he had begun to vary the locations he accessed his new business website. Being over-cautious was better than the other way around and getting busted unnecessarily, he figured. While the site was anonymous, he knew there was always going to be a way to trace it eventually, if the tracer knew who they were searching for.

  As he sipped, there was a ping, signalling that he had a new message. He sat forward, hardly believing his eyes.

  That was quick…

  Keeping his face as neutral as possible, he hovered the cursor over the message, willing himself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, he clicked it. The message filled his small screen and even though he was tucked in a corner unable to be overlooked, he still did a sweep of the café before he read it in its entirety. It was short.

  Looking for a removal. Quickly. Window of opportunity has come up Thursday evening in Croydon. Interested?

  Holy shit. Thursday evening was only a few short hours away. Suddenly all of his and Clinton’s planning over the last couple of weeks seemed like children’s daydreams. Stuff was getting real, and fast. Thursday. Was there even time to get things organized? He stared at the message as thoughts catapulted themselves through his head like a circus act on steroids.

  Well, this was what all those plans had been leading up to, wasn’t it? So what was he waiting for?

  “They’re simply a prospect, a number, a business transaction,” he told himself. His hand cupped the mouse; the cursor wriggled over the reply icon. By thinking of this … this thing he proposed to do as just another business deal, could he take the humanity out of it and get on with satisfying his first customer?

  For £12,000, he could try.

  Remembering his own tentative first enquiry, he decided to keep his reply brief and noncommittal. He began to type:

  Not much time but can be done. £12K. Half now; half on completion. Need photo and whereabouts to get rolling. Stand by.

  He hit send and sat back in his chair. How long it would be before the prospect came back with further information and funds he’d no idea, though he hoped it would be today. To his surprise, his nervous energy had changed to excitement, anticipation even.

  It’s new business, remember? A prospect.

  He rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans to dry his sweaty palms and rolled his shoulders back to remove the tension. If he was going to fulfil his first order, there were a few things to do, namely purchase a weapon with the first instalment of money.

  Money. How was he going to set up the exchange of funds? Mentally he smacked himself in the forehead. He’d assumed a car park rubbish bin would suffice, but what if his client wasn’t in Manchester? What was he going to do then?

  Steady on, Luke, he told himself. What did he usually do when he had to find a location he’d never visited before? Google Earth. Yes. After the prospect revealed their location, Luke could zoom in and find the perfect spot nearby. Even the smallest of towns had supermarkets, and most of those
had a rubbish bin by the entrance.

  Okay, that was step one. As for picking up the funds, after midnight, no one else would be rifling through the bin and make off with his fee, would they? But there’d be cameras present, recording, and he wasn’t going to risk losing £6000 that easily.

  So scratch that. What about Bitcoin? But he had no clue how that even worked and how he his prospect could use it anonymously. Besides, there was not enough time to learn.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Right, then. Back to the drawing board. He needed to learn how to do cyber-currency transactions, and he needed to learn it quickly.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Another late night, another early start. Duncan, gulping down a sausage and egg McMuffin and a coffee in the McDonalds car park, looked like he’d been a couple of rounds with Tyson his eyes were so puffy, but the end was in sight for the case, it seemed. For that he was grateful. And the sun was promising to make an appearance later. After a string of wet, grey days, some orange in the sky, no matter how low, would be a welcome mood-changer. And speaking of moods changing, what was with Sam and her dramatic transformation lately? It was welcome, of course, but it made him uneasy.

  A starling hopped by his car looking for scraps for breakfast, found a stray French fry, and tucked in. The activity alerted another bird close by who swooped down to stake its claim on the same find. Feeling sorry for the first bird getting moved on, Duncan lowered his window and tossed a piece of bread its way. Wasting no time, the starling picked the whole piece up and moved further to one side to eat it in peace. Duncan smiled as he started on his hash brown, his first good deed for the day already in the bag. His phone buzzed. Sam.