Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  Russo beckoned Mark to follow him and called in Italian for one of his guards who arrived with an Uzi and wearing a balaclava. He promptly muttered something to him and dismissed him before motioning Mark to follow him. Down in the warehouse, under some tarpaulin, was a black Mercedes Vito van equipped with bullet proof glass, bomb proof undercarriage and a large supply of different number plates.

  ‘So this is how Russo used to smuggle weapons across Europe,’ Mark said to himself quietly, smiling at the ingenuity of Russo’s vehicle. It was used as much for protection as he moved around the country, as it was for criminal activity but it didn’t matter now, the fact was it belonged to Mark and it would come in use.

  ‘Now Mark,’ whispered Russo confidentially to Mark. Mark listened intently. ‘You do not put a single scratch on it or it will void my insurance!’

  Mark nodded as Russo winked at him, noting the huge irony of a criminal having insurance on this vehicle. Mark shook his head in disbelief; he really had seen it all now and was exposed to a world he knew little about, but he was determined and driven by anger, not grief; there would be time to grieve later.

  Mark and some of Russo’s henchmen loaded the vehicle and Russo pulled Mark to one side to a special table. He explained that he had set aside the more “specialist” weapons which he thought Mark may appreciate. On the table was a selection of up to date and not yet on the market sniper rifles, concealed weapons and ammunition. Mark made his selection and loaded them into the van. Mark and Russo shook hands before Russo shouted to his team, ‘Friends, we must wind this activity up.’

  This order encouraged a mass rush of people packing up whatever Mark didn’t take with him. Mark got into the Vito van and pulled away towards the warehouse door but stopped before the door and called over Russo. He handed him the paperwork for the hire car.

  ‘Deliver this back to the hire company, without a scratch.’

  Mark threw him the keys. Russo laughed and promised not to mark it at all. Mark then drove out of the garage and Russo winced as he heard Mark wheel-spin out in the yard. Russo rushed after him and Mark spotted him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Just getting used to it,’ Mark said aloud, laughing.

  Chapter Eight

  The traffic noises outside the eighth floor window echoed around the empty office building as lights flickered on and off in the apartments and offices up and down the inner London City street. Inside, only the faint sound of a hoover pushed around the floor by an elderly dark haired man in a black cleaning company branded polo shirt and dark blue workman’s trousers, occasionally shunting the steel foot of a table, bothered the darkened figure hunched over a laptop in the corner of the open plan office.

  Crumpled bits of paper, empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers littered the desk and over flowing waste paper bin down by the side of the desk, much to the annoyance of the elderly cleaner, who periodically shot irritated glances towards the sound of furious tapping on a laptop keyboard. Shaking his head, the elderly cleaner resumed his hoovering, unable to comprehend the need for young people to work such late hours having no life. It wasn’t like that in HIS day, when he buzzed around the halls of this vibrant and decorated newspaper and media company, which had covered most of the major breaking news stories of this century. The old man’s mind wandered back to the times when he wore the snappy, expensive suit and ran through these corridors he now hoovered, helped by his glamorous and attractive assistant as he worked hard to break the latest news stories.

  The figure, outlined only by the lights shining in from the large window which looked down eight floors and onto the hustling, bustling street below as late night shoppers, yuppie drinkers and police patrol cars, leant back in his new black reclining ergonomic office chair, and stretched his arms high above his head, groaning as he felt the soreness in his back, shoulders and head increase. He turned to his second screen and adjusted the large double black monitor arm, to which were fixed two Pro Display computer monitors, and used his black wireless mouse to scroll through volumes of high-resolution black and white images of a man loading a car with suspiciously large military bags.

  Ian Hawking stretched again as he got up from his desk and wandered over towards the small roof terrace adjacent to his desk. He swiped his Cryptag ID across the small black panel on the wall and waited for the LED to turn green before sliding the large patio door open and closing his eyes, feeling momentary comfort from the cool breeze which engulfed his face. He pulled a semi-crushed packet of Marlborough Red cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up, exhaling extensively before sliding one hand into his pocket and walking casually over to the edge of the roof terrace wall to gaze down at the traffic below.

  He thought it unfair that life around him should just carry on, regardless of his pain and the fact that his world had all but stopped. For the last week he had been on annual leave, drunk and living off take-away food while he resigned himself to his living room sofa, in a deep and pitiful cavern of self-pity and grief. All he could think about at first was his own sorrow, merging into jealousy, back to sorrow again, unable to muster any other form of emotion. He was void from caring about work or deadlines or news stories. He refused to watch the news because news, as he knew all too well, moved on quickly but he didn’t want to move on. He didn’t want to see what would happen tomorrow, he wanted to remain in this moment, this turmoil and grief because it focussed his mind on the one thing which was the reason for the grief in the first place; the unnecessary, untimely and ultimately unfair death, of Marie King.

  Weeks had passed and, once he had emerged from his pit of self-destruction, he had changed. He was no longer the bumbling, clumsy and annoying idiot journalist he realised people saw him as. Now he was focussed, driven and determined. He wanted nothing of other news stories, breaking news, or the new spot at ‘Sky News at Six’ he had been working towards and always dreamed of. He refused any other assignments passed his way, and had turned off and destroyed his freelance business mobile. All he could see now was one man, the man HE claimed was responsible for Marie King’s death. One man who, whether deliberately or accidentally, caused the death of his wife because of his own, selfish, childish and antagonistic actions which had put her in the direct line of fire for any repercussions which may be visited upon Mark.

  Ian Hawking didn’t care anymore that Mark King didn’t even recognise who he was. He didn’t care about the laughter, the jokes, the humiliation Mark visited on him every time they met. He didn’t care what he had to say to the public and to Mark’s superiors when he made an official statement to Hugo Lever, claiming Mark was mentally unstable, and providing evidence, photographic evidence ‘proving’ Mark was the antagonist against the two gardeners innocently sat outside his home every morning before beginning work. He had given up caring about the fact that he had provided them with photographs to prove that the two individuals Mark got into a fight with in the black four-by-four were simply going about their daily work schedule, nor about the legitimacy of their employment with Government Municipal Services, or the copy of the contract he had gotten hold of and had verified to prove their employment status; all this whilst he had sat a few inches away from where Mark King had worked and became the architect of Marie’s death and Hawking’s destruction. He didn’t care any longer that Mark had the welfare and security of the entire country on his shoulders when he was prosecuting Azidi, nor the fact that Mark didn’t seem to acknowledge the responsibility of putting this man away for life before he could kill, maim and destroy countless other lives and had fluffed it.

  All Ian Hawking cared about now was Mark King. And he was going to make him pay for what he had done. The only thing that mattered to him now was getting Mark King, in any way that he could. Wherever Mark King went, he would be there to witness it and, when the moment was right, he would strike at the very heart of the man who had robbed him of the only thing he really held dear in his life since university. And he was going to enjoy it.

  Chap
ter Nine

  Lying on a sun lounger dressed in white trousers and a blue button up shirt and drinking something alcoholic, Thomas Lundon sat reading a newspaper, his laptop and mobile phone beside him on a small patio table. The phone rang and he put down his paper, irritated at the interruption.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ the old man answered it sharply.

  ‘Mark King has vanished and we are unable to locate him. There is no trace on his bank records or credit cards and his hire car was found burned out by a canal in London’ said the voice, clearly panicked and stressed.

  ‘I see,’ said Lundon slowly. ‘I trust your men are on it?’

  There was silence for a moment or two before the answer came.

  ‘A man came into the hire company and purchased the car beforehand but left no details and no trace.’

  Lundon’s tone changed to a more serious tone as he explained, ‘We simply cannot allow this individual to evade elimination. Put more resources to the task.’

  Lundon hung up the call and motioned for one of his attendants. A tall man in black wearing sunglasses stepped forward.

  ‘Go to London and pick up the trail of where Mark King would likely have gone, starting with his co-workers,’ growled Lundon. He then dismissed the man and turned the laptop towards him. The screensaver of the Invictus Advoca logo bounced around the screen before Lundon logged on and bought up another screen logging into an offshore bank account. While he was doing this he picked up his mobile phone and dialled using the speed dial. A voice answered.

  ‘Yes, I am wiring you sufficient funds to allow the search for Mark King to continue.’

  Mark King arrived at the metal wire mesh gates at the entrance to an old abandoned government continuity facility in a densely wooded area somewhere in the UK. He had heard about this place from various cases he had dealt with over the years and often wondered if it would ever come in use by anyone.

  ‘Now seems as good a time as any to make use of it,’ Mark said to himself aloud, for what he had planned.

  He walked round to the back of the borrowed Mercedes van to get the bolt croppers Russo had provided for him. Mark smiled at the sound of birdsong and the feeling of the drops of rain from the trees due to the downpour about half hour before Mark arrived. Mark looked around, satisfied he would not be disturbed here while he carried out his plans away from prying eyes. Using the hefty bolt croppers to cut off the huge padlock from the gates, he swung them open; he took a short walk inside the compound before driving the van up the barely visible dusted track that lead to the hardened facility.

  Mark had been informed that this building had been sold to private developers during the nineties after the Gulf War after the government sold off many of its nuclear assets. Even with the rise if ISIS, he doubted it would be needed. The current owner now resided in Sunning Dale Nursing Home and was one of Mark’s most valued clients so it seemed obvious that, if he needed a hideout, this was the perfect place.

  Nial Atkinson was a multi-millionaire who had come to Mark for a defence against tax evasion charges six years ago. Reminding Mark of his late father, he had taken him almost to heart and they had become firm friends. It was only when Mark was driving away with Russo’s van, did he realise he had little or no idea where he was going, so took a detour to Sunning Dale Nursing home to speak to Nial Atkinson about potentially borrowing his land. Naturally Nial agreed and provided him with the computer access codes for the main blast doors and blast chamber which served as a barrier against a nuclear blast. Nial had also provided Mark with plans of how to get the place up and running again.

  Once Mark had driven the van into the compound, he re-bolted the gate with a new padlock he had purchased and parked the Mercedes van out of sight. He approached the first set of blast doors which were set into the ground and slightly overgrown.

  Built in 1954, this command centre was intended to be the NATO nerve centre for the combined Western-European air forces and aerial defences. As such, it coordinated exercises preparing for the worst case scenario of a nuclear strike by the USSR.

  The last exercise involving this command centre took place in 1995. Up to 1995, the site was continuously guarded, even though only a select few knew of its existence. Only handpicked men at key positions in the military hierarchy were allowed access, as were the six hundred men earmarked to run the base in case of emergency. Once the MoD had no further use for it, Atkinson bought it and, as he was formerly a Major in the SAS, it was sold at a knock-down price.

  At the core of the bunker was the Operation Room, taking up two levels. The walls were covered with massive maps, and symbols to indicate the military positions and the movements of troops. On the upper level, the room was surrounded by offices for the joint staffs, while on the ground floor level, in direct contact with the communication equipment, a theatre was built to act as a media platform.

  Mark took a thorough inspection of the facility, making a list of everything he needed to acquire to restore it to working order. However, after venturing down to the lower levels, he found a store room with brand new equipment including rolls of electrified fencing, CCTV cameras, various computer systems, and a cache of standard issue weapons such as handguns, grenades, semi-automatic weapons, and ammunition. Mark also discovered some flares and wireless radios and transmitters. Ascended back up to ground level to collect the van and locate the electricity supply, which he found just down a protected reinforced concrete hallway a few yards inside the blast doors.

  After a day of rewiring, connecting and rigging of CCTV and hidden cameras located in the trees which surround the complex, Mark had rigged up various ‘Nests’ in the trees to act as sniper points and had created an indoor rifle firing range deep below ground and set up a rather luxurious bedroom suite with shower, gym, sauna and escape hatch up to the vehicle parking area located a few floors above him. Most of this was already present when he arrived. He also painted the grey blast doors in camouflage colours, as he had the rest of the complex to disguise it from prying eyes. Lastly, he walked into the woods until he found a field where he had lifted all the grass turf from the field to be placed over the top of the facility to cover it from the air. The reason he did this and did not buy new turf was because it occurred to him that new turf is a different colour green to that of already growing grass in the locality, and Mark wanted it to blend in as much as possible.

  Mark erected a ‘Wanted’ wall together with photographs of people he knew were involved as well as blank spaces for potential targets. Down the corridor from what used to be the ‘Map Room’ was an office filled with filing cabinets and desks. Mark had used his time wisely, getting as much information as he could about his wife’s murder and storing it in the cabinets. He had also rigged each floor to explode if he triggered the explosives should anyone after him, gain access to the facility, as well as this, he had disguised all the secret exits to look like part of the walls so that only HE knew how to get out in a hurry.

  In the main conference room, he had managed to fix the giant TV screen in the centre of the room and wire it up to the internet and computer system, together with slightly smaller ones around the room, all showing different news channels, and CCTV views and maps of local areas. Also he had replaced the batteries in all the world clocks on one wall so that he knew every time zone time around the world in one glance. He built a steel balcony with steps and walkway overlooking this conference facility so he could see everything at once.

  Outside the complex, Mark had rewired and repaired the electric fencing, rigged up hidden cameras covering all entrances and exits to the facility and completely camouflaged it from any unwanted visitors. He had also rigged up a second ring of fencing further outside the complex to which he had also added laser sensors, electrified fencing and delayed timer landmines, a map of which is also rigged up in the security room. This room contained screens with every single camera and map of the complex in one place. The door to this room was disguised as part of the wall and it had
a blast proof door manufactured from the same material as the main blast doors, meaning it was impenetrable. In this he had also erected a bed, weapons store, toilet and food, along with the main food supply and independent water storage and treatment system already built into the facility. In essence, this place was built to withstand a nuclear war and subsequent thirty year nuclear fallout.

  Mark wandered through this vast underground facility He walked into the main operations / conference room to survey the various cameras and maps and approached a map table with a huge map of London on it. On a second table to his right, stood a steel table complete with hand gun, sniper rifle, bag and accessories including multiple scopes, laser sites and magazines, Kevlar vest and guile suit hung up next to it. Next to that was hung Marks new black combat trousers and jacket. He looked around and smiled to himself, satisfied his he had something to show for his hard work. As he lights up a cigarette, placing it in the ashtray on the map table, he took a file from the table next to him and flicked through it. In it were pictures and descriptions and police evidence files of the two men in the black Range Rover parked outside his house in the lead up to his wife’s murder. He gazed at the map

  ‘Ok,’ said Mark, staring intently at the map, ‘let’s scope em!’

  Armed with his first targets, the two men in the Range Rover, present in the lead up to his wife’s murder, Mark King had marked his men. He had ascertained through various intelligence sources that his targets regularly visit an office building in the centre of London. He had identified them both the first as: Roman Vose: A forty-two year old professional Hitman & Bodyguard, former CIA agent, defected to Russia and now worked for anyone who would hire him, whose guise is a professional businessman who deals in exotic weapons, the same man Mark King punched in the Range Rover outside his home the day before his wife was murdered.