Hit
Page 10
In the corridor, the villa was bustling with people in the semi-darkness, some with clip boards, some with headsets on, moving quickly from one room to another once the silent alarm was triggered, which indicated that someone was calling Lundon on his private cell phone. Protocol stated that a trace was to be made on every single call, email, text message and communication going in or out of the villa, especially during the night, and it involved a trusted few whom Lundon personally had recruited for security reasons to manage this when he was asleep.
Inside his room, Lundon dropped back down onto the remaining billows and puffed out excess air, frustrated and annoyed at the lack of respect shown to him after waking him up at this hour; also at Mark King for causing so many problems when the man just wouldn’t die.
In the darkened office building in central London, a pre-paid mobile phone stood on an abandoned desk, strapped to a speaker and facing another pre-paid mobile phone, taped with electrical tape, to a coffee mug. On the rooftop across the street sat a small, black news reporter’s antenna pointing east and making a barely audible beeping noise as it rotated around and around.
Down on the street below, a hooded figure hung up the receiver in the phone box on the corner of a council estate. As he moved away from the phone box, his attention turned to the man he was holding by the throat who had been inside the phone box before he made his call, dropping him unconscious to the floor. Turning to go with an evil grimace on his face, and a few new scares on his forehead and cheek, he reached into the pocket of the hoodie, and pulled out a packet of Marlborough Red cigarettes. He lit one up, paused and looked around before making his way to an old dark blue Ford Focus parked half on the verge, and half on the road.
As he walked at a determined and victorious pace, only his eyes and lower face were visible underneath the hoodie as he breathed out one lung full of cigarette smoke after another. The place was quiet, and he knew it well from his childhood. It was the perfect spot to make an untraceable phone call with no witnesses, save one who wouldn’t be worrying about anything he may have witnessed or overheard.
The night air was cool, compared to the office blocks of the inner city business districts, and few people ventured this far for fear of being mugged by the swathes of gangland members who wandered these streets. The sound of yobbish chants and the bassline from someone’s loud music echoed through the deserted streets, along with the sound of breaking glass, screaming dogs barking and the sound of a siren, encouraged Ian Hawking to quickly flick his cigarette and jump into the focus. He pulled out a third pre-pay burn phone from the pocket of his dark blue jeans and opened the screen, pressing the only number programmed into the speed dial, and waited for the other end to pick up.
‘It’s me, we’re on,’ he said and hung up the phone, before wheel-spinning around, sending stones, dirt and wet grass up into the air, and speeding off down the road.
His brakes screeched as he stopped right next to a large bin at the side of the road. He took out the phone he had just used and dismantled it, removing the sim card, battery, and snapping the memory board in half, before dropping it into the bin, lighting another cigarette, and speeding off into the night, the faint flashing red and blue lights of a police car summoned to investigate the sound of breaking glass and screaming he had heard moments beforehand.
Chapter Twelve
Two taps on the driver window brought Mark back from his distant thoughts with a jump, realising that it was time to work. He wound it down a little and stared at the face of Marco Salvatore, who grinned at him, breathing alcohol into the car. Mark’s nose wrinkled as the waft of stale alcohol and cigars floated in through the window. Mark gave Salvatore a nod and picked up the case, winding the electric window down far enough to pass the case through. Salvatore nodded and smiled again, passing a yellow envelope back through to Mark. He figured it was probably cash and he would check that later.
Mark checked Salvatore’s hands, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Salvatore was not wearing gloves. Mark figured it would take two to three days for the effects of the thallium to take hold and judging by Salvatore’s breath and apparent lack of personal hygiene, it would aid in the coroner ruling an accidental death. Mark checked the yellow envelope and saw it was cash. Then a thought occurred to him: if the drop was sooner than two to three days away, what would whoever was supposed to receive the contents of the case say when they realised the case was empty? He called after Salvatore hastily.
‘Eh, Salvatore,’ he called, waving a handful of notes at him from the open window.
Salvatore chuckled before walking back towards the car.
‘Boss says you been working overtime lately and deserve a little “treat” for loyalty. Take this and have yourself a few days rest before delivering the package,’ Mark whispered, passing him the money.
Salvatore smiled and nodded his head, looking thrilled at the offer. He shook Mark’s leather-gloved hand through the window and walked off toward the station with a skip in his step. Mark chuckled to himself, thinking about the fact that Salvatore would blow all of that money on bad food and alcohol before he handed the case in to whoever it was supposed to go to. He started the ignition and felt the powerful S-line three litre turbo diesel 272PS engine roar into life. He wasn’t expecting such power under the hood and he realised, with amazement, he needed to be careful with this car; it was much more powerful than he thought it would be. He flicked on the radio and auto-tuned it to his favourite station and reversed out of the parking space, looking for somewhere away from prying eyes.
After about an hour, Mark pulled over near a roadside café and pulled out his list of remaining targets. He used a pencil to cross off Salvatore’s name from the list and wondered who the other people were. He sat quietly, flicking the yellow envelope full of bank notes over in his hands until his eyes rested on something: the franking stamp on the back of the envelope. It was a haulage company in London. Mark took out his camera and took a picture of it, replacing it and thinking nothing more on it. He looked at the next name on the list; he smiled at some of the codenames and settled on the next one, Daniel Swiftlock. He saw notes scribbled in the margin under this name and held it up to the light to see. He was due to be delivered a piece of equipment for a job and it was in the boot, in pieces which Swiftlock would have to re-assemble. Curious, Mark got out of the car and went to the boot, remotely unlocking it. There was a large black cloth covering what appeared to be a long, thin case with two clips at either end. Mark opened the clips and lifted the hinged lid to reveal an extremely powerful long range Israeli-made DAN .338 rifle, magazines, an infrared telescopic scope, wireless earpiece and a burn phone. Mark knew his weapons, and this was currently the world’s most powerful sniper rifle. He remembered someone once telling him that one round from this rifle could stop a car by splitting the engine block in two. It had the potential to disable aircraft, vehicles and offered a very high kill ratio. Mark shuddered, putting his hand on the weapon, and felt relieved that it wasn’t hot so had not recently been fired. He also noticed a small corner of a piece of paper which was hidden under the foam lining. He lifted it up and revealed it was a large invoice for a shipping company and freight haulage company. Mark couldn’t make out much of the wording as it was so faded, but he read the name of the person who administered the invoice: Mr M Underhill.
‘Wherever this is headed, it will be bad news for someone,’ he said to himself aloud, ‘I can’t allow this to fall into the wrong hands.’
He closely inspected his newly acquired DAN .338 rifle in its case, looking as deadly as it was intended to look. Mark noted, for an instrument made purely for the purpose of killing, it looked strangely beautiful and, with no ammunition in it, may have looked almost harmless to anyone else. He paced back and forwards in front of it a few times and stared at it intently, thinking it would be just as easy to keep it. No, he thought, far too dangerous. He slammed the boot and walked back to the driver’s seat, lighting a cigarette as
he did so. The hot sun had now vanished, and it was getting chilly, with a wind that had picked up, making it feel colder. Mark thought to himself for a minute. ‘If this weapon is going to be used soon, it would be largely dependent on the weather and how the cross-wind affected the trajectory of the bullet,’ he said out loud, remembering the gruelling hours and days of training in all weathers on both moving and stationary targets.
As he exhaled, he thought about the calibre of weapon he had in the boot. If it was true that it was capable of stopping a car by splitting the engine block in two, was it possible that THIS was what it was destined to be used for by Swiftlock? Mark considered the name ‘Swiftlock’ and guessed it was not his real name, but he had acquired it because of his skill with a rifle. Mark got back in the car and flicked his cigarette into the dust. It was time for him to pay Mr Swiftlock a little visit.
After a short drive back to the bunker he was ‘leasing’ from Nial Atkinson, Mark had turned his attention to looking through all of Hix’s belongings he had taken. He discovered that he did not have just ONE passport, but several, all in different names, but couldn’t work out what the electronic pass key was for. Was it a hotel, a security gate or door, a safe deposit box? He didn’t know, but searched the internet for the various names of all those aliases Hix was using. After a while, he came up with a list of results and filtered through them until he connected an alias to a freight company. Using Google to locate the offices, Mark decided he would pay them a visit and find out what link this had to Hix and whether he could track Vose there too. His search results bought up a website, address and pictures of freight with a client list. Mark also located the building plans and blueprints for the company’s freight yard, complete with information and a suitable guise as an estate agent wanting to ship some ‘fine art’ abroad.
However, before he could investigate this lead, he had a few things to take care of, such as Daniel Swiftlock. He stared again at the rifle he had removed from the boot of the Audi A4 and studied it carefully, having put it together once he was shielded from anyone curious enough to take a look. It was beautifully crafted and was light, but sensitive to being knocked, so required careful handling. Mark spun around in his chair to his laptop and typed in the name ‘Daniel Swiftlock’ into Google. The results took a while to load but when they did, several results looked promising, including a mobile cleaning service run by a D Swiftlock.
‘A cleaning service?’ murmured Mark to himself. ‘I suppose that is a good enough guise for a hitman!’
Mark pondered several things that worried him about luring out a professional hitman. Firstly, he would be obsessively careful when meeting anyone, so the chances of a rooftop sniper round to the head in a fake meet-up would be out of the question. If this guy was as good as he was or better, he would likely scope out the area of their ‘meet’, long before Mark got there. There was the potential to arrange for him to use a double to play the part of Swiftlock. Mark was despairing, but realised that he had answered his own question. He needed to check the list again as Swiftlock was expecting the rifle to be delivered to him for a job. Mark spun around and looked at the rifle, his eyes widening with an idea.
If the rifle made it safely to its owner, there would be no problem. Mark examined every single empty section of the rifle. He could pack it with explosives, rigged to go off at a predetermined time with a remote detonator. Mark stared at the rifle and a menacing grin grew on his face. He was formulating a plan.
He found a large quantity of explosives hidden in the bunker, in the form of C4, administered by way of a tube through a nozzle. He ran back to his table and filled the barrel, chamber, magazines and under the case with C4 explosive and added a source of ignition. He rigged the wireless ignition detonator to be set off by calling the burn phone, which was already fully charged, switched on and in the case.
He replaced the rifle, in its individual components, in its case and clipped down the locking mechanism, before replacing it in the boot of the Audi and returning to his desk. He checked the piece of paper and noted that he was to deliver the rifle at midnight tonight; he had time to spare so headed for the same routine before every hit, a shower using non-fragrant soaps so he could not be detected by anyone, a shave to prevent any hair fibres being recovered, and to relax his mind before another kill. He was relentless and merciless. These people had to die.
The sound of a distant dog barking and sirens melted away into what was otherwise a peaceful night as Mark checked his watch again. He had re-conned the area obsessively in the run up to choosing it as a location to meet Swiftlock, so he knew where all of the places were that a sniper would likely position themselves. It was one forty-five and the streets were deserted as the streetlights glistened and threw shadows around the carpark behind ‘Gecko’s’ nightclub. The place was closed up during the week so it was the perfect spot. Also there were no cameras covering the rear of the carpark, so there would be no evidence.
‘The ultimate aim of this,’ Mark thought, ‘is to be totally untraceable and unseen.’
It was OK for the target to see their killer, because they would be dead so it wouldn’t matter. However, he was working his way through a hit list and, sooner or later, those who paid these men would eventually put the pieces together and figure out Mark’s plan. However, now was not the time to worry about what MIGHT happen. All Mark was concerned about was causing as much pain as possible to this organisation which had orchestrated his wife’s murder.
It occurred to Mark to target those at the top of the chain of command primarily, but that would be suicide because he didn’t know enough about them yet, or how far their reach was, or, HIS role and where HE fitted into it all. Marie’s death was not random, or a bungled burglary gone wrong. It wasn’t purely connected to the Azidi case or a revenge attack for his involvement; he was merely doing his job. It ran much, much deeper than that, and if he killed whoever ordered the hit, it would get him no answers at all. He wanted whoever was in charge to suffer like he was suffering. He wanted them to watch as, layer by layer, their protection was stripped away until they were completely exposed, exactly the same way as they had done to him.
It was now eleven fifteen and nearly time for his target to turn up. He got out and, buttoning up his long leather jacket, he lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke and watching it drift its way upwards towards a cloudy sky, illuminated by a street light. He THOUGHT he saw movement in a window above him so wandered around to see if he could get a better angle on the window. He slowly meandered around the carpark, taking the occasional look up at the window and, after a few moments, returned to the car and leant against the driver’s door. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted it again. Despite the lack of a light in the window, he could definitely make out a shape moving backwards and forwards in the window. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew something was amiss. He made out he was wandering towards the wall to shield his lighter from the wind to light another cigarette, and when he reached the blind spot under the window where he couldn’t be seen, silently climbed up the metal fire escape ladder towards the broken wooden door which led to the room. He peered through the slats in the wood and saw the outline of a well-built man, crouched in the deserted room that Mark guessed used to be a kitchen of some sort. Drawing his pistol, he carefully reached for the handle on the door and pushed it open, praying it didn’t have rusty hinges to give away his position. It swung open without a sound and he stepped in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. He paused, but the man didn’t move, so he crept on, weapon drawn and pointing at what Mark could make out was the man’s head. He was a foot away when the figure turned round, staying crouched, to face Mark. Mark froze and held his breath, checking to see if the man was armed. He wasn’t, but Mark could make out the shape of a case, similar to that in the boot of his stolen Audi A4, underneath the window. It must be a shooter, Mark thought to himself quickly as he worked out his next move. He spoke into the shadow at the figure.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mark quizzed the man. He stepped forward and Mark tightened the grip on his pistol, finger poised on the trigger.
‘I am here for you,’ he replied. Mark looked confused, but not surprised Swiftlock didn’t come alone.
‘You’re with Swiftlock?’ Mark exclaimed, his muscles tense and ready for the man to make trouble for Mark. The man nodded.
‘He paid you?’ Mark asked. Again the man nodded. The pair stood silently, staring into the darkness at each other, neither one of them making a move.
‘And your job was to kill me once I’d handed over my package?’ Mark questioned, already knowing the answer. Mark saw the man nod and his mind was racing a million miles a minute. The longer he stayed here, the more risk there was of him not meeting Swiftlock downstairs.
It was at that moment that the man suddenly lunged for the rifle laid out in the case under the window. Two muffled shots rang out in the dark and the man in the shadows fell dead over the rifle case, two bullets lodged in the side of his head. Blood poured out over the case and Mark quickly grabbed the rifle and stripped it of ammunition and put it into its separate pieces. Putting it back in its case, he looked around for something flammable. He found white spirit in what was left of a kitchen cupboard and carefully poured it into the room. He heard the sound of a distant car engine so put away his pistol and dashed out of the room and back down the metal fire escape ladder towards his car. He took a cigarette out and lit it, looking calm and relaxed, leaning against the driver door of the Audi as the headlights temporarily blinded him. A good tactic, Mark thought to himself. That way, if Mark was to reach for his weapon, his vision would be impaired by the headlight glare and he wouldn’t be able to get a clear shot, costing him valuable seconds if it was gun vs gun. The car slowly crept towards him before the engine fell silent. The door opened, revealing a man whose eyes were constantly on Mark.