by P. S. Bridge
He was well built, about six foot, wearing dark jeans and a black jumper with a biker style leather jacket, zipped up to the next. He was blond-haired and wore black leather gloves, identical to Mark’s. Mark nodded and received an acknowledging nod back.
‘You’re early,’ Swiftlock pointed out, surprised. Mark nodded and smiled sarcastically.
‘Hey, in this line of work, sometimes it pays to be early,’ Mark replied, risking a glance up towards the window and walking towards Swiftlock to meet him in the middle of the carpark.
‘That’s far enough,’ Swiftlock warned Mark, who took absolutely no notice of him. Swiftlock looked surprised by this, but respected the man’s guts. Mark put his arms up to show he was unarmed.
‘You have something that belongs to me,’ Swiftlock grunted, unzipping his jacket. Mark felt his pistol in his holster inside his jacket. Swiftlock took out an envelope which Mark presumed was cash for the drop off. Mark reached for the key to the car and unlocked it remotely.
The boot lifted open and Swiftlock smiled, walking past Mark, round him towards the boot. Mark’s eyes followed him and he turned round to see Swiftlock haul out the large case and walk towards his own car, putting it in the boot and slamming it down loudly. Mark caught the sealed envelope that Swiftlock threw at him, which was just enough time for Swiftlock to pull his own silenced pistol out of his jacket and aim it at Mark.
‘Now then, turn around,’ Swiftlock ordered. Mark did as he was told and Swiftlock reached for some cable ties in his back pocket. Just as Mark leaned over the car ready to be cuffed, he threw his head back at Swiftlock which caught him square in the jaw. The shock caused Swiftlock to drop his weapon and, like lightning, Mark spun around and picked it up, aiming it at Swiftlock as he propped himself up from the floor on his elbow, touching his bloodied nose and wiping it with his jacket sleeve and glaring at Mark.
‘Get back in your car and disappear, before I put a bullet in you!’ Mark seethed as he motioned for Swiftlock to get up. He did as he was told and Mark waved towards Swiftlock’s car with his pistol.
As Mark stood at the open passenger window, he took out the ammunition from the pistol, unscrewed the silencer and threw the pieces into the passenger seat. Swiftlock looked angered at Mark for his insolence but confused at his actions. Mark noticed this.
‘Well,’ Mark said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We all have a job to do.’
Swiftlock started the engine and reversed his car before slowly creeping out of the carpark. Mark dashed to his car to get the detonator, not sure what kind of range it had.
He picked up his burn phone and dialled the number of the phone in the case. In the car, Swiftlock was sweating and trying to stem the blood flowing from his nose as he hit the steering wheel in anger. Then he heard the mobile phone from the back seat. He reached over with his spare hand and unclipped the case, pulling it open and fumbling around for the phone. As he pressed the answer button, the entire car erupted into a massive fireball, sending pieces of the car skywards and in all directions. The car flipped onto its roof from the force of the blast, before the fuel tank ruptured, causing a second massive explosion.
Mark’s car was gone from the carpark. He was driving in the opposite direction and had left seconds after Swiftlock had; he smiled as he heard the explosion and, in his rear-view mirror, saw the flames reaching for the sky a few miles behind him. Other cars on the road screeched and skidded to avoid the oncoming fireball as it tumbled down the road before crashing into a roadside barrier, causing the metal to buckle and scorch from the heat. People got out of their cars and rushed towards the wreckage, beaten back by the flames and intense heat. Some of them were on their phones to the emergency services, others just stood and stared in horror at the sight before them.
Mark smiled as he rested his list on the steering wheel. With the other hand, he crossed Swiftlock’s name off the list and replaced it back in his pocket. Satisfied, he lit up another cigarette and turned on the radio to Classic FM. Vivaldi made him smile as he drove deeper and deeper into the night.
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas Lundon was sat in front of a huge luxurious office desk in his study, surrounded by books and ornaments and a large glass globe. On the desk were paper files, a crystal decanter and some brandy and two crystal brandy glasses and an ashtray with a cigar in it, smoking silently. Lundon was filtering through papers when he received a call on his mobile phone. Few words were exchanged but Lundon was extremely angry, silently, at what he had been told. He hung up the call, took a drag of the cigar and slammed his fist down on the table in anger. A guard dressed in black and white camouflage combats and carrying a sub-machine gun on a sling around his neck entered at the sound of the slamming of the desk.
‘Everything alright, Sir?’ the guard asked inquisitively.
‘Fine. Just fine,’ snapped Lundon. ‘Send Vose in after the Doctor has patched him up,’ Lundon growled, motioning for the guard to leave the room.
He rose from the desk while the guard exited and moved towards a window looking out on to the warm, blue tropical waters outside. A thin white net curtain blew slightly in the breeze and Lundon silently smoked his cigar. He reached for the desk and poured a brandy before returning to the window. He drank it down in one and put the glass down on the desk. As he raised his cigar to his lips he sighed deeply, the look of concern growing ever present, his brow wrinkled and red. Lundon picked up his cell and dialled a number, speaking in a low, hushed tone.
‘I don’t know what happened or who murdered Hix but someone has taken out one of my best men. This makes me nervous.’
The voice at the other end of the phone merely chuckled, which angered Lundon even further.
‘I want the police files relating to the incident, on my desk by eleven AM tomorrow!’ Lundon sighed and hung up the phone before returning to stare out of the window. The guard outside the door winced at the noises coming from the other side of the door.
‘Damn!!!!’ yelled Lundon, throwing his mobile phone against a wall.
Inside the room, Lundon had thrown the phone across the room, hitting an antique leather chesterfield sofa sat in front of a huge floor-to-ceiling oil painting in a gilt golden frame. The picture revealed a circle of people standing around a stone symbol set into the floor. All the people in the picture were looking down at the logo etched into this stone. Lundon sighed again and sat at his desk and resumed flicking through the files.
Mark was showering, just stood there, letting the water fall over him as he stared blankly into the past. Visions of Marie, Hix, Salvatore and Swiftlock ran before him in slow motion and normal speed, like a film being played out over and over. He recalled every single second and replayed the moment Hix died over and over and over. His thoughts then switched to his wedding day, the birth of his children and the many nights he spent with Marie. Mark realised he was shaking. It was the first time he’d killed anyone, and the effects were showing in a delayed reaction. Thinking to himself that he MUST get a hold of himself or he would not be able to carry on, he tried to pull himself together. ‘Yes, OK, there’s one down but there are many more responsible. This sort of crime doesn’t just take one man a few days alone to plan; it is something more sinister and more organised than it appears,’ he thought. Bringing himself back to reality, he turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from the rail behind him. He did a good job of refitting the shower with little else to do to get over Marie’s death. Much as he got a hell of a lot done with the bunker to fit it up ready for use, it removed none of the feelings he had surrounding Marie’s death. However, what he also noted as interesting was that killing Hix only partly eased the feelings he had, and that Vose got away meant he didn’t allow for a well-structured contingency plan. Also could it have been that Vose had spotted him? He certainly knew something spooked him but he wasn’t sure what.
Mark walked from the shower room into the ops room and sunk into the corner sofa in front of a large flat-screen TV he had erecte
d in a living room area. His wandering eyes came to rest on the camera he had used, and he remembered that he still had the footage of the kill so picked up his notebook to view it. Flicking through the files he realised he hadn’t properly analysed his methods from the hit, so decided it was best to do this after every hit. He found the file and loaded it on Movie Player and connected it to the flat screen TV in front of him. Frame by frame Mark analysed the scene until, just as he was about to give up, he spotted it, but not right away. He had to look over it multiple times before he was certain that what he had seen was genuine. As Vose was stood in the meeting room, Mark had been aiming through toughened glass, which, even at night, had certain reflectivity. He cursed himself when he saw it, a slight flash in the reflection of the window which moved over Vose’s eyeline, causing him to move slightly to avoid it shining in his eyes and preventing him from seeing anything. At that point Mark knew exactly what it was: it was the telescopic sight cover which hung on a cord away from the lens when not in use. It was black on the outside but plastic Perspex on the inside to protect the glass in the sight. Somehow, it had caught a light, either from one of the building windows or a street light or sign, and had temporarily blinded Vose. Mark realised that he was not dealing with amateurs here. Vose had realised at that point that someone was firing from the rooftop opposite and taken evasive action after the light blinded him for a second or two.
‘The problem,’ Mark thought aloud, ‘is that in this game, a second is all it takes in a life or death scenario.’
Mark was angry. Now THEY knew someone was after them, but luckily they didn’t know who. At least for the time being, he had the element of surprise.
Back at the site of the Mark’s first hit, two men entered the building. One of them was Vose; the other was a bodyguard. They made their way up to the roof and examined the scene of the shooting. Vose took several long hard looks across the rooftop at the building opposite, remembering what he THOUGHT he saw, but not being 100% sure. He surveyed the skyline until he was sure he was right.
‘Stay here,’ Vose ordered. ‘I’m going to check out the roof opposite.’
Vose made his way downstairs to the meeting room and stood himself exactly where he was stood a few nights previous. He looked behind him and discovered the bullet holes in the picture on the wall. Taking a torch and a pair of pliers, he searched for the bullet in the holes but to his disappointment, there were none. He turned and smiled a frustrated but also admiring smile. Whoever the shooter was, they were professional because they took their ammo with them. Kicking a desk chair in frustration, Vose left the room and made his way to the roof of the building opposite. Within minutes he was up on the roof and at the exact spot Mark shot at him from. After a few moments of searching, he found the hole in the wall and reached for a laser from his pocket while reaching for his cell phone; he dialled the number of his companion, still in the building across the road.
‘Do me a favour, go and stand in the office I was in when he shot at me, and wait there.’
The companion followed Vose’s instructions and waited for him to get into position. Shining the laser across from building to building, he confirmed what he thought, that THIS was the spot where the shooter was hiding. Back in reception, Vose demanded all CCTV footage from the twenty-four-hour period before making another phone call.
‘Borin. Hack into the street CCTV and pull the images from that night.’
The jovial, sarcastic voice at the other end of the phone angered Vose.
‘Ohh, I take it our “guest” is evading you?’
Vose snarled, wishing the little dirt bag was in front of him right now so he could strangle him.
‘Shut up, Borin, before I kill you, fool!’ Borin backed down, knowing Vose could, and would, snap his neck in a heartbeat.
‘Why you have to get all ratty on me? Jeeze man, I’ll send it to your cell and computer for analysis as soon as I have it.’
Vose returned the phone to his pocket and was angry but also felt a sense of accomplishment. ‘Get ready,’ he snarled, looking around him. Vose crossed the street to his car. ‘We’re coming up right behind you.’
Once inside he used the wireless hands-free kit to dial a secure number direct to Thomas Lundon.
‘Boss, we still don’t know WHO they are dealing with, but we are close and will know once the CCTV is analysed. I have found the sniper’s nest across the street. No bullets though, looks like whoever it was took them with them. Must be professional!’
‘Send someone to assess the damage from the car bomb,’ growled Lundon menacingly.
Lundon was not alone. He had several intelligence agents on his payroll and they were just about to arrive at his location. He hung up the phone to Vose and placed it in his jacket, nervously awaiting his guests.
The view from the rooftop was awesome as Mark laid his trap for the unsuspecting Tim Durrant, the next name on Mark’s hit list. Mark opened the legs on his bipod and set the rifle on the edge of the flat, moonlit rooftop. Lying down, he looked through the sight and levelled his crosshairs, focussed the lens until he was happy with the view, and loaded the magazine.
He checked the list and his watch to ensure he was early. He was on a rooftop overlooking the London Underground entrance to New Chanel Station and all was quiet. The last train that ran from that station at this time of night never carried many passengers and, when Mark had checked with the Underground, his research had uncovered that it was only used at night to transport trains back to their overnight yards as it linked with the Piccadilly Line. This made Mark stop and think.
‘Why would anyone want to use the station at this time of night?’ Mark thought, ‘moving across the vast expanse of the city of London unseen would be hard enough as it is, but it is stations like this that enable professional hitmen to move undetected across the city to avoid being spotted.’
The tunnels underneath London also allowed for multiple escape routes and hideouts if anyone knew where to find them. Mark looked through his telescopic sight again and swept the area for movement. There was the odd car driving past, the occasional black cab, but none of them stopped. Durrant apparently was a stickler for timing and routine, which, for an assassin, was a dangerous habit because it meant he could be easily followed and lead to predictability. Mark realised his survival depended on being unpredictable. He gathered his thoughts together and, just when he was considering moving to a better spot, he noticed movement down on the street below.
Mark could see someone sat in the coffee shop across the road from the station, drinking coffee and sat on a stool in the window. He noticed how this person didn’t seem to fit in to his surroundings; there was something about him that caused him to stand out.
‘This must be my guy,’ Mark whispered to himself, adjusting his crosshairs for a better look. The man had a long black coat on and was carrying a small, laptop style bag over his shoulder which he seemed intent on keeping as close to him as possible.
‘I wonder what’s in there you don’t want anyone to see?’ Mark whispered, before assessing the rest of Durrant.
He was drinking his coffee black, which fit Mark’s profile of him, and had his hair slicked back and it looked greasy. Mark tried to get a good look at Durrant’s skin to see if he was tanned or clean. He had stubble and light-ish skin which Mark safely assumed was due to having not washed or shaved for a few days.
‘Not currently on a job then, my friend?’ Mark joked. But he was right.
Timothy Durrant hadn’t worked for some time now; the job was getting to him too much and he had made himself enough money to slip out of the country unnoticed and live a peaceful and quiet life.
Durrant sipped his coffee, burning his lips as he lifted the cup too quickly, spilling the hot liquid over his mouth and into his lap. He flicked the hot coffee off his hands and looked around helplessly for a paper towel. He found one on the seat next to his and mopped the spillage up. Mark tutted to himself; probably a lack of food causing
the shakes, he thought as he kept his eye trained on Durrant. He got a good look around the late night coffee shop and there were a few customers in, mostly night shift workers and young student staff busily cleaning tables and emptying bins.
‘No,’ Mark thought, ‘this isn’t the right setting for a head shot.’ It would scar the customers and staff for life and there would be chaos. It would be clean, concise and out of sight of ANY witnesses. Mark checked his watch again and remembered what the train schedule had said; Durrant’s train would be along any moment.
Mark only had a split second shot according to his recon and planning. Half way down the stairs to the Underground, Mark had noticed a blind spot where no one from any direction could see anyone stood there. This meant that he could take a clean headshot and no one would notice, until the security staff picked up his body when they locked the gates, and Mark would be long gone by then. Mark shifted his gaze back to Durrant, who had now ordered a chocolate ‘tiffin’ and another coffee.
‘Great. Now I’ll be here all bloody night!’ he hissed, irritated at the delay.
Unless Durrant wanted to miss his train, he’d better get a move on. Durrant, meanwhile, smiled sleazily at the young blonde haired waitress as she carried his coffee and tiffin over to where he was sat. He put his greasy, unwashed hand onto hers as she set the plate down and she looked uncomfortable, but in the interests of customer service seemed happy to go along with it, smiling nervously as he heaped compliments on her. She tried several times to pull her hand away but each time, Durrant kept hold of it tightly, until the saving grace came when a customer walked towards the till and she had to return to serve them. Durrant turned back towards the window, a creepy grin on his unshaven, dirty looking face.