Hit

by P. S. Bridge

‘Slimy bastard,’ Mark said, shaking his head in disgust, now even more eager to put a bullet in him as he settled down to a long wait.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘One guy poisoned, another had his car stolen outside Richmond Train Station two days ago and the dead guy was seen speaking to someone in the same car, and we have NO leads?’ Williams ranted as he paced up and down the floor, file papers flying off the desk of his office as he did so.

  Everyone around him looked at the ground, including the head of the Metropolitan Police, who had no CCTV of the driver of the black Audi A4 and none of the witnesses at the station recalled seeing the face of the driver, or even hearing his voice. Williams was livid.

  ‘I don’t understand, so you are telling me this is a one off or that there may be more out there?’ he demanded. The Police Commissioner lifted his head.

  ‘We don’t know. We have nothing conclusive until, IF or WHEN, another body turns up.’

  ‘Right, I want everything we have on this guy. His job, his employer, what he was doing there that day, the contents of the missing case, who he saw, what he ate, everything. Go!’ Williams ordered.

  Everyone left the room. Williams looked like he had been awake all night and was pouring himself another coffee. He sipped at it, relaxing at the satisfying taste of caffeine. He wandered the empty room, talking aloud as he did so.

  ‘A hitman is found dead on a rooftop, bullet holes in the office, then another hitman turns up dead a few days later?’ He mused until he was interrupted by a young female assistant.

  ‘No results on the car, sir,’ she nervously announced. He spun around, nearly spilling his coffee all over the place.

  ‘No,’ he said, a theory suddenly formulating in his mind, ‘of course there won’t be, because our guy is too careful, he won’t risk being caught.’

  ‘You think you know who he is, sir?’ she asked shyly.

  ‘Not exactly, but I think I do. He’s working to a hit list, which puts him in the psychology of a “mission oriented killer”.’

  The assistant looked worried.

  ‘He won’t stop, you know, not until he has completed his list. No matter what you do, he won’t stop,’ she acknowledged with a worried tone in her voice. Williams glared at her, silently agreeing that she was right.

  Mark had been waiting on the rooftop for an additional hour; the train he expected Durrant to catch had long gone and now he wasn’t on it, Mark was unsure of what to do next. If he didn’t go towards the Underground, Mark wouldn’t be able to take the shot and would have to change position and risk taking Durrant out in the street. That wasn’t what he wanted, and his mind was a whir of ideas and possible scenarios of how this could go down. One thing was certain; Mark was not taking any chances with his target. If one of his targets got away, they could warn the others and then they would all disperse and Mark would have no way to track them. It HAD to be tonight, and it HAD to be a kill-shot.

  Durrant stepped off his stool and put the tissue he had just used to wipe the chocolate from his face flat on the plate and drank down the rest of his coffee. He had written something on some paper and, as he walked towards the till, he passed it to the young blonde waitress who smiled and, out of politeness, took it from him and put it in her apron, before watching Durrant leave the coffee shop. After he had gone, she took it out of her apron pocket and Mark watched her tear it up before sprinkling the torn up pieces of paper into the bin under the counter. Mark smiled, impressed at the young waitress’s composure and professionalism but cringing at Durrant’s pathetic attempt at getting laid.

  Mark’s crosshairs followed Durrant towards the Underground entrance and he breathed a sigh of relief that Durrant was going where Mark wanted him to go. He eased his finger on the trigger as Durrant took the first two steps down the concrete steps, and squeezed the trigger. He wasn’t sure what happened, or why it didn’t happen the way he had planned, but Mark’s shot ricocheted off the ornate black railings and caused Durrant to hit the deck like a stone. Mark cursed and dropped his rifle, realising there would be no second shot, and ran to the rooftop entrance and pounded down the staircase to the street below, taking two stairs, sometimes three at a time. As he ran, he took out his silenced pistol and, holding it against his thigh as he ran, jumped the railings of the Underground, expecting to land on top of a shaken Tim Durrant. Instead, Mark felt the shock-wave of pain shoot up his legs as his feet contacted with solid concrete.

  Hearing the footsteps ahead of him, it confirmed that Durrant was on the move but had only just got himself to his feet. As Mark ran down the staircase, he noticed there was a bloodied handprint on the railing and noted he MUST have hit Durrant somehow, perhaps in the deflection of Mark’s bullet. The white bricked tunnel of the Underground was hot and the further down he went, the thinner the air became, exactly why Mark didn’t enjoy taking the Underground across London and preferred to drive. Mark considered himself very lucky that this station was old enough and not used often enough to warrant installing CCTV anywhere. He burst onto the platform and felt the rush of air down the tunnel as trains moved around in the darkness up and down the Piccadilly line this station connected to a few miles up the track.

  Mark’s eyes darted all around the empty platform, looking for any signs of movement, weapon at the ready. He stopped and held his breath, listening for the shuffle of feet or the loading sound of a gun. Nothing came. Leaning over the platform edge, looking both ways through the darkness of the electrified line, Mark listened. Unsure if it was the distant sound of trains, or his imagination, he swore he heard the sound of shoes on gravel in the tunnel but was distracted by a sound behind him. Mark turned to find a rough sleeper, drunk and wrapped in a dirty blanket, lying against the wall of the station. This man was elderly and had a very dishevelled beard and brown coat and beanie hat, and was laughing through multiple missing and stained teeth as he pointed down the tunnel. Mark nodded and smiled at him before carefully climbing down the edge of the platform and tentatively stepping into the dark. Reaching for his trusted Maglite, he illuminated the track ahead of him to avoid stepping on the electric line. His light shone left and right as the odd rat ran under his feet, until it rested on the figure of a man running away from him into the darkness ahead. Mark pointed his weapon and, aiming high to avoid hitting anything important which would turn the tunnel into a mass fireball, let off two shots in quick succession towards the figure. They missed but several shots were returned to him, causing Mark to drop to the floor, inches away from the electrified line. Mark blew out a relieved breath and pushed himself upright, thankful for his physical fitness and all those push-ups he forced himself to do whilst in the bunker. It had served him well, and he reminded himself next time he was pushing himself to do fifty more push ups, never to complain about doing them again as he shone his torch in the direction Durrant had run in.

  Mark stepped onto the foot-wide pathway which skirted around either side of the line used by workmen to access the rails for maintenance work. His torchlight darted off the walls as he pursued Durrant down the line, as he wondered how long it would be before Durrant reached the next station along the line, worried that if Durrant wasn’t taken out down here, if he got to the station ahead of Mark, he would get away and Mark would probably never see him again. However, his fears were allayed as two more shots rang out, echoing down the tunnel towards Mark as sparks flew off the brickwork near to Mark’s head.

  ‘Shit, this guy’s good,’ Mark panted, throwing himself flat against the wall to avoid being directly in Durrant’s sights. He jumped down onto the track again and, using his torch to light his path, let off two shots in the same direction as the shots came from. There was silence. Had Mark hit Durrant or not? He couldn’t work it out. The sudden rush of air down the tunnel quickly confirmed why Mark didn’t hear movement ahead of him; there was a train coming, and Mark desperately looked around for somewhere to move to, to avoid being made part of this goddam tunnel. He spied a small door, probably
a plant or maintenance room, and hopped over the line, one leg at a time towards the door, his panic made worse because he was suddenly bathed in light from the headlights of the oncoming train. His eyes widened as he tried to quicken his pace, terrified he would be hit by the train. The horn from the train only served as further encouragement for Mark to jump for the edge of the narrow path he was on a few moments earlier. He threw himself towards it, arms outstretched and reaching for the stained red brickwork to haul himself up. He shoulder-barged the small wooden door with such force that it broke away from its flimsy hinges and sent Mark careering into the small engineer’s room on top of the door just as the rush of the train flew through the tunnel at breakneck speed, the sound of the brakes screeching down both ends of the tunnel. Mark spun his head round as the silver of the train flashed passed him. He waited until it had passed before checking the tunnel and inching his way out onto the narrow brick path again. He heard laughter in front of him and realised that he was closer than he thought to Durrant, who Mark guessed was clearly out of shape.

  ‘What do you want with me, you crazy bastard?’ Durrant shouted at Mark, his voice echoing around them both, making it difficult for Mark to understand what he said.

  Mark didn’t reply, but instead, realising that it was a delaying tactic for Durrant to buy himself time to think of an escape plan, Mark continued to inch his way along the path until he was confronted by Durrant, weapon drawn, but unable to see Mark clearly in the darkness.

  ‘One of your guys was responsible for killing my wife!’ Mark growled, feeling a build-up of hatred and blood pressure inside him as he gripped his pistol and his finger moved to the trigger.

  ‘Bugger off, mate,’ Durrant replied, confused. ‘I didn’t kill nobody’s wife, you got the wrong guy!’ he pleaded. Mark took a step closer and Durrant jumped onto the track, coming into the light and seeing Mark for the first time.

  ‘So that was YOU what shot at me earlier then?’ he said, pointing at Mark angrily.

  Mark gritted his teeth.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Mark replied, nodding.

  Durrant chuckled, unimpressed by Mark’s marksmanship. Mark didn’t blame him, it was a lousy shot.

  ‘Look mate, I dunno what your beef is, but I didn’t kill no one’s wife, I’m lookin’ to get out of this game yeah?’ he pleaded again. Mark wasn’t convinced.

  ‘If that’s true,’ Mark responded nonchalantly, ‘why do you still have your weapon drawn?’

  ‘You shot at me, you crazy freak, what you expect me to do?’ He laughed.

  Mark felt the same rush of air down the tunnel as he felt moments earlier and realised that another train was coming, but he couldn’t work out the direction it was coming from. Durrant stood motionless, looking amazed that anyone would be crazy enough to follow him down here like this. He had to hand it to Mark; he had balls chasing him through an active train tunnel.

  Mark had just enough time to throw himself back towards the narrow path and against the wall; his back arched against the curved brick before the train rushed past him. He glanced in the direction the train was travelling in, his hair being blown over his face and the air rushing towards him, and saw Durrant, also pressed against the curved brick of the tunnel, his weapon in the wrong hand and too close to the train to swap hands. Mark realised HIS pistol was in his right hand and lifted it slightly to get the angle, knowing he couldn’t miss, and let off two shots.

  He winced as Durrant’s body fell against the train and the momentum of the train carried Durrant onwards, throwing him against the wall and the speeding train. Mark inched back towards the engineer’s room and out the way of the train as it rushed past him. He sat on the floor and steadied his nerves before reaching for his cigarettes. He tried to light one with trembling hands and struggled with holding his lighter steady. Eventually he got it lit and laid back on the broken door, exhaling and closing his eyes. From his back pocket, he took his list and his pencil and crossed Durrant’s name off the list. There were three names left.

  After he had finished his cigarette and burned the stub until any DNA evidence had been removed, he left the room and stood the broken wooden door back up in the doorway, before slowly making his way back up the tunnel in the direction he had originally come from. He was about to reach the platform when something caught his attention. Maybe Durrant has dropped something in the darkness which Mark hadn’t spotted before. He flashed his Maglite on it and it looked like an invoice or receipt for something. Mark picked it up and examined it. It was torn and stained but Mark could make out a partial address, the same address as the freight yard Mark had researched previous. He put the paper in his pocket carefully and continued through the tunnel. Once at the platform, he hauled himself onto the platform edge and dusted himself off, straightened his hair and checked his pocket for his emergency ten pound note. He staggered over to the homeless man who was sleeping and gently shook him. The old man awoke with a start, holding tightly onto his dirty old blanket. Mark calmed him down and placed the money in his stained hand, closing his fingers around it gently. The homeless man’s eyes widened as he stared at Mark’s generosity and Mark had to move a little further away as the smell was unbearable.

  He patted the man on the shoulder, got up, and made his way back out into the fresh, cool night and breathed a sigh of relief. There were moments where Mark didn’t think he’d ever get out of that tunnel. He smiled and turned and walked towards the building he had left his rifle in. His tired legs dragged as he made his way up towards the rooftop to collect his rifle and sat himself down against his kit bag, reaching for his bottle of water in the bag. He tipped half of it over his dirty, sweat-ridden face and wiped it down with his sleeve, while drinking down the other half of the water in seconds, thankful to still be alive. He took a few moments to compose himself before dismantling his rifle and putting his equipment away in his kit bag, shouldering it and heading back down to the street and towards his stolen Audi A4.

  Mark awoke suddenly from his nightmare, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his brow and hair stuck to his head. His eyes shot around the room until he remembered where he was. He sat up in bed and grabbed his water bottle from the table next to the bed and took a long drink of the cold water. Marie had been walking towards him with her arms outstretched, a gun in her hand, and she was trying to hand it to Mark. Was it a message from Marie, encouraging him to continue on his vengeful quest, or was it his conscience catching up with him? He didn’t know, but he was wide awake at this point and hopped out of bed and over towards the laptop on the steel table. The facial recognition software was running a check on pictures Mark had taken of his hit targets so far. He had to find out who they were working for and how many of them were not on his list. He glanced at the list pinned to the large notice board he had erected and looked down at the next name on the list: Jonathan ‘Deadmoon’ Winters, and it was his name Mark had put through all the search programs he had, to find out more about him. Mark lit up a cigarette and exhaled the smoke, taking a drink of his water to tackle the dry throat he had. He leant back in his large black leather recliner chair and smoked his cigarette as he watched the laptop screen flash through thousands of facial images. From prison mug shots to wanted posters to hacked government files, the screen flashed through them. On the other screen, the system was searching Winters’ name for matching results revealing any link to this man Mark could use to discover who he was dealing with.

  Ten minutes went by before Mark was considering going back to bed. He turned and stubbed out another cigarette and spun his chair round to leave when the laptop stopped searching and the screen switched to a black screen with a red rectangle, highlighting ‘MATCH FOUND’ as the alarm noise blurred out through the on-board speakers. Quickly, Mark turned to face the computer and clicked the screen as it brought up a restricted file pertaining to a Lieutenant Jonathan Winters, former SAS soldier, veteran of numerous campaigns across Europe. Like many soldiers returning home from war zones, he had found
difficulty in adjusting to civilian life and, with the kinds of skills Winters possessed, he was soon working for freelance security firms providing security detail to VIPs and the wealthy before putting his combat skills to use as a ‘gun for hire’. Mark read intently as he realised who he was up against. Winters had been awarded medals for bravery and his unsealed file revealed multiple performance reports from his superiors, including one commending Winters’ endurance and courage in Mozambique when he and his squad were pinned down by enemy fire and Winters ran through a hail of gunfire, firing his own weapon as he did so, taking out five insurgents who were attacking a food convoy.

  ‘Why didn’t he just re-enlist with the army?’ Mark said to himself as he scrolled down through Winters’ service record. Mark smiled as he came across a picture of a young Winters. It was enough to go on, so he copied and pasted the picture into a photo program to age the picture, giving Mark an idea of what Winters would look like now. Mark’s printer clicked into life behind him and the picture was ejected from the tray in full colour. Mark turned to take it and sat staring at it for ages. He turned back to Winters file and read further. He was proficient with explosives, most weapons, especially heavy weapons, but favoured a small Glock hand gun and the Browning small machine gun. Mark smiled knowingly, appreciating the same aspects of the weapons that Winters did. He couldn’t envisage himself killing this man, but it was Winters’ life or Mark’s, and Mark knew this hit wouldn’t be as easy as he hoped it would be. The obvious choice for Mark was a long-range shot with a sniper rifle and avoiding any hand to hand combat. This guy was tough and Mark didn’t favour his chances toe to toe with him. Winters resembled Conan the Barbarian and Mark shivered at the thought of it, so decided he would head back to bed and revisit this in the morning.

  He laid there, eyes open, thinking about the best method to take this target out. He refused to think of the person, with thoughts or feelings or a life. It was merely a target, a number that had to be taken out. Then something occurred to him and he sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead. In the chaos and trauma of the hits he had conducted so far, he had forgotten completely about the one thing which linked them all together.