Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  ‘The bloody freight yard!!’ he yelled out loud. ‘Shit,’ he said, slamming his fist down on the bed. Why didn’t he see the connection sooner?

  ‘All of them are connected to that damn freight yard!’ he said. ‘So perhaps this is their base?’ Mark thought, as he lay back down smiling to himself at his, until now, lack of lateral thinking.

  Now he had made the connection, soon he would have to find out WHY they were all connected to this freight company and Martin Underhill.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Later that morning, Mark was busy trying to get as much information as possible on the kinds of activities Lt. Winters was involved in during his various tours. He had been part of a special operations team which worked alongside US Navy Seals to provide security for UN food convoys delivering food to ‘hard to reach’ areas. From what Mark could research, there had been a revolt in a village where a large number of refugees were camped without food or emergency supplies and it was Lt. Winters’ job to escort the UN convoy to administer vital equipment to ensure these refugees survived. A noble cause, Mark thought as he read down through newspaper articles and Lt. Winters’ service record. So why would he end up on the wrong end of everything his vocation stood for, and what did it have to do with Marie? Was he just the ‘hired gun’, or did he know who was, if it wasn’t him? Mark had so many questions and looking through screen after screen for information on Lt. Winters was giving him a headache. He decided he would take a break at the end of the page he was reading and go outside the bunker for some fresh air and a walk around to stretch his legs.

  He scrolled down until he reached the section about Lt. Winters’ discharge and last known address. It wasn’t much, but it showed that, although there was no forwarding address for him, there was a previous address of where Winters was born: a remote home in Wales, on the Gower Coast. Mark stopped scrolling and quickly wrote the address before checking Google Earth for a satellite image of the property. It didn’t take him long to pull up a few images, which he printed off and examined closely.

  It showed a white stone building surrounded by a three foot wooden and wire fence and a large area of grassland surrounding it. Perfect, Mark thought, for someone who wanted to see someone coming from a long distance. There were hills and woods close by, which Mark was looking for to position himself safely so that Lt. Winters wouldn’t see it coming. He didn’t want to make contact with him, just one bullet, long range and he would be on his way. However, he didn’t fancy driving all the way to Wales, waiting in his ghillie suit for two days, taking Lt Williams out, and driving all the way back home again, so decided he would have to base himself close to where Winters lived at a small bed and breakfast or hotel. He quickly searched online for places to stay and came upon a small, family-run B&B not far from where Lt. Winters’ house was. He used his alias, Andrew Kemp, to reserve a room and would pay cash for it when he got there. He would use the back story that he was a rambler, to recon the local area. He would have to assume that Lt. Winters was heavily armed and would likely see him coming from some distance away, so he would need to be extremely careful not to arouse suspicion from the locals. He filed everything in a case file folder and placed it in his kit bag, gathering supplies and his rifle before heading to his car for the long drive to Wales.

  Deep inside the Welsh countryside, in a farmer style kitchen, a mobile phone vibrated repeatedly but remained unanswered. It rang off before the vibrating began again until, eventually, a heavy hand dropped out of nowhere, onto the handset and picked it up, answering it with a grunt.

  ‘Hmm,’ the voice grunted, knowing the only time that phone rang was when there was a job for him.

  The voice at the other end of the phone sounded agitated and nervous.

  ‘Deadmoon, this is Vose,’ the voice said from the other end of the phone. Winters’ teeth ground together as he sat, slumped in the kitchen chair. ‘You’re not safe.’

  Winters smiled and chuckled to himself as he sat up in his chair and felt for the whiskey glass in the centre of the table.

  ‘Really, why’s that?’ Winters replied, unconvinced by Vose’s warning.

  ‘Someone’s killing our men!’ Vose replied, a more serious tone to him now. This made Winters sit up and listen.

  ‘I thought this day would come. We make enemies in this line of work, Vose. You above all should know that. We get what we deserve,’ he replied philosophically, sipping the whiskey and wincing as it burnt his throat as he drank. Vose was not philosophical; he wanted to stay alive, to survive, and he knew, if any more of his men were killed, it meant whoever it was doing the killing was getting closer to HIM and he didn’t like that.

  ‘Listen; just watch your back mate, yeah? Boss is trying to figure out who it is, in the meantime, keep your bloody head down, got me?’

  ‘I think you should be more worried about whoever it is that’s got YOU Roman, rather than worrying about me. I take care of myself,’ Winters calmly explained, not threatened by Vose’s warning.

  He would do whatever it took to stay alive, but he knew this day would come, eventually. He had assassinated hundreds of people, so many he didn’t even know their names or why they had been targets. He got paid to do a job, no questions. He pressed the hang-up button on the phone and walked towards the large kitchen window which looked out onto the rolling Welsh hills. He picked up his binoculars and scanned the landscape for movement. He wouldn’t let Vose know it, but it concerned him that he was now being hunted. He grinned to himself; it would take someone very special to get a bullet into him and he was fully prepared for it. He walked into the well-lived-in living room and picked up his shotgun, rifle and a small black object with a button on it. He pressed the button and heard a high pitched humming from the outside of the property. He wasn’t stupid, he had rigged the entire front and back garden with landmines so that anyone approaching would give him fair warning. The only thing that wasn’t mined was the small stone path leading up to the front door. That was covered by a CCTV camera above the door. He relaxed into the green velvet-looking armchair and let his hand rest on his shining, perfectly kept Glock 22 pistol which was laid on the small coffee table next to his chair. He flicked the TV on with the remote and sipped more of his whiskey, and waited.

  The M4 motorway was steadily flowing as Mark listened to the mid-afternoon weather forecast, doing a steady seventy miles per hour in the streamlined Audi A4. It was Mark’s favourite jazz radio station he had been listening to but every half hour, the weather forecast kept Mark fully up to date with the weather in his region. He would take account of this later, and plan for all outcomes. He passed Pontyclun and continued onwards Bridgend, Birchgrove being his next stop-off. It would be here that he would put his car in storage and rent a more suitable vehicle for the rest of his journey. Mark had always favoured the Range Rover, but not the newer models, an older, tougher and more durable model which would provide him with decent four wheeled drive across the rugged terrain he expected to encounter. He glanced up at the sky as he lit another cigarette and took a swig from his Thermos flask of coffee. The sky was getting darker, and he knew a storm was moving in. The closer to his destination he got, the darker it became, and he glanced at his watch; it was just after three in the afternoon and he wanted at least to find somewhere to stay before nightfall and didn’t fancy sleeping in the back of the car or Range Rover, especially if the weather was going to turn nasty. He listened intently to the weather forecast and screwed his face up at the announcement that a big storm was heading in his direction. He glanced up at the gathering clouds again and knew he couldn’t outrun it for long. Potentially, he would need somewhere nearer for the night if the weather was bad enough to affect traffic. He spotted the sign for Bridgend and stopped for supplies; mainly cigarettes, coffee and food he could eat whilst driving, although he favoured a full English all day breakfast at a service station somewhere.

  By the time he had reached Bridgend and filled up the petrol tank, Mark had decided
that it wasn’t a good idea to stop for a big meal, and instead bought sandwiches, crisps, chocolate bars and a few bottles of water and two or three coffees to fill up his Thermos with. He reached the checkout and paid in cash for his fuel and food so as not to be traced to his location. Instinct told him that, by now, the group he was hunting would have put the pieces together and realised he was taking them out one by one, especially if the owner of the Audi had pre-warned them. No one had reported the car stolen that he knew of. So far so good, he thought as he paid the young lad at the checkout and wandered back to his car, flicking on the radio as he turned the key in the ignition. He cursed silently as he tuned in the radio to the local stations and heard the traffic reports that there were roadworks in Llanmorlais on the B4295, just a short distance from his ultimate location. He would have to do what he always did, endure, and he sped out of the petrol station forecourt, heading towards Birchgrove.

  After another half an hour of driving, Mark turned off when he saw the signs for Birchgrove and followed his satnav to the garage he had picked out before leaving and, after a short drive down an A road, he rolled up to the garage forecourt, parked up and went inside to find a salesman. He returned a short time later with the keys to his dark green Range Rover and got back into his car to park it up a short walk away, where it would stay until after this hit was complete. Enjoying a cigarette, Mark walked back to the garage and pulled the green Range Rover off the forecourt and drove back to where he had parked his car, in a private lock-up on a ‘cash in hand, no questions asked’ basis. After transferring his kit to the Range Rover, he was back on the road towards Gower, bypassing the B4295 to make up time. The B&B Mark planned to stay at knew he was coming and he had spoken to a lovely elderly lady who said she would prepare a hot meal for him for when he arrived. A good rest, a beer and a night’s sleep was at the forefront of Mark’s mind before heading out tomorrow to explore the surroundings and see if he couldn’t locate his target; Lt Jonathan ‘Deadmoon’ Winters.

  Forty minutes later and Mark was inside the quaint little Hillside B&B on the Gower Coast, so-called because it was built on a hillside and overlooked the vast expanse of Welsh countryside. It served as an ideal base from which to look around and potentially spot where the home of Winters was. He was provided with his room key and shown to his room by the same lovely old lady he had spoken to on the phone, who had told him he had a long trip and should rest. He smiled and agreed with her before being told that dinner would be served at six, which gave him time to wash and change. He picked up a handful of leaflets at the make-shift reception area on local attractions and there really wasn’t much, except a good pub guide which Mark thought would make interesting reading, and a book about good rambling walks to take part in around the local area.

  Mark smiled to himself; it would be perfect for what he had in mind. He needed to make himself a nice ‘nest’ where he would not be disturbed and where he could watch what Winters was up to.

  After dinner, Mark felt much better, having showered and changed into more suitable weather attire. He stepped outside the B&B and glanced up at the sky. It was dark now and Mark figured he had a few hours to look around before they would be pelted by torrential hail and thunder. He took the pub leaflet out of his back pocket and lit up a cigarette as he wandered the narrow pavement, reading which pubs were good to visit. He decided he would try one nearest the B&B. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in the storm out here. Spotting The Old Bell pub a few hundred yards up the road, Mark marched along the road hastily, eager for that beer he promised himself when he got there, and reached the pub in no time. Walking inside tentatively, he adjusted to his surroundings. There was an old man in boots, a brown wax jacket and a labrador, sat at the table nearest the bar and a few tourist-looking customers dotted around the pub in various corners, and a roaring fireplace to Mark’s right. He walked to the bar and ordered a pint of their Best bitter, paid and sat on the small round table in the bay window, facing the road outside the pub. He supped his beer and rejoiced in the taste after so long without one, savouring every mouthful as he relaxed into his armchair.

  Mark couldn’t have been sat there more than an hour before the place began to fill up. A small folk band had set up in the opposite corner and was joyously playing local folk tunes as people gravitated towards the tables that faced the band, singing and dancing along, and before Mark knew it, the pub was crowded. He took his leaflet out and realised this was the only pub for quite some miles so no wonder it was filling up. It was at that moment he noticed the tall, stocky and muscular figure leaning against the bar and an empty shotgun under his arm and a black collie at his feet. He looked the epitome of your average ex-British Army soldier, wearing the right clothes for the right weather, and the way he held that shotgun, Mark was convinced he was military and casually got out his camera phone and bought up the picture of Lt. Winters and examined it, looking back and forth at the stranger and the picture, before putting it away and breathing slowly. It was Lt. Winters, and more worryingly was that he was walking towards Mark’s table.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lt. Winters was even more imposing in person than his military record suggested, and he was used to the area and blended in well. Mark supposed that, with a history like his, the ability to blend into any crowd was an essential skill to have, especially if life depended on it. Winters motioned to Mark, towards the empty chair facing him, and Mark gulped and nodded, watching Winters sit down heavily. There was not much in the way of conversation to begin with, silent stares and nods, before, eventually, Winters spoke.

  ‘You’re not from round here?’ he said in a deep, gruff voice. Mark shook his head and put down his pint.

  ‘No, I’m only here for the night,’ he said, hoping he was convincing. ‘Just passing through.’

  Winters laughed through a few missing teeth and nodded.

  ‘Ahh, just passing through eh?’ Winters replied. Mark worried he was unconvinced by his cover story. Then Winters did something unexpected. He put his hand out for Mark to shake.

  Mark looked stunned but went along with it, feeling the vice-like grip of Winters’ hand.

  ‘Name’s Jon,’ he said, shaking Mark’s hand vigorously. Mark could feel the circulation starting to wane so attempted to pull his hand away and smiled at him. ‘If you wanna know anything, just ask, I know this place like the back of my hand,’ he continued, winking at him.

  ‘Kemp,’ Mark said slowly. ‘Andrew Kemp. Friends call me Andy.’ Mark politely smiled and made his excuses to leave, deciding this was enough casual chat for one day. Once outside and down the road, Mark stopped to light a cigarette and breathed a huge sigh of relief. For a moment, he thought his cover had been blown.

  It was getting all too close for comfort, Mark thought as he quickened up his pace, feeling a large raindrop hit his forehead and drip down his eye. He was going back to the B&B and straight to bed before he got himself killed. Winters could wait until tomorrow.

  Mark slept soundly through the night, out of sheer exhaustion, and awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting in under his bedroom door from downstairs. He quickly showered and changed, before heading down the heavily carpeted, sweeping staircase to the dining room where he was confronted by a room full of small tables and chairs as couples and a few families sat and enjoyed breakfast together. He found a vacant table and set himself down and, within a few minutes, the friendly old lady tottered in with a tray of the biggest breakfast Mark had ever seen, complete with teapot, coffee pot, milk, toast and fresh orange juice, and set it down on the table in front of him. She smiled sweetly and patted him on the hand as a mother would do for their child before school. He thanked her and tucked in eagerly, not realising how hungry he was until he had eaten. It wasn’t long before the entire plate was empty and Mark was feeling full as he rose with the tray to take it into the kitchen area and convey his thanks to the landlady.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, my de
ar,’ a voice came from behind him. Mark turned to see he was being followed, and smiled.

  ‘I insist,’ he said politely, receiving a warm smile and a nod from the old lady. He placed the tray down on the kitchen sideboard and turned to leave.

  ‘Where are ye headed today then, presh?’ she quizzed him as he held the door for her.

  Mark shrugged and hesitantly answered.

  ‘Not sure yet, I think I might explore that old white house a few miles across the moors,’ he explained. She looked confused as she trotted towards the big bay window that faced the road.

  ‘Old white house?’ she said slowly. ‘Oh, now I don’t know, which one’s that?’ Mark stood alongside her and pointed toward the house.

  ‘Ohh, that one!’ she said, smiling before pulling Mark towards her to whisper in his ear. ‘You don’t want to go there, deary,’ she warned in a hushed voice, ‘he don’t like visitors. He was in the army, you know?’

  Mark laughed. ‘I had heard,’ he said, placing a reassuring arm around her before walking out of the dining room and into reception, then outside for a cigarette.

  ‘Be careful my dear,’ she shouted after him as he closed the door. Mark stopped for a second. Why would she warn him about it, he thought to himself as he sat on the wall and smoked, noticing the number of puddles littered all over the road. It must have rained hard last night but Mark hadn’t heard a thing; he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. That’s what driving all day does, he thought, smiling again at the old lady’s warning.