Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  Back in Mark’s room, he had prepared all of his kit in his bag and was ready to make his way out towards Winters’ home. He carefully crept down the stairs and out via the front door before he could be accosted again by the old lady. She seemed to have developed a keen interest in who he was and what he was doing. He stepped down the three white stone steps that lead out onto the street and began his hike roughly toward Winters’ house, having spent a few hours adjusting his ghillie net to blend into the surrounding countryside. With a determined look on his face, he crossed the road towards the miles of fields, moorlands and rolling hills, his target at the forefront of his mind. It was roughly a three-hour hike and initially, Mark planned to drive some of the way. After some calculations, he calculated that, from the position of Winters’ house, he would see Mark coming long before Mark even knew he was there, and have time to prepare. The aim was surprise and for Winters to not see it coming. A clean kill was all Mark wanted, and that was exactly what he would get as he strode through knee high gorse, grass and rocks jutting out from the ground. Soon, the brown hue of the landscape gave way to lusher green pastures and Mark could make out the outline of ancient standing stones, long since abandoned. He stopped next to one and took out some of the food supplies he had brought with him, along with his bottle of water, and sat down to rest, estimating the wind speed and direction as he did so. It was very peaceful up here, although Mark worried his shot would be heard for quite some distance and could attract unwanted attention. He soon realised, after assessing the horizon, that there were no other houses around for miles, which made it easier to carry out his hit without being disturbed.

  Reinvigorated by eating, he jumped up and picked up his kit bag, turning towards the sun and checking his compass against the satellite image of the house he had taken back in London. According to his calculations, he was another half-hour walk from his destination, and he set off due north, feeling refreshed. It wasn’t long before he climbed a small rocky outcrop on top of a small hill which overlooked a steep decline into what Mark figured was a small valley. On the other side, to the left, was a small white house which sat in the middle of a flat field of gorse and heather, a wire perimeter fence surrounding it for three hundred and sixty degrees. Mark took his small infrared binoculars out and had a closer search of the area. It looked deserted, like no one had lived there in years. His eyes met with a wooden blue gate which led to a winding path and an old oak-looking front door. The windows were dirty, torn net curtains hanging from them. There was an old coal shed attached to the side of the building and the ruins of a stable or barn further out to the back of the garden. He was sure he had the right place, and checked the satellite image again to make sure. It looked like no one lived there, but Mark knew it was places like this where hitmen could hide away and not be bothered by anyone. He was sure there was more to this building that met the eye, and approached with caution.

  He skirted round the hillside, ensuring he always kept a safe enough distance to be out of range of even the most powerful of sniper rifles, and kept to the higher ground so he could see anyone coming. A wind had sprung up, and this meant that he could be downwind so adjusted his course and edged closer to the white house. He found a suitable place to stop and, pulling up gorse and heather, camouflaged his kit bag and removed his rifle. He expertly assembled it and loaded it, positioning it so it was just in range of the front of the house, and laid the ghillie net over the top of it to hide it from anyone who may accidentally wander past, although way out here, Mark expected no one to be around. Carefully, he lifted a second ghillie suit over his entire body and lay down on his stomach, his eye to the telescopic sight, and waited, watching silently for any signs of movement. One sight of anyone moving around the property, and Mark would have to be quick to take the shot; one missed shot would give away his position and he would be vulnerable to a counter attack.

  After an hour of no movement, and with the darkness closing in, Mark was getting the feeling that perhaps he had been tipped off by someone. Perhaps they had put the pieces together and figured out his plan, or perhaps the slimy toe-rag of a driver had squealed on him and talked about what he was up to. Whichever way it was, Mark had to think quickly. With no vehicle, Mark could safely assume his target was not home, unless he had removed his vehicle to give that impression and was also, like Mark, lying in wait under a ghillie net, waiting for the slightest movement, and it would be the end for Mark. As it grew ever darker by the minute, Mark decided he would make a move. He left his rifle set up where it was, took his silenced Glock pistol and several rounds of ammunition, and slowly backed out from under the ghillie net, all the way up the slope behind him, until the hill provided him with suitable cover. He then jogged stealthily around the hillside until he was facing the back of the property. Carefully, he climbed down the slope until he was in the trees surrounding what looked like the back garden. The back door to the property swung in the early evening breeze and Mark believed perhaps it could be empty, so carefully examined the earth inside the perimeter fence. He recognised the familiar humps in the grass, not as mole-hills as some would think, but mines. He thought fast and decided he would follow the path up to the door instead.

  He reached the back door and, weapon drawn, used it to push the door open, stepping cautiously inside. Only silence greeted him while a breeze blew through the house, causing the door to creak behind him. He crept into the kitchen and spied the empty whiskey tumbler on the table. He felt the glass to see if there was any warmth which might give away someone’s presence. There wasn’t, so Mark progressed through to the living room. He passed an old TV set and ran the back of his hand against the screen to check for static. Mark checked for static build up on the screen to reveal if it had recently been turned off. There was no shock, so it hadn’t been used in a while. He rounded a corner and faced some wooden slatted stairs. Slowly lifting one foot onto the first stair, praying there would be no creaks, Mark got within three stairs from the top before he had to pause as the wood beneath him flexed and groaned. He held his breath and waited; there was no sound, so he skipped that stair and reached the top, checking the landing as he did so, his weapon leading the way. He crept silently from room to room, without a single trace that Winters had been there for some time; either that or he lived this way all the time. However, what Mark found, tucked inside a drawer in the master bedroom, was the same freight company paperwork he had found on all the other hitmen he’d taken out. He tucked it back in the drawer and withdrew from the room. Just on the inside of the bedroom door, which he had missed before, was a little black box screwed to the wall with a red LED and a switch. Mark traced the wire along the landing, through a hole in the wall, down the exterior brickwork, and under the garden lawn. Curious about it, Mark flicked the switch and the red LED flashed. It must be the mines, Mark thought to himself as he reached for his multi-tool containing the wire clippers. He clipped the wires and the red LED faded. Satisfied the property was empty, he proceeded back downstairs again, careful not to make too much noise just in case someone was in the living room.

  He was right to be cautious, as when Mark came into view half way down the stairs, he glanced into the living room and found himself face to face with two cold, hard, steel barrels of a twelve-bore farmer’s shotgun, and Winters, dressed in military combat clothing, wearing a Kevlar vest, sat in the arm chair in front of the TV. He didn’t look surprised to see Mark as the two men stared at each other for a few seconds, their guns pointed at each other, before Mark finally broke the silence.

  ‘Well, it looks like we have come to a stalemate here!’ he said with a half laugh. Winters stood up and Mark readied himself. Even if he was the best shot in the world, Mark knew he would end up with two massive holes in his chest if he moved too quickly.

  ‘I don’t like visitors,’ Winters grunted angrily, ‘especially those who come at me with a Glock 22 suppressed pistol pointed at my head!’

  Mark scoffed and Winters relaxed a little,
allowing Mark to take the remaining steps down the stairs so the two men stood facing each other.

  ‘You here to kill me, I imagine?’ said Winters, his eyes burning red. Mark glared back, equally able to bore into the man’s soul.

  ‘D’you kill my wife, Marie King?’ he hissed at Winters. Winters shrugged and gritted his teeth.

  ‘I kill a lot of people,’ he replied, not taking his eyes off Mark the entire time. Mark’s eyes darted around the room as his mind played through a scenario of disarming Winters, and he was looking for anything Winters could pick up and use as a weapon, like a secondary or hidden weapon.

  ‘Who are you working for? Invictus Advoca?’ Mark scorned at him, watching for any form of micro expression to tell Mark he was on the right track.

  ‘Ahh, so you’re that lawyer fella whose wife was shot!’ teased Winters. ‘Sorry to disappoint you my friend, but that wasn’t MY handiwork.’ Mark glared at him.

  ‘Lt. Winters. Pleasure,’ Mark replied, watching the smile grow on Winters’ face. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Mr King, you are in way over your head. You are out to sea with no sign of the shore, like a boat, drifting on a wave,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I wouldn’t have left a single trace for you to use to come seeking revenge.’

  ‘But you know who killed her?’ Mark spat at Winters, who seemed quite amused by the whole scenario.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Winters chuckled. ‘Number one rule, Mr King, do not underestimate your enemy.

  Mark hissed at him scornfully, raising his pistol a little higher.

  ‘They can’t be underestimated if they’re dead!’

  ‘Seeing as I’m in a good mood today, I am going to give you to the count of five to get your sorry arse off my property before I blow you into two pieces. One…’

  Mark heeded the warning but would not let Winters see his fear. He lowered his weapon and took careful steps towards the front door, his eyes not leaving Winters as he counted down. Mark reached for the handle and pulled open the door, casually striding down the path and back towards the tree line he had come from. Winters stood at the door with the gun still pointed at Mark.

  ‘Come back ’ere again and I’ll not be so forgiving!’ he shouted. Mark made a mock salute to him, which caused Winters to shout ‘five’ at him before firing a shot into the air, sending birds from the trees in all directions. The sound of the shot echoed around the hills as Mark disappeared over the small hill.

  ‘OK,’ Mark said defiantly, ‘you don’t want me to come back there, that’s fine. I can kill you from here!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The night was cold and damp as Mark lay motionless under his camouflaged ghillie net. He was safe from the wet and cold as the net was insulated to prevent the user from being spotted by heat seeking equipment from the air or the ground, and he hadn’t moved a muscle for hours, so much so that his joints were stiffening up. He longed for a five-minute walk around but he knew Winters would be watching. He looked through his powerful telescopic sight and saw slight movement of shadows under the front door. He was probably checking out the security, Mark thought to himself as he focussed intently on the front door. Within a few minutes, the front door opened and Winters appeared in the doorway with a small black box with a switch. He was frantically flicking the switch on and off, then back on and off again and getting angrier by the second that whatever it was he was trying to make happen, wouldn’t happen. Mark lined up his crosshairs, almost chuckling to himself as he’d disabled the landmines while in the house, and had Winters’ face in the dead centre. Winters must have been angry that, on his way to bed, he had checked the mines and realised the wire had been cut and so had come out to inspect them himself. Mark caressed the trigger and took a long, slow deep breath, exhaled and took another breath as he heard the scream from his hiding place.

  ‘KING!!!’ screamed Winters, the long, gurgling howl held in his throat as loud as he could go.

  Mark felt sure Winters looked him straight in the eyes as Mark pulled the trigger. His powerful long-range rifle let off a ‘pop’ as the bullet found its target, right in the centre of Winters’ forehead, sending him quickly to the floor, killed instantly. Mark exhaled a long, hard sigh of relief before rolling over and out of his ghillie net. He quickly disassembled his rifle and packed it, together with the ghillie net, into his kit bag and quickly made his way down to the house, pistol drawn, inspecting Winters’ dead body. He was impressed, considering he had actually gotten the clean shot he had waited patiently for hours to get. The scattered birds that had their sleep interrupted by the sound of gunfire, returned to their roost, satisfied that they were not being shot at. Mark stepped into the house and straight upstairs to the bedroom to retrieve the paper from the freight company he had found earlier. He then made his way down to Winters’ storage shed, where he retrieved two large jerry cans of petrol, and soaked the house completely, from top to bottom. He rewired the switch for the landmines using some electrical tape he found and exited the house, moving Winters’ body into the open doorway. He walked to the end of the path and pushed the switch. With lightning speed he threw the switch towards where Winters’ body was lying, and it bounced off his chest and fell near to his hand and Mark turned and ran as fast as he could back towards the hill he had been hiding on. He reached the top just as the first line of mines exploded. With an almighty crash like thunder throughout the small valley, the entire house exploded into a massive ball of flames. Mark lit a cigarette as he walked away, silhouetted by the fireball behind him, with a smile on his face, and headed back to the B&B.

  Mark slipped in quietly to avoid detection by the old lady, and took off his boots, putting them in his kit bag, and tip toed upstairs to his room, where he had filled the bath up with water before he left. He turned on the hot tap and within a few moments, the bath was hot, and filled with bubble bath. He bundled all his kit, including his clothing, into his bag and folded his jeans, jumper and black hiking jacket neatly on the bed before getting in the bath. Moments later he heard footsteps outside of his bedroom door and a light knock on the door.

  ‘Mr Kemp. Is everything all right?’ the old lady whined. ‘I thought I heard a noise?’

  Mark smiled and got out of the bath, wrapped himself in a towel and opened the door.

  ‘Why, Mrs Grey, whatever is the matter?’ he said, smiling innocently at her from around the door.

  She looked Mark up and down, seeing him covered in soap bubbles.

  ‘I thought I heard you come in, but I can see you’re already here. It must have been another guest.’

  Mark smiled as, confused, she turned to walk away. Mark shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief as he dried himself off and sat on the edge of the bed, thumbing through all the paperwork he had taken from each of the hitmen. The only thing they had in common apart from their chosen vocation, Mark thought, was this freight company. Emptying the bath and leaving it to drain, he finished drying himself off before packing up his equipment, dressing, and walking down to his old Range Rover and locking it in the boot space. He returned to his room a short while later and tidied everything up, removed any forensic trace of him ever having been there, and settled down to sleep. He had a long drive tomorrow.

  Mark approached the freight yard office, a plain and simple building Mark assumed used to be quite a hub of activity at one stage, to be greeted by a young receptionist who took his fake details to pass onto the manager who would come to collect Mark to talk about his ‘shipment’ in more detail. Mark was grateful to be above ground as time below ground was getting to him somewhat. He was led to an office where a man in a suit was waiting for him. Overweight and strangely oily, Martin Underhill, the manager, greeted Mark with a damp handshake and it became obvious to Mark, judging by the brand new Jaguar parked outside with the personalised number plate, that this Mr Underhill was into some underhand dodgy shipping dealings to afford a tailored suit and car such as that. Mark seated himself opposite Mr Underhill a
nd studied him carefully to see if there were any signs that might have given away any clues that Mark had been discovered. Satisfied he was in the clear, Mark smiled at Mr Underhill.

  ‘So, Mr Kemp,’ he said eerily, ‘I gather you are looking for a logistics company who can transport some, shall we say “delicate artefacts”!’

  Mark crossed one leg over the other and leant forward slightly.

  ‘Yes, I have some rather unorthodox items to be shipped and, as I am sure you can understand Mr Uphill, the utmost discretion is required.’

  Mark winked and Mr Underhill laughed nervously.

  ‘Er, it’s Underhill?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mark replied, brushing off the deliberate error.

  ‘Discretion is something we comprehensively understand. Might I enquire as to the nature of these items?’ Underhill smiled a greasy, slimy little smile that Mark just wanted to wipe off his toady-looking face.

  ‘Let’s just say, I don’t want ANYONE to find out,’ Mark replied, smiling.

  Mr Underhill looked more serious, nodded and smiled, shuffling papers on the desk.

  ‘I completely understand. Rest assured Mr Kemp, we can cater for this. Although, the price does, I am afraid, increase if these items are not legitimate?’

  Mark nodded again. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Mr Underhill was confident Mark was not an undercover police or customs officer.

  ‘No one has any interest in what we ship here. No one has caught us yet. Would you like a tour?’ Mark nodded at him and Underhill got up from his desk and waved his arm towards the door.

  ‘Please,’ he said, arm outstretched.

  Mark didn’t trust the guy, but led the way into the corridor. He smiled as Mr Underhill led the way around the yard. During this tour, Mark noticed that some of the workers loading and unloading items in crates seemed to be armed.