Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  ‘Armed workers?’ inquired Mark, trying to look impressed.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Underhill said uneasily. ‘We can never be too careful who may “stray” into our territory. These guys double up as security overnight.’

  ‘Ah see. Excellent,’ Mark replied, slapping Underhill on the back so hard it made him cough and stumble. Underhill laughed nervously, straightening out his ill-fitting suit out and clearing his throat.

  ‘We keep security tight. As you may have noticed, the area is fully covered by a state-of-the-art CCTV system included movement sensors, laser alarms, armed guards and security codes on every door, to which I have the only access, apart from the workers.’

  Mark’s eyes widened as he attempted a smile; he glanced down at the hidden camera in his briefcase handle, and made sure it captured all the details with it.

  ‘I think I have all the details I need,’ said Mark with a smile, ‘I will be in touch within twenty-four hours to arrange collection of my shipments.’

  ‘There is, of course,’ Underhill whined, ‘although I hate to mention it, the case of payment?’

  Mark smiled and made his excuses. ‘Ah yes, it slipped my mind!’

  Mark set the briefcase down and opened it, pulling out papers and a folded set of bank notes. He handed it to Mr Underhill who quickly concealed it in his inside jacket pocket and checked to see if anyone saw. Mark and Mr Underhill shook hands and Mr Underhill escorted Mark back to his car. Mark now had everything he needed and thanked Mr Underhill again as he waved him off. Mark smiled wryly to himself as he drove.

  Once back at the bunker, Mark gathered a large amount of ammunition, two M24 sniper rifles which Mark preferred, as this model was the military and police’s version of the Remington 700 rifle Mark trained with at Sandhurst which had been the standard US Army sniper rifle since 1988; a Glock 22 handgun with silencer; home-made smoke bombs in small glass canisters which he planned on using to mask his escape; and the usual combat gear. He printed out the pictures and saved copies to his hard drive. Grabbing his homemade latte, he reached for his map, plotting the best way in and out without being seen. He also consulted a list he had located of known associates of Hix and Vose. During his research, he tied them to the shipping company as they seemed to be on the books regularly, probably as cover employment. Mark had his targets, plan, weapons and equipment. This time, he WOULD NOT slip up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Night fell as the freight yard’s automatic lights flickered into action, making a faint pinging sound as the bulbs warmed up. A thick fog was crawling in while the sound of distant foghorns echoed, muffled by the fog. Mark arrived at the shipping company, this time ready for business. He parked in an old disused warehouse next to the freight yard after reviewing the footage his hidden camera had taken and making a note of all the places not covered by CCTV. He eyed up the cranes and forklifts as they sat silently and driverless. As per his earlier visit, Mark had allocated a crane to use as a vantage point but had brought along some specialist equipment he found at the bunker: small remote control camera tripods which were movement-sensitive. He had attached small rapid fire rifles to these and wired the trigger up to the flash so that whenever they sense movement, they would turn and fire. He crept silently and stealthily through the corridors of containers and warehouses, clutching his kit bag and placing these tripods and hidden locations, all the time mapping his route. Finally he climbed the crane where he mounted one of his two sniper rifles. He took out his small notebook laptop and set it up next to him. The display showed an interactive map with eight flashing red dots. These were the tripods. He clicked the option marked ‘activate’ and watched as they all swung round to locate any movement before resting still. He didn’t want to arm them yet as he wanted to wait for hell to break loose. Mark sat silent and still, waiting.

  It wasn’t long before armed guards and thugs wandered about on their patrols. Mark had learned since his last ‘hit’ and has removed the telescopic sight cover so nothing reflective could be seen. He swung his M24 sniper rifle around and calculated which guard to hit first so the others didn’t see. Mark took aim at the first guard, waiting until he was out of sight of the others, slowed his breathing down, controlled his heart rate and felt his finger lightly on the trigger. He took one last breath in, eased it out carefully and squeezed the trigger. The only sound was the much muffled thud of the silencer as the guard dropped to the ground, thanks to Mark’s clean headshot. The M24 rifle was quieter now as he had muffled the silencer. Swinging round to the next guard who was on a part run, part jog to where his comrade had fallen, Mark tracked him, waiting until he stood over the body of the other guard. Again breathing deeply and slowly, Mark caressed the trigger, calming himself down from the rush of adrenaline, lined the crosshairs up and braced for the muffled thud. The second guard dropped to the ground, over the first. Mark moved away from his scope and smiled. He had taken him out with another clean headshot.

  Mark hit three more guards in quick succession, just as he had done the previous two, before reloading and moving to another location on the roof of the nearest warehouse.

  He reached for the drainpipe which ascended to the roof of the warehouse, and pulled himself up, nestling in a spot just out of sight from the ground. He left his rifle there and, spotting a skylight, lowered himself down into the warehouse. Once inside, he made his way to towards the offices he had passed with Mr Underhill and tried the locks on each, careful to only move when the small black CCTV mini cameras were revolving in the opposite direction. He found an office with a filing cabinet and searched through the files, taking what may be useful and placing them in a bag hung from his shoulder. He stopped and ducked, hearing the sound of voices. He replaced the cabinet drawers and grabbed his second rifle, crawling towards the door. Opening it slightly, just enough to get the muzzle of his second M24 rifle through, Mark shot three guards, one after another from the doorway. He also shot out the cameras with precision aim.

  All had gone quiet and Mark seized this opportunity to move to the other side of the freight yard to see what he could uncover. Light on his feet and stealthy, Mark moved between the rows of containers, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and pulling out a silenced pistol. A few guards spotted him close up. He took aim and fired three rounds at them with the pistol before moving on. The gurgle and lack of screaming confirmed to Mark they were dead. He found a black Mercedes with blacked-out windows parked up outside a container and skilfully, with no damage, gained access. He quickly jumped in and shut the door. Leaning over and opening the glove box, he pulled out a cell phone and charger and a leather-bound diary and some papers. He put this into his bag and waited until he was confident the coast was clear before moving on. He moved around like a ghost, and no one at the yard he encountered lived to say they saw him as he quickly shot two more guards running behind him. Finally he reached the wire fence and the office he was taken to earlier that day.

  Climbing the steel fire escape staircase, he easily snapped off the small lock and opened the door. The lock on the inside fell to the ground with a ‘ping’. Mark picked it up and put it inside the nearest drawer before looking around for what he was after earlier: a safe. Packing small explosives onto the safe door he stood back and ducked behind a desk with his weapon drawn, detonating the explosives. The door fell away revealing more paperwork inside. He noticed a strange logo on the paperwork but he didn’t have time to look into that now; he could hear voices and what he thought was a large minivan approaching. Tilting the blinds down, he saw between eight and ten guards with semi-automatic machine guns jump out and run between the containers.

  ‘Part two,’ he whispered and pulled a device from his pocket, no bigger than a memory stick.

  He pushed the button on it which activated the sensor controlled machine guns he hid earlier. Suddenly there was a tumult of gunfire and deathly screaming as a few of the guards ran back towards the minivan, ducking for cover left, right and centre. Mark smiled as he
heard one guard shout to another, ‘It’s an army of intruders, fully armed!’

  Mark crept out of the office, back to the cover of the Mercedes. Rolling underneath it silently, he placed a magnetised tracking device on the undercarriage of the car and made his way back to the shadows but not before he caught sight of a familiar face: Roman Vose, who by now was leading the guards back towards the office. He rolled one canister of explosives he made earlier towards them; it wouldn’t do any damage and was purely a dry ice smoke mixture designed to sit in the air for a minute or two, just enough to mask his escape.

  After dispatching another guard who seemed to have run at him from an open container, Mark took a quick look inside. It was filled with green and black storage boxes Mark recognised from his military days. Quickly stepping inside the darkness of the container, Mark allowed his eyes to adjust and used his pocket Maglite to see what was there. He saw rows upon rows of the same military boxes. He prised one open, being careful not to make too much noise to uncover his location. Straw, then underneath that, cold hard steel and instantly Mark knew what was going on: weapons hauling. Not wanting to burn this opportunity too much, Mark took his mini camera out and took a several snapshots including details of their destination. Germany. He realised that if he was to uncover what Marie was murdered for, he needed to follow this lead. He left the container and sealed it back up using the outside bolts. These people needed something salvageable.

  Doubling back to the first crane where he stashed his first sniper rifle, Mark climbed back up into the cab, waiting for Vose to appear in his crosshairs. He did but only for a second. A second was all Mark needed to fire his shot and his reactions were quick. Vose hit the deck onto his knees, clutching his thigh, and crawled into what seemed to be HIS Mercedes before speeding off round past some containers. With that, floodlights seemed to light up every section of the yard and Mark, thinking it was best to take this opportunity to leave, planted an explosive device under the crane and ran back to where he parked his van. Driving a few feet, he turned out of the driver’s window, retrieving the detonator out of his pocket with two buttons on it. He pushed the first one and all the remote machine guns he positioned at various points around the yard exploded, causing total mayhem and confusion. Mark flashed his laser sight into the windows of the office, attracting the attention of the guards.

  ‘He’s over there,’ shouted one guard, waving his hands over his head towards the entrance. A second guard responded.

  ‘He’s hiding in the office, surround him!’

  The sound of foreign voices echoed around as gunfire rattled the corrugated metal roof of the office. Mark pushed the second button, which activated the explosive under the crane. There was a thunderous explosion and sudden silence before Mark heard creaking metal and steel and high pitched grinding. Looking up, he saw the crane about to buckle, swinging precariously, creaking and groaning. Before anyone below could move, it came crashing down on top of the office building with an incredible smashing of glass and an almighty explosion. Mark smiled again and, lighting up a cigarette, drove off leaving a scene of complete and total devastation with bodies, fires and broken containers and a smashed crane lying all over the place. Anything he left behind would not be traceable at all. Just the way he liked it, total mystery.

  Pulling into a remote area, Mark’s intrigue got the better of him. He flicked through some of the papers he removed from the safe and searched down through a list of employee and contractor names.

  ‘Useful,’ he said to himself, but then he noticed something a little more serious: photographs of himself and Marie leaving and returning home at different times of the day.

  ‘None of the children, thank God,’ he sighed, relieved. But the list of names of employees and contractors rang a bell. ‘Time to scout them.’

  Mark was relaxing at his desk with a glass of twelve-year-old Scottish malt and a cigarette looking through the paperwork when he found the address of Martin Underhill. He sipped the Scottish malt and leant back in his chair. The taste and scent of the whisky reminded Mark of his father and the holidays they used to have in the Highlands of Scotland. He smiled as he remembered with fondness the times they used to spend walking around the Highlands, his father with his shotgun and teaching Mark how to shoot. When this was all over, he vowed to himself he would spend time there again. He would still have his old home to sell before he moved to New York as he couldn’t stay there, especially after all this. If he survived, he was going to Scotland for a long, restful holiday.

  Images flashed through his mind of him walking through the rugged landscape of the Highlands, to the sound of distant haunting bagpipes. The thought of spending time at the prestigious Carnegie Club, with its pool, sauna, spa, golf course and bar was an inviting one. He pictured himself sat in one of their tall armchairs, looking out of the window across the glen and the lochs but his beautifully crafted image turned to grief and anger as he remembered a trip he and Marie took there just before they got married. This image bought him back to reality, and he sat up in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.

  Mark’s conversation with Underhill revealed that he was involved in something sinister, but he didn’t have enough answers to connect to weapons dealing to Germany. Obviously he couldn’t go back to the freight yard as there wasn’t much left of it so the next logical choice was to go to see Mr Underhill at his home. Mark grabbed his gear and made his way to his van to pay the fat man a visit.

  The sound of something moving in the kitchen, as Martin Underhill crept into his large luxury rural home during the middle of what had been a horrific night, got his attention and set his nerves on edge. Perhaps it was one of the children or his wife waiting up for him. He moved into the large study and put his bag down on the nearest chair. He chose not to put the light on and the pale moon shining through the net curtain onto the patio was the only illumination the room had. No matter, he thought, I’ll only be a minute before going up to bed, but perhaps a small brandy to calm the nerves is in order. He moved towards his decanter in the cabinet and as he was about to put his hand on it to pull the oak cabinet door open, he noticed a figure clad in military combat gear and saw the shine of the moonlight on a Glock 22 silenced pistol. He had seen many of those bandied around the yard during his time running the establishment for his ever absent boss. He dropped his hand down and froze, as a voice came out of the darkness.

  ‘Move and I’ll shoot you in the head.’

  He slowly turned around to face the figure at the door, legs shaking and arms up in surrender.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  He breathed a small sigh of relief when the answer from the mystery figure echoed around the room.

  ‘That depends on what you tell me.’

  Prepared to say virtually anything to save his own skin, Martin Underhill suddenly believed he MIGHT get out of this alive. Remembering his wife and children were asleep upstairs, his voice quivered. ‘Are my wife and children OK?’ he asked. The reply was short.

  ‘They are, for now.’

  Underhill relaxed a little.

  ‘They are tied up and gagged and one word from me and my accomplice will cut their throats.’

  Underhill froze once again and, terrified, agreed to talk.

  ‘SIT down!’ the figure ordered as Underhill fumbled in the dark for the chair opposite, facing Mark. Underhill did so without question and kept his arms up. ‘Put your arms down,’ the figure tutted at him.

  He obeyed and stared in horror as the figure stepped into the moonlight.

  ‘YOU!’ he said in hushed shock and disbelief. But no answer came, for the mystery figure was Mark and he was holding a silenced pistol to Underhill’s forehead at this point. Mark sat in the chair facing Underhill.

  Mark’s questioning of Martin Underhill was extensive.

  ‘Illegal arms smuggling Mr Underhill, now that is a dangerous vocation.’

  Underhill looked embarrassed as he answered, ‘I just manage the ya
rd. My boss is a dangerous man to know.’

  ‘I see, and your “boss”, what does he want with these weapons?’

  Underhill confessed to the whole operation and seemed only too willing to talk about it in great detail.

  ‘We received them via a logistics company a few days ago. They are to be sent to Germany for a private buyer. I don’t know his name.’

  Mark raised his eyes in disbelief.

  ‘But I know the shipping address and delivery schedule. I can call him if you like?’

  Mark smiled as Underhill moved from his chair and lifted his gun a little higher, forcing Underhill back on track.

  Mark felt in his pocket for the recording device he had been keeping on all the time to get Underhill’s confession and was pleased with the fact he had questioned him the way he would cross examine a witness in court. It felt good for Mark to be doing this after everything that had happened, as it made him feel almost normal again.

  Mark made his way to the door. Underhill’s voice quivered again.

  ‘What about…?’

  ‘Your wife and children?’ Mark interrupted, anticipating his question and replying nonchalantly. ‘No idea, last time I checked they were fast asleep. But if I were you, I’d get myself a good lawyer!’

  Martin Underhill couldn’t tell, but Mark was smirking as he silently disappeared from Underhill’s sight and out through the ornate kitchen patio doors from where he had entered an hour beforehand. Lying in wait for someone like that wasn’t ideal but as Underhill wasn’t even home when he arrived, Mark had limited options. But it gave him a laugh as he really didn’t like the slimy, oily little bastard.

  The following day, Martin Underhill scurried across the grass clutching his briefcase as he nervously prepared to provide all the details on how Mark King had taken him and his family hostage at gunpoint and how he had killed two or three neighbours to gain entry to his house to kill him. He also planned to describe how his daring escape had worked and he had foiled Mark King’s plans and that he had men after him, and that he expected them to call imminently to confirm they killed him and would be bringing his body as proof. The truth of the matter was that Martin Underhill had made the call to his superiors the second Mark King had left his property, but had to use his mobile as King had cut the main telephone line before breaking into his house. The mobile was destroyed so there was no chain of evidence. The black executive Lincoln stretched limo was parked on the tarmac opposite a gleaming white Gulfstream G550 private jet with its ladder down awaiting its passenger. Underhill knew he would likely be disciplined as both back doors and the front door of the limo opened simultaneously. Three men clutching Uzi nine millimetre sub-machine guns, locked and loaded and ready to go at the first hint of trouble, stood motionless and menacing, glaring at him. Someone from inside the car had told them to stand down, as they relaxed a little when Underhill’s fat and flushed frame cast an embarrassing figure in a tight fitting suit and red face, white hair all over the place and a clear look on his face which gave away that he hadn’t slept in at least a few days. He reached the car and Roman Vose’s six foot six figure against Martin Underhill made Underhill shudder as Vose chewed his gum and stared intently at him.