Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  Vose didn’t like him and made no secret of it, and prayed his boss would give him an order to put bullet holes in his horrible fat frame. He fumbled his way into the back of the limo and stared in horror at the person sat looking at him with eyes that seemed to bore into his soul and stare judgementally at every single thing he’d ever done. A person whom he had only ever heard on the phone, and who he instantly knew was his boss. This man, who owned an empire, was staring at him with disappointment and disgust and a mild look of curiosity about what he was about to say, and could easily have him killed just by clicking his fingers. There had never been a time he had feared more for his life, not even when Mark King was holding a silenced pistol to his forehead. He tried, in a trembling voice, to explain what had happened and he stammered and stuttered as he did so, all the while being stared at coldly by his boss. His boss just kept staring, and at one point it looked as though he would pull a gun out from his jacket and put two slugs into his chest and throw him out of the car and not blink. Underhill was terrified, and rightly so because his boss didn’t yet know King was still alive and would surely want to know why Underhill didn’t raise the alarm and have him arrested, which would have saved them all the trip now and the worry and stress of trying to work out a way to eliminate a man who NO ONE could find. Underhill gulped as his boss raised one eyebrow. This is it, he thought, the end.

  Thomas Lundon got out of the limo, cane in his left hand, looking at his pocket watch intently. Roman Vose looked expectantly at him, waiting for the order to execute Underhill and was disappointed when it didn’t come. Lundon instructed one of the other two men to ‘get rid of the rubbish in the back of the car to somewhere where he can no longer get into any trouble’. Vose smiled at the thought of Underhill dead but was still disappointed he wasn’t the executioner this time around. The two men got into the car and it sped off the runway towards the small hangar behind them. Thomas Lundon beckoned to Vose to follow him whilst an aide helped Lundon onto the steps leading up to the plane. Vose followed, and the shutter door was raised. Inside Lundon sat opposite Vose in a luxurious leather recliner, with a laptop on a small table on one side and a decanter with brandy on the other and an ashtray with a box of cigars in it next to the decanter. Lundon sighed, irritated by what Underhill had told him. He explained to Vose that it was KING who had destroyed the weapon’s shipment bound for Germany and that now, he would have to find new goods to send to his buyer. Also it was King who had put a bullet in Vose’s leg. Vose rubbed it at just the mention of the event, which had left it healing but sore. The two men devised a plan to hunt down and kill Mark King wherever they could and asked Vose about Mark King’s remaining family.

  ‘Boss, there was no trace of them, no bank transactions and not a single shred of evidence to track down either the mother-in-law, or the two brats. It’s like they’ve vanished.’

  ‘They are probably all together, holed up somewhere like frightened rabbits,’ Lundon replied. Vose smiled. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Now there is no way to use King’s family to lure him out into the light.’ Vose rubbed his wound and gripped the side of his seat in anger.

  ‘I promise you Vose, you will get your revenge soon enough.’

  Vose hoped Lundon was right; he had a bruised ego, bruised bones and was eager for payback.

  ‘Boss, what does King want with you, anyway?’

  Lundon paused for a moment before turning to Vose.

  ‘I upset him because he “wouldn’t play ball” and he is a threat to the businesses.’

  Vose shook his head despairingly and Lundon raised one eyebrow to this response. Vose ignored it but knew what it meant as he looked out of the plane window to watch the ground slowly fall away as the plane took off.

  ‘I expect it was Mark King who took out Hix as well,’ Lundon smiled, taunting Vose. Lundon never liked Hix anyway. This just made Vose even angrier; even though he didn’t like Hix, he also didn’t like being shot at and hit twice in the space of a week!

  Chapter Nineteen

  The lonely, battered Ford Mondeo which was parked outside the house for days it seemed was looking like a stolen car, dumped in a prestigious neighbourhood by kids of the wealthy who had rebelled against their rich, well-bred parents. There were old takeaway boxes and drinks cans covering the back seats and the smell was unbelievable.

  The neighbours had reported it there earlier that day. At first they had thought it was an undercover police car judging by what happened at the house not so long ago. The police tape remained attached to certain parts of the door, garden and gate posts outside, and in an X shape across the front door where Mark had used the door to leave that night.

  In the front seat with his head tilted back was a very decrepit, sleep deprived, coffee-overloaded journalist who had not gone back to work since he heard of Marie King’s death. He camped outside the Kings’ residence because he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He was suddenly awoken in the dark by the sound of tyres on gravel. He looked up to see a black Mercedes Vito van pulling into the drive. He picked up his camera and realised he had not connected the battery, so fumbled in the glovebox for a spare. It was only seconds, he literally had seconds off his target but when he looked back up, there was no one. Not a single soul around. It was definitely King, no doubt about it. He grabbed the spare battery and took pictures of the foreign plate Vito van. Suddenly, a figure appeared at the van again.

  ‘It IS you, King!’ he said as the clicking of his camera made him focus on what he was doing. He took around a hundred pictures before King got back into his van and reversed off the drive and drove off into the night. Ian Hawking put down his camera and smacked the steering wheel in celebration.

  ‘I got you, you bastard!’ he shouted before he started the ignition and drove away from the house, satisfied he had got what he came for: evidence!

  What Ian Hawking hadn’t seen during his fumbling in the glovebox for his spare battery was Mark King taking pictures of his own of Hawking’s car before he disappeared around the back to the kitchen door.

  Meetings were the order of the day, including a briefing on the Al Azidi situation. The wife of the lawyer prosecuting him during the trial, had been murdered, the lawyer himself had gone underground and there was no useful intelligence from the office shooting other than the mumblings of a security guard who said nothing ‘untoward’ had occurred prior to the shooting and the new cleaner seemed nice and not really anything to pay attention to.

  ‘New cleaner?’ said Agent Nathanial Williams thoughtfully to himself as he perched on the corner of Rachael, his superior’s desk.

  He flicked through the evidence file while he waited for the briefing to start. He was a seasoned agent, having been attached to this unit for several months since Al Azidi had resurfaced. He was even more interested in this lawyer Mark King who had seemed to have everything going for him before his wife was murdered.

  ‘Strange,’ he said aloud, ‘that his wife dies, the case is dismissed then King vanishes?’

  As far as his supervisor was concerned, that was what MI6 wanted in the first place, however, in his line of work, there was no such thing as a coincidence. His superior came rushing in.

  ‘Talking to yourself again, Nate?’

  ‘Hey Rachael,’ Williams responded without looking up. He was too busy mulling over Mark King.

  ‘Do you want to get your arse off my desk, AGENT Williams?’

  He obeyed, moving himself to the chair and smiling but not taking her warning seriously. They had worked together years before on an undercover operation when she was NOT his boss and occasionally he lorded this over her whenever they didn’t agree on something. Agent Williams followed her into the briefing room and there were seven others all stood waiting to be seated around a pale pine boardroom table. There were several large screens around them, hung from the walls and on arms which could be pushed back against the walls when not in use. There was a copy of the same file in front of everyone and Will
iams’ boss called the meeting to order.

  ‘Thank you everyone! Several hours ago, we received intelligence as to an alleged witness, the security guard at the office shooting, who said there was a new member of the cleaning crew that night that he had never seen before.’

  ‘King,’ Williams mentioned. Rachel nodded at him and continued.

  ‘A cleaner had reported being struck over the head by a masked stranger while having a cigarette prior to his shift starting.’

  Williams got up and addressed the attendees.

  ‘We have discovered some “anomalies” as you will see on screen and in your files. Why is this connected to the shooting, and is this stranger Mark King?’

  The big screen TV switched on and he dismissed the meeting.

  ‘Everyone use your contacts to find out anything else that may have not been right that night.’

  Agent Williams and his boss headed down to the ops room.

  There was an extreme sense of tension in the ops room as Agent Williams had come into an operation in the Middle East, mid-swing. He was silenced and told to wait while a desk of military operatives made frantic phone calls on headsets and watched a huge cinema-type screen in the centre of the ops room. Everyone was talking with people rushing about. On the screen was a desert war zone with a building in the centre which seemed about to be blown up. The room went quiet as a female operative looked around at Rachael.

  ‘Ma’am. Request authorisation for strike?’

  Before pausing, she bit her thumb nail whilst crossing her arms, a nervous habit she had gained as a child. She paused again and gave the order in a serious, quiet but authoritative voice.

  ‘Strike authorised, target acquired, weapons free.’

  The strike was launched, and the room fell silent after the drone had decimated its target.

  ‘Sit-rep. Strike confirmed?’ she demanded.

  A voice came over a radio from the Operations desk.

  ‘Target destroyed. Repeat. Target destroyed.’

  There was a moment or two’s silence before she turned to everyone, congratulated them on another al-Qaeda target destroyed and asked them to resume normal duties. Agent Williams looked on at her, knowing what kind of responsibility she held and how seriously she took it. He felt sorry for her having to shoulder such a burden but knew she was specifically requested for military intelligence because of her impressive success record in the field. She reveled in the excitement but the responsibility of the death of others took its toll on her daily.

  Rachel looked over at Agent Williams and she knew he was right. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it, but inside she knew.

  ‘OK, everyone, listen please. Dig up EVERYTHING you can about the office shooting: CCTV, witness statements, forensics, reports, and cross reference them with any other incidents which match the same details, specifically the fact that the operative used a guise to gain entry to the building.’

  Williams intervened. ‘Also include anything where the primary weapon was a sniper rifle, but no reports filed and where a body was absent.’

  Within seconds, results came in and people shouted results at both Agent Williams and Rachel.

  ‘Right,’ he replied in his familiar Scottish accent to the numerous responses from the team, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’

  Rachael pulled Williams to one side and handed him a file. He looked at her, confused.

  ‘Rachael, what’s this?’ he asked, looking surprised that, after their history, she would want to share anything with him he didn’t have to fight for.

  ‘It’s something that may be of interest to you,’ she said, smiling, ‘it seems it could be connected to this shooting, I want you to look into it.’

  Williams opened the file and read the description. His eyes widened.

  ‘A female assassin?’ He smiled, impressed by what he saw. Also he noted privately that, in the photograph that had been taken of her, she was very attractive.

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel replied, noting the look on Williams’ face, a look he used to give her, ‘her name is Nadia, that’s all our boys have been able to come up with so far. Ruthless killer, merciless and she uses her charm to get close to her victims. I’m waiting for the Psyche team to do a full eval but for now, she’s your responsibility.’

  ‘Right away!’ he replied, astonished at her request.

  Mark King was polishing his rifle after deconstructing it and cleaning every single inch, just the way he had been taught at Sandhurst Military Academy. He put his rifle cleaning kit down and went over to his equipment table, where he had laid out the pictures of the car he saw at his house when he decided to divert there on the way back to his bunker. It was becoming a habit, and he knew he had to stop but he wasn’t ready to just yet, even though it could draw attention from anyone. He looked at the pictures and noticed something he hadn’t noticed before, a familiar face in the car window with a camera! He looked again but couldn’t make it out so reached for a box under the table. In it he found a round magnifying glass. He put it against the picture of the car window and was both amazed and shocked at what he saw. Ian Hawking camped outside his house trying to take pictures of him. He slammed the magnifying glass down on the newspaper he had next to him and immediately reached for a cigarette. Lighting it up and feeling the slight burn against the back of his throat took the edge off his anger, whilst a sip of single malt helped ease the racing heart rate. What on earth was Ian Hawking doing carrying out surveillance on HIS home? His EMPTY home?

  He wandered over to his corner sofa and pondered this thought as he sat back and relaxed, retrieving the remote control for the CCTV around the bunker, a routine he had stuck to since the day he erected the CCTV system around him. He pressed a button which armed the electric fencing and the landmines in the grass areas surrounding the bunker. He was ready for bed but couldn’t seem to get the image of Ian Hawking out of his mind. Perhaps he needed to pay him a little visit? But that wouldn’t be good, he would be tempted to shoot him and make it look like suicide so decided against this. Mark desperately wanted to talk to him but there was no need right now as he was being diverted from his mission. Although Mark had no idea where he should go; if it was Germany, he didn’t know which location to look at. Without a shipping detail or log, he wasn’t even sure if he knew where those weapons were destined for. He researched the ship’s name and latest route on the web to see if that yielded any clues. According to the publicised ships log, Holtenau was the vessel’s next stop off before returning to the UK. Maybe Holtenau was the best place to start.

  Mark grabbed his ‘go bag’ and filtered through some of the piles of fake passports he had made for him and chose an alias. The yacht broker identity looked promising as he knew a great deal about luxury yachts. After getting cash, he grabbed his keys to the Vito and prepared to make his way to the airport. He glanced at his watch; it was just gone ten PM. If he could get a flight in the next hour, he would be in Kiel, Germany for first thing tomorrow morning. He yawned and grabbed his cigarettes to light another, always a sure-fire way to keep himself awake. He realised he didn’t have many so would have to stop off and buy more. He also needed food and a coffee too. Remembering a good Costa near to the airport where an attractive barista called Laura worked, Mark decided he would stop there. He stopped himself short at that point as he realised he found someone other than Marie attractive, and hadn’t looked at anyone like that since the first time he met Marie. As he set the intruder alarm system to ‘armed’, meaning anyone who gained entry into the facility would be blown to pieces by the strategically placed mines hidden all around the place, he looked up decent but discreet hotels near to the airport so he could crash when he got there and found one he liked the look of, the understated Inter City Hotel Kiel, which was conveniently located next to the train station: perfect for quick movements around Germany. He reserved a room under the same alias as his passport, to be paid on arrival for several nights. He had no idea how long he w
ould need to stay or what he would uncover when he arrived. At least he could relax knowing that under this alias, no one would look for him. All he could think of now was supping a steaming hot toffee latte and he half hoped Laura worked the graveyard shift.

  It was a cloudy descent as Mark gathered his small carry on possessions together and put on his safety belt ready for the landing. He was irritable and desperate for a cigarette and coffee as the announcement came over the Tannoy advising that they would shortly arrive at Hamburg Airport and that the weather was cloudy, at four degrees with a feeling of two degrees. Mark already felt the chill. He had taken minimal clothing with him as most of what he needed would be obtained when he got there. A stewardess came past asking everyone to fasten their safety belts. He got her attention, and she addressed him in his alias name, Russell Green.