by Linda Coles
But buying a weapon was a bit different than buying a gram of weed for personal use. He typed ‘buy pistol and silencer’ into the search box and hit enter. He then spent the next hour clicking links to various ‘stores’ and making notes of availability and pricing until he knew roughly what he was looking at cost-wise and what he’d get for his money. Some vendors were a little more security-conscious than others; some only accepted payment in Bitcoin. But all of them could offer a pistol with silencer with the serial number filed off for a fee, a fee he’d yet have to think about how he’d raise.
He sat back, staring at the screen and tapping his fingers in thought, and suddenly it came to him. Maybe he could get his client first and use the advance to purchase the necessary tools? That way, if there were no enquiries about his service, he wouldn’t be out of pocket and left with an unregistered gun that probably came with a nasty history.
It sounded the bright thing to do. He searched on, this time with a different set of keywords, to see what the competition were up to and how they preferred to run things. Scrolling through the results, he chose one and clicked the link. A basic website filled his screen. The heading at the top made no bones about what their service was: a hit for hire. He scrolled to the contact page and hovered his mouse, debating whether to click or not. If he was going to set himself up in a similar fashion, he had to know how the competition allowed clients to make contact. Surely it wouldn’t be by a regular email or text message; that would be way too stupid and easily traced.
“Here goes,” he said out loud. “Let’s see how this all works.” He clicked the link, which took him through to a message board where he registered and asked his question. There was no request to confirm an email address, because that would take away the anonymous advantage of using the Tor browser. So it was all done via messages on a private board, he said to himself. Nobody knew who else was there, nor could they see them. On the one hand, if the cops were looking, you couldn’t see them. But if other criminals were looking, you couldn’t see them either – nobody could see anybody else. And that was why the dark net experience was so successful – it was virtually impossible for anyone, even the cleverest person, to monitor, unless they knew exactly where to look.
He typed, “Looking for a hit on my husband. South London area. How much and when?”
He stared at the words on the screen, his chest thumping with each heartbeat. Telling himself this was only research and not the real deal, he reconciled it in his head and clicked send. A whoosh of air left his chest. How long would a reply take? How much would it cost? What would the timeframe be? What other information would the outfit need from him? He felt panic start to rise.
“Holy hell! I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this,” he muttered.
The reply was almost instant.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luke sat on the bed and stared at the screen like it had morphed into something from a Jack Reacher movie. Did this shit really happen?
Yep, it did.
The words stared at him, begging to be answered. He knew there was a person on the other end of them expecting a response. Would they understand his nervousness and give him time to think? And, perhaps more to the point, was this what it would be like for his prospective customer when it came time to place an enquiry, talk about the needs, the finer details? Probably so.
He sat back in his chair again, considering. Should he be cagey or direct with his requirements? What was the etiquette, assuming there was one? He sat forward again and typed his reply: “Looking for price and availability. Suggest quick shot. What else do you need?” Send.
Wow, that felt funny, he thought. He waited. Had he been too direct? There was no mistaking what he was asking – but how you ask for a hit without actually saying the exact words? A pow-wow? A water pistol? A cap gun?
He needn’t have worried. The reply came back quickly. He read it out loud to himself, slowly moving over the few words to make sure he understood the message.
“£15,000, half up front, half on completion. I’ll tell you when and where later. What will the location be? Need a picture. Bitcoin or cash – you choose.”
Luke couldn’t believe that he was actually conversing with a killer on the other side of his screen, someone happy to take fifteen grand and snuff out a life to order.
Isn’t that what you’re thinking of doing, Luke?
He began to type his reply – all in the name of research, of course.
“Thanks. Need to figure that kind of money. I’ll come back then.” He pressed send and closed the site down before he said anything more. The person on the other side would put him down to being a tyre kicker, a time waster, which is exactly what he was to them while he researched. But he’d gained valuable knowledge from the brief encounter.
He wondered how the cash option would work; obviously they wouldn’t be giving him account details for their local building society or high street bank – more likely a nearby rubbish bin and a brown paper bag. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty in closing the page down. Clearly, he needed to find out the answer.
“One more,” he said, as he re-entered the search term and chose another site. This one listed various other services, beatings and the like as well as straightforward hits. Luke got the impression the site operated out of eastern Europe, though he couldn’t say why and had no way of finding out; it was just a sense. Maybe it was the way the text read; it had a sort of accent, if it was possible for the written word to have an accent.
He registered and composed another message, this time feeling a little calmer and more in control.
“Looking for a hit on husband. South London. How much and what do you need?” Send.
The cursor blinked while he waited for a reply. After five full minutes, he was about to close up and give up for the night when the answer landed.
“No problem. £12,000, half up front. Accident or shooting? How big is he?”
“Shooting probably. Rougher part of town. How do I get cash to you?” Send.
He waited, and this time the reply was quicker.
“Can be organized. Cash is OK, drop-off place TBC. Need photo and location. Rest on completion. Interested?”
Shit, he was pushy. He assumed it was a man. Pushy or weeding fakes out, one or the other. How should he respond? What else did he need to know? What would someone who really wanted their husband gone want to know?
“Sounds good. How long until complete? Don’t want him to suffer either.” Send.
Luke waited, willing the guy to respond quickly so he could get the hell out of the site. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. He needn’t have worried; once again, the reply was almost instant. It seemed the person was keen for another quick payday.
“This week if needed. Quick and easy. Depends on you getting what I need.”
Luke wanted to end the conversation – he had what he needed – but one more question needed answering.
“How do I contact you? Through here?”
“Yes. I’ll send a mobile number on delivery for final payment.”
Good to know. I’ll need a burner phone or two, Luke mused. He had the surreal feeling that he was in a bad cop movie. He told them he’d be back and disconnected from the site. Closing the lid to his laptop, he took a couple of deep breaths and rolled the cricks from his neck. Feeling the need for some air, he gathered his jacket off a nearby chair and headed down the stairs and out the front door into the cold night. His breath was visible in short, misty bursts as he walked, the amber glow of street lamps lighting his way. The air was damp as usual, though thankfully it had stopped raining. He pulled his collar up against the cold and rammed his hands deeper into his pockets, head bent slightly as he walked. He spent the time sorting through what he’d learned so far. On the surface, it all seemed simple enough. But could he do it? Could he take someone’s life when it came to it? Or was this whole thing too much of a wacky idea? Maybe he should forget it completely, he told himself uneasily
. He’d fantasized about shooting someone in a road rage – hell, most people he knew fantasized about that, when it came to it – but sneaking up on someone who hadn’t pissed him off directly and snuffing them out, well, that was different. That was cold-blooded murder.
But £12,000 in cash was awfully tempting. It was more than enough funds to get his business going. And if he did it two or three times . . . Luke quickened his pace as the pieces fell into place. The more he turned it over in his head, the easier it sounded. Now he just needed to talk to Clinton about it.
And get a weapon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I thought you were joking!” Clinton was incredulous. “You’ve got to be dreaming! Kill someone? For money? Are you out of your mind?”
Luke had cemented his plan in his head as he’d walked round to Clinton’s place.
“I’ve worked most of it out, and it’s pretty simple,” he said calmly. He counted on his fingers as he spoke. “One, I know how much to charge. Two, I know how the contact is made. Three, I know how to build a basic website. Four, I can probably get a weapon on the web. And five, we only have to do a couple of hits. Where else are we going to get the money? Because we’ve worked too hard to chuck this dream away. This will give us the start we need. Think about it, Clinton.”
“I don’t need to think about it! It’s nuts! And what if we get caught, eh? That’s prison for the rest of our lives, or at least a good twenty years of it. And I don’t fancy being someone’s bitch, either. Trust you to be the one to come up with the harebrained idea.” Clinton rubbed his face with his hands.
“And trust you to be the one that pooh-poohs it,” Luke said crossly. “I don’t see much coming from you in the way of money-earning ideas. You’re supposed to be the accountant brain of the two of us. I’m the creative one, remember.”
“Well, I can’t say your idea isn’t creative, now can I? It’s about as creative as it gets, actually, so top marks for that,” Clinton spat back. His face had gone beet red.
Luke sat back and waited for Clinton to cool down and catch his breath. It was a good job Clinton’s parents were away on holiday; they surely would have heard every word.
For a few moments they sat in tense silence, eyeing each other uneasily. Clinton spoke first.
“I’ll give it some thought,” he said, “but that’s all I’ll do. I’ll be right up front, though: I can’t see me changing my opinion. It’s way too risky and it’s cold-blooded. I’m not sure I’m that desperate.”
Luke stayed silent, let him have his airtime.
“Do you even know how to fire a gun, of any kind?” Clinton asked him.
“I’ve shot a rifle and a shotgun, but not a handgun or revolver, no. Daresay I could learn, though. There’s got to be a gun club I can join somewhere, get some lessons.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, actually,” Clinton retorted. “This is England, remember, not the US. It might be a tad more difficult than you think. And then there is the small issue of actually purchasing a gun.” Clinton picked up his phone and typed into his browser. “See?” He turned his screen towards Luke. “Since the Dunblane school shooting in 1996, all handguns are effectively banned from the ranges. Only rifles and muzzle-loading pistols are allowed.” Turning the screen back to himself, he added, “I’m guessing those are the really old ones like they used to use in duels.” He almost looked chuffed.
“There’ll be a way to get some lessons,” Luke insisted. “Once I’ve got something to practice with, mind. I haven’t looked at the cost yet, or the availability. I need to research a little more.”
“Like which one you actually need to start with. Calibre and whatnot – silencer, size, that sort of thing.”
Luke smiled broadly at Clinton.
“What?”
“Listen to you. You were so freaked out a few minutes ago, yet here you are now, calmly chatting away about the best gun to get.”
“Leave out the ‘we’, will you? I’m simply talking to you, having a conversation and nothing more. I’ve not agreed to anything yet. And I won’t be either, I expect.”
He went back to his phone and Luke watched him silently. If he was going to get fixed up with a weapon, it wasn’t going to be with the help of Google; more likely a backstreet pub off a rough council estate tower. He looked down at his pretty-boy hands, hands that didn’t get dirty that often. His mother used to say his hands were nicer than her own, and they probably were. In any rough pub those hands would give their game away; he’d stick out like a nun at a disco and probably get himself killed in the process if he tried. And there was still the issue of funds. No, he really had no choice: he’d have to buy the gun when he’d secured his first client with his first advance.
But he still had to make the enquiry.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mrs. Stewart held out a plastic box for Jack as he left his house for work.
“Here, a piece of iced lemon loaf for your mid-morning snack, and I’ve put a piece in for Amanda too. See she gets it, please.” She nodded knowingly at Jack. They both knew that there was every chance Amanda would never see the extra piece, but Jack’s waistline would. It had happened before.
“I only did that the once, as you well know, Mrs. S,” he teased. “Though iced lemon is one of my very favourites, so I wouldn’t like to guarantee its delivery to the rightful stomach.”
Mrs. Stewart smiled as Jack set off towards his car, which was parked on the driveway. She raised a hand and waved him farewell, waiting for him to fully reverse and drive away before she shut the front door behind him.
Jack smiled as he drove off; he loved this little ritual of theirs. He blushed to admit it, but his life was so much nicer now with Mrs. S. in the picture. She was Jack’s housekeeper, and she cleaned and cooked for him three times a week, usually in the mornings. Since his Janine had passed a few years back, he’d been muddling along on his own, and the habits he’d got into had needed intervention from Amanda and Ruth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been coping, mind; he’d simply become a little scruffy round the edges, and ate appallingly, and his health had started to suffer a little because of it.
Janine had done everything for him when she’d been alive, bless her, and so through no fault of his own he hadn’t known how to do laundry properly, or cook a decent meal, or most of the important but mundane things that happened round a house in terms of cleaning and maintenance.
After he’d fallen ill and been laid up in hospital, Amanda and Ruth had installed Mrs. S. on a trial basis to help him out. He had balked at first, of course, but it had turned out to be the best gift the two women could have given him. He now had three wonderful women in his life.
Jack smiled to himself and looked across at the little plastic box on the passenger seat. No doubt about it: Mrs. S. made him feel better about himself – and made him look better too. His old work shirts with the fraying collars had vanished. Replacements had been bought and were laundered carefully for him.
He stopped for a red light and reached for his phone. He tapped the Spotify app, pressed on his Time Capsule, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson filled the car. He listened to the words as he waited for the lights to change. “Heaven holds a place for those who pray…”. Janine had prayed, and so had Jack when she’d been diagnosed with cancer.
“God bless you, Janine,” he said huskily, and wondered what she was doing right at that moment. A toot from a car horn behind him brought him back to reality and he drove on as Scarborough Fair began to play.
Ten minutes later, he was parked up in the station car park and retrieving the little plastic box along with his old briefcase. Raj was parked up nearby and shouted his good morning as he too made his way towards the building. Jack liked Raj. He was young and polite, and had brains, though they didn’t share the same interest in music. Not many had Jack’s limited tastes – ELO, Rainbow and little else. They fell into step together. Raj nodded at the box.
“More homemade baking?”
“Keep your dabs off it or I’ll know exactly where it’s gone,” Jack said, though he meant no malice. “One piece has Amanda’s name on it and the other is all mine. Play your cards right, and I’ll ask Mrs. S. to cut you a piece one of these days.”
“I wish I had someone to bake for me. Shop-bought is nowhere near the same. How do I play my cards right, then? What do I have to do?”
Raj opened the glass double door and Jack slipped though. He followed.
“Put a rush on those packets from the bin if you can. I’ve a feeling they might be the key to something bigger.”
“Oh?”
“Call it a feeling in my water, but I think we could be looking at something landing in our own backyard. Get some results for me today, and there’s cake in it for you tomorrow.”
Jack increased his speed and Raj fell behind.
“Done. Make it a big piece,” he called after him, and made his way to his own office and desk, no doubt to make the phone call.
Amanda materialized from a doorway as Jack passed by. “Hey, slow down,” she said, struggling to keep up. “What’s the rush?”
“No rush, just want to get on,” he said, and passed the box to her. She opened the lid as she walked.
“Oh! Mrs. S., I think I love you.” She reached in and helped herself to a slice. She took a mouthful and savoured the taste before replacing the lid and catching Jack up again.
“That’s supposed to be for later with your coffee, not right now,” he said as he reached his desk and hung his jacket on the back of his chair.
“Can only eat it once, and I’ve saved some.”
“Well, don’t let Raj see you with it. He’s after a piece. I’ve told him it’s his tomorrow if he can work his magic and get those packet results today.” He flung himself into the chair. Stale air escaped in a whoosh at the sudden impact. The chair groaned as he turned in it to face Amanda.