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Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Longfire Press
Type: Fiction
Pages: 357
Copyright: 9th December 2016
Price: $2.98 (eBook)
A controversial United States Senator is marked for murder while on Christmas vacation in a quite little English village.
Justice or revenge? It's a fine line to walk.
Steve Cully has always believed his low-life hits are of no loss to the world. This time it's different. Even so, ten million dollars to kill a controversial US Senator enjoying a Christmas vacation in a quiet English village is an offer he can't refuse. But things get complicated. Without at first being aware of it, Cully is now in someone else's sights. Mark Easton, a former Delta Force soldier and the senator's godson wants justice. Or is it revenge?
Either way, he could not have picked a more dangerous man to pursue.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Even the latest increase in the price of a pint had done nothing to dampen the lively Friday evening atmosphere. With the clock above the bar creeping toward ten o’clock, the south London pub was packed with noisy and decidedly thirsty punters. Everybody was enjoying a bloody good night out.
Everybody, that was, apart from Bunny McHale.
In the only relatively quiet corner of the premises, alongside a battered upright piano that had not seen use for many years, Bunny shifted in his seat. A small, balding man in his late fifties, he miserably surveyed the near empty beer glass on the table in front of him. He was all but broke. As a temporary way of taking his mind off this depressing fact, he produced a small pouch of rolling tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers from his jacket pocket. With skilful fingers, he began rolling himself a smoke that was not much thicker than a matchstick.
While running the tip of his tongue along the gummed edge of the paper, he suddenly became aware that someone was now standing close by. Too damn close. With a nervous little start, his eyes flickered upwards.
A large, tough looking youth of around twenty years old regarded him with thinly disguised contempt. “Wotcha, Bunny,” the newcomer said. “You weren’t thinking of lighting that fag up in here were you?” He tut-tutted in mock rebuke. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s against the law these days?”
Bunny’s uneasiness increased. Not that he imagined himself to be in any physical danger; it was what the youth represented that always managed to set his nerves twitching. The newcomer’s presence could only mean one thing. Another poor bastard was due to get the chop sometime soon. Bunny never cared to dwell for very long on his own tiny part in these matters. As usual, he pushed such dark thoughts from his mind and instead tried to look on the bright side. At least he would soon have a few quid in his pocket to tide him over.
“How’s it going, Phil?” he responded, somehow keeping the shake in his voice to a minimum. “Haven’t seen you around for a while.”
Bunny put the now completed cigarette inside the pouch for later. At the same time, his eyes flickered over the youth for any sign of a waterproof security envelope. That was what these things always seemed to come in.
Phil continued to regard him with disdain. “You haven’t seen me lately because I haven’t needed you. Now I do, so let's get this over with. Spending time with a clapped out old dip ain't exactly my idea of fun.”
Bunny ignored the insult. He was too old and too small to do otherwise. Besides, there was some truth in what Phil said. His best days as a pickpocket working the crowded streets and posh stores in the West End of London were indeed long gone. These days his nerves would allow him to risk only the easiest of targets.
“You’ve got something for me then,” he said.
“You know the rules. We’ll talk outside.”
Bunny knew the rules only too well, and he for one would never dream of breaking them. Quickly gulping down the remaining dregs of beer from his glass, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and followed Phil through the mass of people to the pub’s back door.
* * *
The customary envelope was finally handed over to him in a dim corner of the car park. His fingers that had once been so nimble shook slightly as he grasped hold of the offering. He wasn't surprised. This initial contact with its polythene surface always carried the same sensation, and it was something he would never get fully used to. To Bunny, it was almost like touching dead flesh. Hastily, he shoved the bulky envelope inside his jacket and forced such morbid thoughts from his head. With a bit of luck he would be rid of the thing in less than an hour.
Phil – or at least, that was the name Bunny knew him by – grinned as he spotted the habitual shaking of the older man’s hand. Bunny gave a mental shrug. Whatever his personal fears, he was forced to admit that the system had always worked perfectly up until now. Whoever had organised the complex set-up was a bloody genius, and whether Phil liked it or not, the two of them had at least one thing in common. They were both very small links in a very large chain.
Each of them knew, if only by reputation, exactly who the package would eventually end up with. But how many other pairs of hands it would pass through, and what route it would take before reaching this final destination, was anybody’s guess.
Business done, the two contrasting figures walked to the car park exit together in silence. Here, Phil gave Bunny one final scornful look before setting off rapidly in the direction of Clapham Common tube station. Bunny waited. Within less than a minute the youth had turned a corner and was out of sight.
Only now did Bunny move. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he set off toward Brixton. This was where his next and only other contact lived. His anxiety to pass on the package as soon as possible was increasing with every step.
Although trying hard to close his mind to such matters, he could not prevent himself from speculating on the envelope’s contents. Was it someone important? Someone he knew of perhaps, who now looked like having a very short life expectancy? Various names flitted through his mind, but fear easily outweighed his curiosity as he nervously fingered the package beneath his jacket. Just once, a few years ago, some big shot from up around Tottenham way had got a bit out of order – and everyone remembered what Tommy had done to him.
As the insignificant figure pressed on towards his destination, the sky clouded over. It began to drizzle.
* * *
Only a three-quarter moon diffused by wispy clouds provided any hint of natural light over the miniature estate in the heart of the Cheshire countryside. After the sudden eruption of noise, the night had now become quiet once again. Steve Cully wiped the blood from the blade of his hunting knife and moved quickly away from the high brick wall guarding the grounds. Once where he needed to be, he dropped down into a prone position amongst the dense shrubbery facing an ostentatiously large house.
He waited. As usual, all his preparation work had been meticulously done. He knew that, right now, there was only one person inside the building.
A wide expanse of perfectly manicured lawn separated him from the recently built mansion. There must be at least eight bedrooms, Cully considered. He couldn’t imagine what a single guy needed that many for. But then again, the man he had come to kill had never been one to do things by halves. Well over hundred and fifty grand’s worth of motor in the shape of a Bentley Continental GTC parked in the driveway was further proof of that. When you were a top Premiership footballer, finding the cash to pay for your excesses was never a problem. Not that it made any difference. All the money in the world wasn’t going to get the guy out of this one. He was due to pay the price for what he had done in a far different way.
Cully remembered the incident well. Back in the summer, the man who would shortly become his victim number fifty-seven had been acquitted on charges of violent assault and rape. The incident had happened on a Saturday evening following an FA Cup fourth round match in London. Everyone knew that the player was guilty as hell, but a smart and highly expensive QC had managed to get him off on a legal technicality – something about contaminated evidence. Most guys in this position would have thanked their lucky stars and kept a low profile for a sensible period. But not Bentley Boy. True to past form, he immediately decided to hold a lavish party at a top Manchester nightspot to publicly celebrate his fortunate escape. Even his club had come down on him a bit after that one, although not sufficiently to tear up his lucrative contract. Life and football, it seemed, always went on pretty much unaffected no matter what happened.
Bentley Boy’s victim had spent many weeks recovering from the beating she’d suffered. At the time, pictures of her grotesquely swollen and bruised face had appeared in all of the national newspapers. As for the mental damage - how long it might take for her to overcome that was anybody’s guess. She came from a well-liked family living on a large council estate in south-east London, and Cully had picked up a few whispers suggesting that virtually the entire estate had been chipping in to an unofficial fund to help the family. Whether or not it was this fund that had been used to employ him was unclear. What was certain was that he had been happy to accept the job for a small fraction of his usual fee. Rapists made him sick. Besides, as far as he was concerned, Bentley Boy played for the wrong football club.
Body heat activated floodlights suddenly sprang on, bathing the patio directly outside the house in brilliant light. Bentley Boy appeared, alerted by the frenzied barking of a few moments earlier. Just over six foot tall and twenty-two years old, he called out to his pair of pit bull terriers that normally patrolled the house grounds after dark. Not that this threat concerned Cully. The only place the dogs would be patrolling from now on would be some big kennel in the sky. Pit bulls might be renowned for being insensitive to pain, but they sure as hell weren’t immune to a .45 round followed up by a knife slash across the throat.
After calling out for a second time and receiving no response, Bentley Boy stepped back inside the house, reappearing a couple of minutes later clutching a powerful torch and double barrel shotgun. He set off across the lawn in a direction that took him a thirty-degree angle away from where Cully was concealed.
“Where are you, you fuckers?” His continuous mumbled curses sounded clearly in the otherwise absolutely silent night air. From his weaving gait and slightly slurred speech, Cully guessed that he had been drinking quite heavily.
The sweeping flashlight made it easy to follow the footballer’s progress, even after he entered the darkest part of the garden where several trees, including a huge evergreen oak, shut out any faint glimmer of the little moonlight available.
Cully’s experience with all kinds of firearms was immense. It would have been easy for him to pop off Bentley Boy from a distance, and on virtually any other job he would have taken this easy option. But he still remembered seeing the raped girl’s devastated mother being interviewed on television immediately after the court decision. In looks and mannerisms she reminded him a little of his own mother, and that was sufficient to spark something deep inside. When the contract was first offered, just thinking back to the woman’s utter despair made him resolve to ensure that this time his victim would know exactly why he was about to die.
It was only the second time in more than a decade of killing that he had ever felt a need to communicate such information before administering the coup de grace.
Rising to his feet, Cully began following the still moving flashlight. As was customary on night jobs such as this he was dressed all in black, including a balaclava that covered most of his face. Unless the beam of light was turned directly on him, he was as good as invisible. Moving with a stealth born from countless years of experience, he closed to within fifteen yards of his prey.
Bentley Boy was now nearing the ten-foot high wall sealing the property from the road. That was fine, but Cully wanted him to be more over to the right. Picking up a hefty stone, he threw this in the required direction. The missile struck the wall high up before rebounding to noisily disturb the foliage of a shrub growing below.
The flashlight immediately swung in this direction. “Who’s there? Show yourself, you bastard. I’ve got a shotgun here.”
Cully smiled. Beneath the bluster and bravado of the words he could already detect a definite edge of nervousness.
Now moving with significantly more caution, Bentley Boy advanced toward the source of the noise. Cully could hear him sucking in rapid breaths through his mouth. Then the flashlight beam picked out the bodies of the two mutilated pit bulls. The deliberately macabre way in which they had been finished off was instantly obvious and designed to shock.
“Oh shit!”
Bentley Boy froze to the spot, his horrified gaze fixed on the bloody sight just a few feet ahead.
Cully’s first target was the shotgun. In one fluid movement he closed right up behind his victim. His arm swung down in a vicious hammer fist strike to the suprascapular nerve on the right shoulder. Bentley Boy let out a gasp of pain as the weapon dropped from his instantly disabled arm. Before he had even the slightest chance of recovering from the pain and shock of this paralysing blow, he was dumped hard down onto his back.
All power of speech appeared to have temporarily deserted him. Helpless with fear and pain, he closed his eyes against the glare of his own flashlight now centred on his face. Cully softly spoke the name of the raped girl. A silenced Heckler-Koch Mk 23 semi-automatic appeared in his hand.
“What...what do you want? Who the hell are you?” Bentley Boy finally managed to croak.
Cully shifted the light so that his victim could see him and the threatening gun more clearly. He removed the balaclava. “You’re highly privileged, old son. Take a good look if you feel like it.”
He paused before adding: “Most people know me as Tommy.”
The single name was more than sufficient to provoke an uncontrollable shaking. The smell of urine was suddenly strong.
“Oh fuck – fuck – fuck!”
Cully gave a thin smile. “Yeah, you could put it like that. A fitting epitaph for a rapist, I’d say.”
The Heckler-Koch made only the smallest of sounds as he fired a single shot.
ONE
Within the space of fifteen minutes, three middle-aged men arrived separately at an opulent New York penthouse apartment. On entering, each one was invited by the owner to take a seat around a highly polished mahogany dining table and provided with a large whisky and ice. Few words were exchanged until the gathering was complete.
The Host, red-faced and overweight, seated himself before regarding each of his guests in turn. His gaze finally settled on the man positioned directly to his right. He wasted no more time.
“Well, George? Is it all set up yet?” he demanded.
George, considerably lighter and a far less likely looking candidate for a coronary, met the hard gaze without flinching.
“Not quite, but we’re making headway. Our friends have already made contact with some guys they know of in London. It’ll take a short time before we get a definite response to the proposition, but that’s just the way these things work. I can’t see there being any problems.”
The Host reacted instinctively. “Damn right there shouldn’t be. Not with ten million dollars up for grabs. Who the hell is going to turn down that kind of money?”
The sheer forcefulness of his remark caused a short, introspective silence to fall over the group.
It was the sharp-featured congressman in the chair to the left of the Host who spoke first. “Who are they using? Do we know that?”
“Sure,” George told him. “Some guy known as Tommy. That’s the name he works under, anyhow. Our friends say he’s the best in England.”
“Look, for Christ’s sake stop referring to these people as ‘our friends’, will you?” the Host cut in. “As far as I’m concerned they’re nothing but scum. Thank God we don’t have to deal with them personally.”
“Useful scum though,” George countered. “We never would have come by this opportunity without them. The bottom line here is that we all get what we want, and at absolutely no risk to ourselves.”
“Yeah, but at a cost of two and a half million bucks each,” pointed out the fourth member of the group, a small, stocky man with an incongruously large nose. His heavy New Jersey accent was in direct contrast to the college educated tones of the other three.
“And worth every cent, Sonny,” George reminded him. “Unless of course you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you want to see Hall live long enough to get his new crime bill adopted? Because he will push it through in the end, there’s no question about that.”
The expression on the other man’s face showed very clearly what he thought of that particular prospect.
George rapped the table with the palm of his hand to force home his point. “This is one very serious senator, and he’s out to get you, Sonny. Remember that.”
Sonny ran a finger over his nose, as if to check that the embarrassing appendage was still there. “Okay, you don’t have to spell it out.” His eyes flickered around the table. “But what about you guys? I still don’t know what you’re getting out of this deal?”
A tight little smile formed on the Host’s face. “I’ve told you before, each one of us has got our own private reasons. That’s all you need to know. Just worry about your own neck and leave the politics to us.” He exchanged a meaningful look with the congressman.
After a moment’s thought, Sonny shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just so long as the job gets done with no comebacks.”
“Impossible,” George reassured him. “Even our friends …. ”
He paused for a second to glance a silent apology in the Host’s direction. “Even they don’t know who they’re dealing with. All business from this end is being done between myself and just one independent go-between. And you can take my word for it that this particular person has as much to lose as anyone here in this room. There’ll be no loose talk, I guarantee that.”
As George finished off, the Host looked at Sonny. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Fine. Then until George has some more news for us, there’s not a whole lot left to discuss. Unless anyone else has a point to make, I figure we can consider the matter closed for now.”
His eyes flashed around the table. No one else had anything to add.
“So who’s for another drink?” the Host asked.
* * *
The barrage of punches thrown by Thomas ‘The Hitman’ Hearns in the second round was relentless. Blows from both hands flew in from every angle, landing like armour piercing shells on the head and body of his opponent. Backed up against the ropes and with legs on the point of collapse, Roberto Duran’s scrambled senses tried to respond. From somewhere deep inside, his battered body miraculously managed to find the strength needed to fight his way back to the centre of the ring. It was brave beyond the point of all reason. It was also totally futile. A fresh onslaught drove him back to the ropes yet again.
And then it came. A right hook of unbelievable ferocity from Hearns exploded against Duran’s jaw. Like a toppled statue, the man known as ‘Hands of Stone’ pitched forward, landing face down on the canvas. The crowd at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas erupted. It was over! Everyone there knew that no man could recover from such a devastating blow. Not even Duran, who in eighty-three previous bouts had never once been knocked out.
The Hitman was still WBC World Light Middleweight Champion.
A slight smile lingered on Steve Cully’s face as he watched these proceedings on his TV screen. In idle moments during an evening it sometimes appealed to his sense of humour to watch DVD recorded highlights of the former champion’s glory days back in the 1980s. He wasn’t sure who’d first made the tenuous link between himself and the legendary Hearns – probably one of the daily newspapers looking for a cheap angle after one of his more high profile hits - but the idea quickly caught on. Thomas became de-formalised into Tommy, and the nickname stuck. He in turn did all he could to encourage its ongoing use, often leaving behind a personal mark of some kind. His reputation grew to near legendary status, while at the same time allowing both his face and true identity to remain completely unknown. It was a classic case of having it both ways.
The majority of his victims had little to recommend them anyway, Cully had always considered. Grasses, drug dealers, rapists, other killers, even the occasional nonce – they were all men who’d stepped badly out of line in one way or another. For a long time now he had been dealing at the very top end of the market, mostly taking on the kind of jobs that were too big or difficult for others to handle. And there were plenty willing to pay a rock bottom price of fifty thousand quid in return for the promise of guaranteed success with no personal comebacks.
Oh sure he’d seen movies about hit men who were supposed to be totally anonymous and all that crap. But this was the real world, and the question he always asked himself was: ‘If these guys were so bloody faceless, how the hell did anyone ever make contact to employ them?’ Complete anonymity was what everyone in his line of work would kill for - he smiled for a moment at this Freudian slip – and to his knowledge he was the only one who had ever managed to genuinely pull it off.
By necessity it was a fairly solitary existence, but to the small group of people he did come in regular contact with he was just Steve, a bit of a tough nut who made a living working on the doors of some clubs up in the West End. A small apartment in an ordinary looking house close to Crystal Palace Park helped to maintain this image. With the vast majority of his earnings tucked safely away many miles from south-east London, he could wait just a little while longer before retiring and enjoying the more obvious luxuries of life.
“Yeah, you’ve seen a good few off in your time, old son,” he murmured. “And earned a good few quid in the process.”
Maybe it was time for another trip to Zurich, he considered. His retirement fund was growing and he was keen to talk to someone at the bank about investment opportunities. He was now thirty-nine, and another three years in the game would see him about right. By then he would have enough money to do whatever he wanted. Perhaps he’d celebrate the moment of release with a long cruise? As a former Royal Marine, it would make for a pleasant change to see other countries from the comfort of a luxury cruise liner rather than the shitty facilities his time at sea had usually provided.
“But you’re not retired yet,” he told himself quietly, forcing his mind once more back to the present. After switching off the TV, he glanced at his watch. It was just after nine o'clock – time to call Arnie.
On impulse, he decided to use the phone box close to Sydenham railway station this time. Security was second nature, and he always made these business calls from a variety of public phones. Even though these were becoming harder to find these days, never would he risk using the same phone regularly, or even a pay-as-you-go mobile. Slipping on a lightweight jacket over his t-shirt, he methodically secured each of the three stout locks fitted to his apartment door before leaving the building.
Walking briskly, he set off along the quiet back street. Ahead was a group of youths hanging around with nothing much to do but block up the pavement for anyone passing. They stared at him as he drew close.
The largest one spoke. “All right, Steve.”
Cully gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and continued without pausing. The youths parted to make way. His local reputation as a hard man earned him a healthy respect.
As always when using any public phone box, he was mildly surprised to find that it had not been vandalized. He dialled Arnie’s number and waited. It rang four times before being answered.
“Hello.”
Just as a man’s voice responded, a recorded message from an answering machine began to cut in. Cully heard the sound of muttered curses followed by a loud click. He smiled to himself while waiting. Then the line was clear.
“Hello,” the now uninterrupted voice repeated.
There was no mistaking Arnie’s distinctive accent. Even after many years of living in London it was still rich with the Geordie of his native Newcastle.
“What’s in the mixer, Arnie?” It was Cully’s standard greeting.
As usual, his contact was all business. “There’s two come in,” he said. “Had them both for over a week.”
Cully considered this information. “Okay,” he said. “Take the dog for its usual walk in half an hour.”
Without waiting for a reply, he hung up.
* * *
Arnold Lang, popularly known as Blind Arnie, replaced the old-fashioned telephone back in its cradle. A grey haired man in his mid-sixties, he had been totally blind for nearly forty years – the legacy of an industrial accident that he had never forgiven his former employers for.
As a welder in a shipyard, he'd been shifting equipment in a supposedly safe area when a huge flash of ultra-violet radiation caused massive damage to both of his unprotected eyes. Being a fierce union activist and known communist sympathizer at the time didn’t help his case. The company heads hated him and did everything possible to limit their liability. At the end of it all Arnie was left with a permanent white stick and a mere fraction of the compensation he felt he deserved. From that day on his deep-rooted resentment of authority progressed into almost pathological hatred.
Embittered, he cut all ties with the north-east. A charity for the blind finally agreed to help him relocate to a ground floor apartment in a large house facing Tooting Bec Common. He had lived at the same address ever since.
The first few years were hard, but gradually Arnie became a well known character around south London. All kinds of people chatted with him, often on matters of some intimacy. On the street – in the pub – while out shopping – he began picking up useful scraps of information in a wide variety of places. People seemed to drop their guard in his company. It was as if his blindness somehow removed any threat he might pose, causing them to let slip the kind of information they would never normally dream of confiding in others. This was nearly all filed away in a memory that seemed to have improved beyond recognition since losing his sight.
He became known as a kind of Mr Fixit. The word got around that if you wanted something a bit special, Blind Arnie was the person who could probably put it your way. As the years passed, so his range of contacts increased. They spanned from the barely legal, right through to the downright criminal.
Arnie ran a hand through his thinning hair. Better get ready for the meet with Tommy, he told himself.
Movement around his apartment presented no problems. Every square inch of floor space was like a clearly defined map in his head. In fact, very little had changed since he’d first moved in. An outsider entering could easily be forgiven for thinking that they had stumbled into some kind of time warp from the 1970s. Arnie moved confidently over to the one piece of furniture that was out of keeping with the rest - a large, ornately carved walnut sideboard.
Fine cabinetmakers of long ago had had a particular liking for including secret drawers and compartments in their work. The craftsman who'd made Arnie’s sideboard was no exception. At the correct touch, a drawer eased out from directly beneath the twin central doors. So well did this blend in with the general design of the piece, it was virtually impossible to detect when in the closed position.
From the drawer Arnie removed two large polythene envelopes, both with their tamper evident seals still intact. After quickly transferring these into a Tesco plastic carrier bag, he smiled to himself. Tommy was right. No one ever carried anything of importance or value in an old supermarket bag, did they? He checked that the drawer was once more securely closed before reaching into the cupboard above for a bottle of Glen Morangie. From this he poured himself a generous measure.
Taking the glass with him, he settled down into his favourite armchair with a contented sigh. Fine malt whisky was one of life’s great pleasures, and not to be hurried. While savouring the drink, he began reflecting on his first meeting with the man later to become infamous as Tommy.
He'd known instinctively that he was dealing with someone out of the ordinary. After giving the proposition some thought, he found the idea of acting as a go-between for this unknown stranger greatly appealing. Not only was there a prospect of making some real money at last, he also saw the project as a challenge to his organizing ability. He set to work enthusiastically.
Having read volumes of books about the communist party in his younger days, Arnie was well aware of the methods they used to infiltrate society. His system was based on similar, small cell structures, with each member having a maximum of four direct contacts. The permutations this allowed a line of communication to follow were almost limitless, while at the same time ensuring that no single unit could seriously damage the network should it be compromised. To the few members who came into regular personal contact with Arnie, he was regarded as being just one more link in the chain. And one certainly no more significant than themselves.
Initiating contact with Tommy was fairly straightforward. A quiet word in any one of several well known pubs and clubs would sooner or later – usually sooner – be picked up and acted on. In the past there had been one or two instances of undercover coppers trying to pull a fast one, but none of these attempted deceptions ever got very far. Tommy paid top money to the people at the sharp end of the system, and no one was going to put their nice little earner at risk without first fully checking out an unknown face.
Once, way back in the early days, a big time drug baron from Tottenham had broken the golden rule and tried follow the chain in an attempt to identify Tommy. It was a bad mistake on his part, but also one that led to the final cementing of Tommy’s awesome reputation. Word of this supposedly untouchable gang leader's actions soon filtered through to Arnie. A few days later his decapitated body turned up on the building site of his half-completed luxury new home in the Essex countryside. The arms of the headless corpse had been carefully laid out on a pile of sand to form a large letter T, while the head itself was set atop a nearby scaffold pole.
It was intentionally as shocking as possible, and as a warning to others it could not have been more effective. Step out of line and Tommy would be sure to hear about it. That was the message, loud and clear. No one was too big to be slapped down. Sealed envelopes and cash payments continued to take a variety of journeys back and forth across wide areas of south London. Every payment was inevitably delivered to the correct person in full, and every envelope, whatever its route, eventually arrived safely unopened in Arnie’s apartment.
The memories came to an abrupt end. Arnie drained his glass and eased himself out of the armchair. He called out sharply.
“Eyes!”
The large Alsatian, which up until now had been asleep in a wicker basket at the far end of the room, immediately became alert. Arnie already had the lead in his hand by the time the dog reached him.
Eyes had been his guide dog for the past five years, and Arnie had named him as such quite simply because he felt it appropriate. Outside of his home, the Alsation was exactly that – his eyes. He gave the dog an affectionate pat and slipped on the lead.
As he left the building, the chill evening air bit hard, causing him to shiver. A television in a nearby apartment was playing the opening theme to the BBC’s ten o’clock news. It briefly passed through Arnie’s mind that someone mentioned in one of the two envelopes he was carrying may well be featuring posthumously on that very same broadcasting slot some time quite soon.
The road was still quite busy with traffic. Eyes halted at the kerb and duly waited for a break in the flow before leading Arnie across the road and directly onto the common.
* * *
Cully stood in the shadow of a large clump of bushes watching Arnie approach. It was a dark evening, but his night vision was excellent: a fact that had served him well during numerous clandestine operations with the Special Forces.
As Arnie drew near to him the dog sensed his presence and stopped. It was a ritual they had been through countless times. If anyone else happened to be in the close proximity he would say nothing. Arnie would resume walking and return later. This time there was no one about.
“Over here, Arnie,” he called softly.
Eyes recognized the voice immediately and led the way into the deep shadow of the bushes.
“You all right, old son?” Cully asked.
Arnie sniffed the night air. “Aye, can’t complain I suppose.” Despite considerably more than half a lifetime spent in London, rarely did he use the word ‘yes’.
He held out the carrier bag. “They’re both in here.”
Cully took the bag from him. With his other hand he produced a thick bundle of banknotes. “Here’s a few quid to keep you going,” he said.
Arnie ran his fingers over the mixed offering of twenties and fifties. “About twelve grand here I reckon.”
Cully smiled to himself. It had taken the blind man only seconds to come to this conclusion. And he was pretty much spot on. “No one’s ever going to short change you, that’s for sure,” he remarked.
A suitably smug expression crossed Arnie’s face. “Years of practice.”
After exchanging a few more words, they parted. Cully watched as Eyes led his master back across the common. Perhaps he would do something a little special for the old boy when he finally quit this game, he considered. Another thought then quickly followed. For someone who was capable of killing so easily, he was showing disturbing signs of sentiment. Was he going soft?
“Not a chance,” came the murmured reply.
With the carrier bag firmly in his grip, he walked briskly off into the night.
* * *
The deep frown on Mark Easton’s face clearly reflected his concern. He was well used to the senator’s sometimes almost casual disregard for his own safety, but this proposed vacation to England was setting new levels of recklessness. Mark had been unable to shake off a bad feeling ever since the trip had first been proposed. Now, as the senator’s personal bodyguard, he was duty bound to once again point out the huge risks involved.
He climbed the stairs of the elegant New England house, pausing at the third door along the landing. He gave two sharp taps.
“Yeah, come on in,” a man’s voice responded.
Mark stepped inside and saw the stocky figure of the senator standing in front of a full-length mirror. Muttered curses drifted across the room as he attempted to put the finishing touches to his bow tie. Apart from the jacket, which was hanging on the back of a nearby chair, the man was dressed in full evening wear.
“I’ll never get used to wearing these goddamn things,” the politician grumbled.
“It’s your dinner party,” Mark pointed out.
“I know, don’t remind me. That doesn’t mean to say I have to enjoy them. Take my word for it, Mark, playing host to a bunch of fancy people is not my idea of having fun. It’s a necessary evil, that’s all.”
Mark decided to get straight to the point. “Look, we need to talk again about this vacation in England. It’s not a great idea you know. Not the way you want to do it. You’re too important to take such a risk.”
The bow tie fiddling came to an abrupt stop. “We’ve already discussed this. It’s not negotiable.”
“So you say, but I don’t think you’re taking the dangers anywhere near seriously enough.”
The senator sighed. “Okay, I know the world’s a dangerous place. And that there’s a whole stack of terrorist groups and nutcases out there who’d just love the idea of bumping off a United States senator. That’s understood. But this is different. I could go along with your concerns if this was a publicized trip, but hell, only a handful of people know I’m making it. And it isn’t as if we’ll be travelling by commercial airline. It’s just a couple of weeks in the quiet English countryside where we can enjoy a traditional family style Christmas. You, me and Jane.
The senator’s eyes locked onto Mark. “I do think of you as part of the family. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure. I know.”
“Remember, I’m still your godfather. I’ve watched you grow up ever since you were in diapers.”
Mark nodded. It was all true. Even today the senator remained a close friend of his parents, who were now both retired and living a quiet life in the Florida sunshine. These close links were one of the main reasons why he had accepted this job after leaving the army. That - and of course Jane. If he was honest with himself, deep down inside he still had hopes in her direction.
With a snap, he realized that his boss was using his old trick of sidetracking him again. He did it every time there was a subject he didn't want to talk about.
“You say it’s quiet where we’re heading for,” he said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “But that’s a big part of the problem. This place – this village called Piddlemarsh - it’s too damn quiet. Anything could happen there, and I’ll be your only protection.”
“And you’ll do a helluva good job, Mark. Just like always. You’re one of the best. That’s why I picked you.”
Seeing that he was making little impression with this line, the senator sat down on the edge of the large bed and gave a sigh. “Look, maybe you don’t fully understand just how important this trip is for me.”
Mark frowned. “I know you’ve said something about your ancestors coming from this part of England, so I figure it’s some kind of ‘Roots’ thing. Is that right?”
The senator nodded. “Yeah, that’s a part of it. But I’ll be honest with you, Mark. There’s something more than that.” He hesitated before continuing. “It’s for Elizabeth’s sake as much as my own. A final tribute to her if you like.”
The senator had hardly ever spoken of his deceased wife since her funeral eighteen months previously. It was as if, from that day on, he had conditioned his mind to erase all memories. This mention of her now took Mark completely by surprise.
“A tribute?” he repeated.
There was a distinct softening of the older man’s expression. “I’ve never told you this before, but we planned to make this same trip together many times. Elizabeth was probably even more eager to do it than I was. Something always got in the way though, and it hurts me like hell to think she never made it over there. I guess I kind of owe it to her to make the effort now, before it’s too late. I’ll be doing it for both of us, so to speak. She’d appreciate that.”
Mark listened with amazement. There was even a hint of moisture in his boss’s eyes. He had no idea how much the man had been bottling things up inside. Senator Hall was renowned for his iron will and strength of character. He was a man who had served in combat with distinction during a highly successful army career. This was, without doubt, the greatest outward show of sentiment that Mark had ever witnessed from him.
None of this altered the hard facts of course. He still wanted to continue with his arguments for abandoning the trip. Like the old man had just said, there were any number of terrorist groups that would give anything for a crack at a United States senator. Especially one who was already the smart choice by those-in-the-know to be winning his party’s ticket at the next presidential election. And where could be easier for such a strike to take place than in a secluded English village with literally no security around apart from himself? The CIA would go crazy if they knew what his boss was planning.
But now, in spite of all this practical logic, something prevented Mark from speaking out further. He could feel a small lump developing in the back of his throat. Continuing to voice his doubts when faced with such unexpected emotion wasn’t easy, especially now that Elizabeth’s spirit had been summoned up. When she’d been alive she had been like a second mother to him. It was obvious that this vacation meant far more to his godfather than anyone else could fully understand. Mark’s frustration grew as he realized the depth of his predicament.
“I didn’t realise that you felt …” he began, hesitating slightly to find the right words.
“Why should you? It’s not something I’ve chosen to talk about before, even to Jane. In fact, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this conversation to her when she arrives back home tomorrow.”
“Sure. If that’s what you want.”
There was a short pause before the senator said: “How are you two getting on these days, anyhow?”
“Fine. We talk a fair bit at times.”
“Just talk?”
“Yeah, just talk.”
Mark knew exactly what the senator was getting at. The old man had long cherished hopes that his only daughter and godson would one day make it as a couple. But up until now the relationship between them, although fairly close, had been much more like that of a brother and sister.
Complicating matters even further, there had been an interlude a few years back when a guy called David suddenly appeared in Jane’s life. The senator took an instant dislike to the newcomer, and not entirely because of his affiliation to Mark.
‘A pretty boy with no balls,’ was one of the opinions he was heard to express privately. Whether or not Jane realized the full depth of her father’s disapproval, the couple were married anyway within a year of their meeting.
The marriage didn’t last. Following their separation and subsequent divorce just over two years ago, the senator’s ambitions on behalf of Mark flickered alive once more. Not that Jane displayed much inclination to help fulfil her father’s aspirations. She continued to allow Mark a firm friendship, but never anything beyond that. Whether or not it was simply too early for her to be able to offer him something more, Mark couldn’t decide. But deep down he was still hoping. And on the plus side, although she was now spending an increasing amount of time away from home, there was no hint of any new romantic attachment. Apart from her father, it appeared that he was still the closest man in her life.
“Maybe this vacation will work a little magic for you two as well,” the senator suggested. His reflective mood was passing, and his eye was now settling on the future once more.
In spite of himself, Mark grinned. “Who knows?”
There was a further irony that was not lost on him. In a move to placate some of his fears in an earlier conversation, the senator had suggested that he and Jane should pose as an engaged couple during their time in England.
“We’re going to a small village deep in the English countryside,” he had pointed out. “You can bet your last dollar that no one in a place like that will know who the heck I am. Hell, I don’t get recognized a whole lot here at home outside of political circles. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay, at least until the primaries come around. With you two travelling as a couple, we’ll appear just like a normal family to the locals. Okay, our being American may be a touch unusual for them, but that’s all.”
A little surprisingly, Jane had gone along with the engagement idea quite happily. In fact, she appeared to be looking forward to the vacation almost as much as her father.
Under a huge weight of emotional pressure, Mark tried hard to convince himself that he was over-reacting. It was true that a lot of effort had gone into preserving the secrecy of this trip. Very few people had any idea whatsoever of the senator’s plans to leave the country; as far as most folk were concerned, he was intending to spend the Christmas vacation somewhere in California. Equally true was that, over in the English countryside, the chances of his boss being recognized were pretty damn slim. And with a private charter flight taking them direct to a small regional airport well away from the major UK terminals of Gatwick and Heathrow, they would not exactly be arriving in the media spotlight.
Perhaps he was worrying too much, Mark eventually told himself. Maybe the senator was right? Maybe this vacation might work a little bit of magic for all three of them?
* * *
Cully had always been an early riser. By seven o’clock on the morning following his meeting with Arnie he had already completed his regular routine of press-ups, sit-ups, and squat thrusts – one hundred of each, and all completed in less than fifteen minutes. Physical fitness was just as important to him in his current line of work as it had ever been during his service days.
After taking a shower and eating a light breakfast, he now felt satisfied that he was set up for the day. Turning his attention to the two envelopes he'd collected from Arnie, he opened the first and spread the contents out on the kitchen table.
Cully was a hard man to surprise, but after only a few moments of reading he could not prevent a look of sheer amazement from developing on his face.
“Bloody hell!” he murmured.
The sheet of paper in his hand dropped down onto the table. For more than a minute he sat absolutely motionless as he tried to take in the enormity of the proposition. To be asked to knock off a United States senator was a fair old surprise in itself, but the fee being offered was what really hit him.
“Ten million dollars.”
He said it aloud, softly and slowly. Even without including the one and a half million quid he already had stashed away, that was more than enough for him to retire in genuine style immediately.
But what a job, he told himself. The repercussions would be enormous. This time it wouldn’t be some low-life that few people cared about. This time every bloody copper in the country would be coming after him big time. More than that, the Yanks themselves were sure to come muscling in on the action pretty damn quickly too.
If he did take the job, he would have to skip the country immediately. Up until now he had got the impression that sometimes the police didn’t investigate his hits quite as enthusiastically as they might. Given the violent and undesirable nature of many of his victims, this was not altogether surprising. He even had a sneaky feeling that some of the few remaining hardliners in the force had almost come to consider his work as being a kind of community service.
But all that would change with a vengeance if he bumped this guy off. He would be public enemy number one on both sides of the Atlantic, no question. But ten million dollars! He picked up the paper again and prepared to go through the whole dossier in detail.
Amongst all the other documents were several American newspaper cuttings. Although Cully had never heard of his proposed target before, it seemed that Senator Marvin T Hall was a man with very strong opinions. His zero tolerance views, especially on foreign policy and crime control, could easily have made him a great number of dangerous enemies. Nonetheless, if the information was correct, Senator Hall was far closer than most to the President. Indeed, there was even a report that the senator was quietly being groomed to be a leading contender for the top job himself when the next election came around. And now, maybe because of this, someone thought it worth ten million dollars to see him dead.
Who exactly that someone was held little interest for Cully. He had never bothered to vote in his life, and generally held politicians in the lowest possible regard. To him, whichever party they represented, the vast majority of those in Westminster were only there to feather their own nests. Outside of election time, most of them didn’t give a shit about how the general public felt.
Maybe they were a bit different in the States, he considered briefly, but he doubted it. Politicians the world over were nearly all cut from the same cloth. Even so, he found himself agreeing with many of the senator’s publicized views on defence, and a new ultra-hard line bill on drug control he was seeking to introduce.
In addition to the senator’s professional background, there was also some fairly detailed personal information. Two close-up photographs of the man were clipped to this sheet, one full face, and one in semi-profile. It was a face full of character. Looking nearly a decade younger than his sixty-one years, Hall’s protruding jaw line suggested powerful determination to succeed in all that he attempted. The large, pointed nose lent an appearance that was almost eagle-like - an impression further enhanced by his rather small but sharp eyes. The steel grey hair was thick but closely cropped. A right tough old bastard, Cully told himself. Here was a man that he might even have been able to respect.
His attention then moved on to the additional two other files. Once again, photographs were supplied along with the information. Hall’s twenty-nine year old daughter rated little consideration. She was a bit of a looker, but other than that she seemed to have no special qualities worth worrying about. It was the senator’s solitary minder that now caught his eye. The pictures revealed a man whose appearance immediately reminded him of the late Hollywood star Steve McQueen during his younger days.
Mark Easton, so he read, had left the U.S. Army five years ago and had been the senator’s privately employed minder ever since. All very interesting, but what really made him sit up and notice was the reference to Easton’s service with the crack Delta Force Unit. Cully himself had served six years with the Royal Marines’ Special Boat Service, and had personal experience of working alongside this section of the American Special Forces. A worthy opponent for his swansong, Cully warned himself, and one who would have to be taken out very quickly indeed if he decided to go ahead with this job.
Once again he deliberated over the details. The senator planned to spend two weeks in England, taking in both Christmas and the New Year. He had rented a cottage in the village of Piddlemarsh, Dorset, where he would be based for the entire duration. No other security measures apart from Easton were anticipated.
Cully knew this part of the country well thanks to his time spent at the SBS base in the nearby town of Poole. Piddlemarsh was a small village with no more than a few hundred residents, situated about fifteen miles from the county town of Dorchester. He marvelled at the senator’s apparent disregard for his own safety. Surely Easton must have made his boss aware of how vulnerable he would be in such an isolated location. Could this thing really be as straightforward as it appeared on the surface? Was there something he wasn’t being told?
Carefully, Cully placed all the photographs and papers back inside the envelope. Placing this together with the unopened second envelope, which for the moment no longer held any interest, he moved into the bedroom and locked both of them away in a small wall safe. For several minutes he paced the room, deep in thought. This was a job like no other before.
He stopped abruptly, pushing aside any lingering traces of morality issues. The thought of all that money was tempting beyond belief. Even so, he couldn't let it cloud his professional judgement. Before he could even consider making a final decision, he would have to pay a visit to Piddlemarsh. The layout there would be a major factor.
* * *
The trip to Dorset only confirmed Cully’s original thoughts. The senator must be mad to consider spending any length of time in such a place, especially with only one minder, no matter how good that man might be.
‘Oak Tree Cottage’, the rented property where the senator would be staying, was on the very fringe of the village, making it even more isolated. Apart from an old, disused barn, the nearest inhabited building was more than three hundred yards away. On the other side of the road, almost directly opposite the cottage, was a small copse. The foliage here extended all the way to the edge of the field, where a minor road led directly away from the village. This in turn would take him straight onto the main Dorchester highway.
Even if he had arranged the whole thing himself, Cully felt it would have been hard to improve on the set-up. It was pretty close to perfect for his needs.
The hit would definitely go ahead.
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