now, like the rush of wind, only he couldn’t be sure if it was real or inside his head. He breathed slowly and made the final echoing ascent.
Instinct took over, dropping him to his knees as soon as he reached the rooftop. Sounds magnified — a plane’s distant roar threatened to smother him. Traffic played like an urban symphony. He crawled to the roof edge and peered over with a pocket scope. Just as they promised, he had a clear view of the walled yard, where a security van was currently unloading its cargo. Not his target though — he was waiting for the final directive.
He slit the wrapping around the parcel carefully and slid the two sections of paper apart. They went into his bag — to be burned later. The name hadn’t come as any surprise. Who else was high profile enough to warrant a ten thousand pound price tag? Knowing the identity made it easier — an abomination against God and Man. He smiled. If only his father could see him now, following in the family tradition and doing the Lord’s work after all.
He opened the case; it was a .300 Winchester bolt-action rifle, adapted by the looks of it but similar enough to the NATO model he was used to. They’d done their research. A picture of Sidney Morsley was taped to the inside of the case, staring blankly at his executioner. He fitted the weapon together and loaded the ammunition: four bullets.
Time moved in waves, alternating fast and slow, toying with his watch. Eventually he heard the bleeps of another vehicle reversing into the yard. He hunched in and kept the rifle sight fixed on the back door of the court, waiting for Sidney Morsley’s final act. The door unlocked and then . . . Christ, he wasn’t expecting a woman in front of the target. He wavered for an instant and then committed, squeezing the trigger to drop her. She screamed and fell to the ground, a perfect distraction for everyone else. A fluid movement of the hand then the second round chambered and plunged into Sidney Morsley’s torso, swiftly followed by the third. Messy. Morsley was down now, doubled in agony — a sitting duck in a pool of blood. The final bullet struck somewhere in the vicinity of the heart, if he’d had one.
He broke up the weapon and felt the warm touch of the barrel through his gloves. He felt more alive than he had in years. He scrabbled on the ground and retrieved three spent casings but the fourth was nowhere to be seen — too late now. He crawled back to the door, pushing the case in front of him.
When he reached the top floor the sirens kicked in and so did the panic. The first flat along the landing was boarded up and grilled with a shiny new lock. He tried his key and almost collapsed in relief as it turned, releasing the door. There was little light inside, only a dusty haze. It felt safe there although he knew it wasn’t. He found a back room and forced the case in behind a hot water tank, taking a moment to calm himself. He left soon after, keeping his head down, moving once again through a world where he didn’t belong. He felt his guts twist, but it wasn’t conscience — he needed a drink.
Chapter 11
Thomas gave Janey’s bell two short rings. When the door opened she smiled a little and led him in. He heard Karl’s footsteps behind him as he went indoors and imagined her smile evaporating.
“So, how’s Jacob?” He thought he’d start with the easy questions.
“Ah, getting there. They reckon he can probably come home in a couple of days. I really miss him.”
Her voice was rising in pitch the closer they got to the living room. He nudged the door to find Greg sprawled across the settee like he owned the place, a can of lager by his feet. He clipped Greg’s foot and he took the hint, sitting up and lifting his can out of the way. Pausing in the middle of the room to make a point, Thomas leaned towards him. Karl seemed to instinctively block the exit.
“I need to ask you about the suitcase Janey had on top of her wardrobe.” He
Instinct took over, dropping him to his knees as soon as he reached the rooftop. Sounds magnified — a plane’s distant roar threatened to smother him. Traffic played like an urban symphony. He crawled to the roof edge and peered over with a pocket scope. Just as they promised, he had a clear view of the walled yard, where a security van was currently unloading its cargo. Not his target though — he was waiting for the final directive.
He slit the wrapping around the parcel carefully and slid the two sections of paper apart. They went into his bag — to be burned later. The name hadn’t come as any surprise. Who else was high profile enough to warrant a ten thousand pound price tag? Knowing the identity made it easier — an abomination against God and Man. He smiled. If only his father could see him now, following in the family tradition and doing the Lord’s work after all.
He opened the case; it was a .300 Winchester bolt-action rifle, adapted by the looks of it but similar enough to the NATO model he was used to. They’d done their research. A picture of Sidney Morsley was taped to the inside of the case, staring blankly at his executioner. He fitted the weapon together and loaded the ammunition: four bullets.
Time moved in waves, alternating fast and slow, toying with his watch. Eventually he heard the bleeps of another vehicle reversing into the yard. He hunched in and kept the rifle sight fixed on the back door of the court, waiting for Sidney Morsley’s final act. The door unlocked and then . . . Christ, he wasn’t expecting a woman in front of the target. He wavered for an instant and then committed, squeezing the trigger to drop her. She screamed and fell to the ground, a perfect distraction for everyone else. A fluid movement of the hand then the second round chambered and plunged into Sidney Morsley’s torso, swiftly followed by the third. Messy. Morsley was down now, doubled in agony — a sitting duck in a pool of blood. The final bullet struck somewhere in the vicinity of the heart, if he’d had one.
He broke up the weapon and felt the warm touch of the barrel through his gloves. He felt more alive than he had in years. He scrabbled on the ground and retrieved three spent casings but the fourth was nowhere to be seen — too late now. He crawled back to the door, pushing the case in front of him.
When he reached the top floor the sirens kicked in and so did the panic. The first flat along the landing was boarded up and grilled with a shiny new lock. He tried his key and almost collapsed in relief as it turned, releasing the door. There was little light inside, only a dusty haze. It felt safe there although he knew it wasn’t. He found a back room and forced the case in behind a hot water tank, taking a moment to calm himself. He left soon after, keeping his head down, moving once again through a world where he didn’t belong. He felt his guts twist, but it wasn’t conscience — he needed a drink.
Chapter 11
Thomas gave Janey’s bell two short rings. When the door opened she smiled a little and led him in. He heard Karl’s footsteps behind him as he went indoors and imagined her smile evaporating.
“So, how’s Jacob?” He thought he’d start with the easy questions.
“Ah, getting there. They reckon he can probably come home in a couple of days. I really miss him.”
Her voice was rising in pitch the closer they got to the living room. He nudged the door to find Greg sprawled across the settee like he owned the place, a can of lager by his feet. He clipped Greg’s foot and he took the hint, sitting up and lifting his can out of the way. Pausing in the middle of the room to make a point, Thomas leaned towards him. Karl seemed to instinctively block the exit.
“I need to ask you about the suitcase Janey had on top of her wardrobe.” He
Similar Books
