by Jason Vanez
Baz was most of the way around the pool, just seconds from Jimmy, and his knife was in his hand again. Jimmy stood up. At this move, Baz's two men came running, shouting at him to sit, stop, not fucking move. Jimmy bent to pick up the weight shackled to his ankle, figuring he might be able to crack a head and run, albeit laden like some guy in a three-legged race. But he knew he needed the men to charge him, and they didn't. They passed their leader and then slowed, and pulled their own blades, and approached cautiously, and Jimmy knew he had no chance. So he dropped the weight to the concrete with a thud. A moment later the two men leaped like cats. Punches, kicks, a head-butt, and in seconds they had him pinned to the chair. Baz stepped up in front of him and put the blade in his throat, right on the Adam's apple, pressed right in there hard enough to hurt but cause no damage.
"You keep still now, cocksucker," Baz said. "If it ain't me, it'll be someone else after you. You got nowhere to go and no time left. Maybe I'll pass a note onto your wife, eh? Maybe I'll fuck her first. In a couple of days, when she's over you and starting to miss hard cock action. You want to write a lovey goodbye note?"
"Fifty thousand," Jimmy blurted. There was real fear now washing through him. Of all the scenarios that had played through his head, this wasn't one of them. He had hoped to delay the dispatch of the alternate killer and then create a fog of confusion in Baz's mind, to give him time to think of a way to escape. But not this: that Baz would mistakenly think the file was actually meant for him, that someone wanted Baz to perform the hit, and that Baz would accept the job. "Fifty thousand pounds, if you let me go. I'll get it to you today."
With his free hand, Baz pulled his phone. "I'll get fifty thou alright. That sweet number was in my head already. But not off you. Wouldn't be a man of honour if I accepted a job and then backed out of it, would I? What would that do for my reputation? And you made me accept the job, remember?"
He hit a button, probably redial, Jimmy thought. Held the phone to his ear, keeping the knife to Jimmy's throat as his men held Jimmy tight against the chair.
Nothing for a time. Baz's face grew curious as he listened to the phone ringing. Jimmy thought he had one chance. Whoever answered needed to call Baz The Chopper, since that was who the man had hired for the hit. Baz would realise the file wasn't for him and say so. And both men would fill with enough doubt to derail the whole thing. Jimmy could still get out of this alive.
Someone must have answered, because Baz said, "I got the file. Who is this?"
Silence as Baz listened. He shrugged. "Fair enough, man wants to remain anonymous. Listen up. I got your man here. Man in the file, James Marsh. He's right here, tied up, ready to die."
The knife was pressed a jot harder into Jimmy's throat. His arms and legs were locked tight in place by Baz's men. Jimmy felt the end fall upon him like a wave. One word from the unknown voice on the phone, and it was all over. A go, a do it, a grunt of affirmation, and Jimmy would have to await his next life, wherever that might be.
Then Baz, staring right into Jimmy's eyes, said, "Never mind that. I'm a quick guy and I get things done. You want him dead, then we change the deal. Twenty grand is too low. It's an insult to my skills. Fifty grand, and I slit this guy's throat right now. You hear? You call me back within half an hour with a location for the money collection. You don't, and I drop this guy at the police station."
Pause. The wave washing over Jimmy turned to air and he felt he could breathe again.
"No, this ain't a joke, pal. This is real. You're on my terms now. Fifty grand, half an hour, or I give this guy to the cops, and they get your file and whatever fingerprints or DNA or whatever's on it. Your man here goes into protective custody and your file goes to the forensics lab. Understand? Thirty mins max, you call back on this number. A place to collect the money, and no tricks."
Baz hung up. His men were nodding their appreciation of his business skills. Baz was all smiles.
Even Jimmy was happier: he had just gotten an extension on his life by up to half an hour.
***
Einar hung four cars back from the Golf until it slowed on a road that ran alongside an old red brick wall the height of two men. When the Golf indicated and turned right through a gateless gateway, Einar pulled into the side of the road and put his hazard lights on. Cars beeped him as they passed, and he wanted to kill each driver. Good job he wasn't Superman, because with his inner rage he'd have killed half the planet by now. He waited thirty seconds then drove on, and took the same turning.
Inside the grounds was a long two-storey building as old as the wall, with chipped bricks daubed with graffiti and boarded-up windows. Weeds grew at its base, and he knew this deserted edifice was where he would find Marsh. Good work from the other hitman, if he had captured Marsh already. Maybe Einar had an equal in the world after all.
Einar stopped just inside the gateway, on a road that ran along the side of the building, between it and another high wall that separated these grounds from those next door. He thought about what he was going to do once he got inside the building. Ask the other hitman to share the kill, split the money? Just watch the other guy earn his fee? Why had he even come here? Jealousy? Curiosity? Or was it part of the new game he seemed to have started playing without planning to - the game in which he performed irrationally, took risks, as if to test himself?
He caught movement off to his left and turned his head. On a square of weedy concrete in front of the building was the Golf, close to the wall and tight out of sight from the road. And stood next to it, just metres from Einar's vehicle, was the black man. Behind the Golf was another vehicle, a white van. He cursed his blindness – how had he missed two vehicles and a man so close to his position? With no time to plan anything, Einar stepped out of the Audi, clutching the clipboard. He started across the concrete, towards the man.
"Who the fuck are you?" The man had the file in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. The file went behind his back, and the phone went to his ear. That was when Einar abandoned a half-formed lie in his head, tossed aside the clipboard and charged.
The henchman grunted as he swung a roundhouse kick at Einar. Einar let the man's shin thump into his flank, grabbed the leg, and used his momentum to knock the guy back. The henchman landed hard on his back with Einar on top of him. Instantly the man rolled over. Einar clamped onto his back, slid and arm around his neck. He bent the arm to clamp the man's throat and closed the vice tightly by pushing against his own wrist with his other hand.
"This is a blood choke," Einar whispered into the man's ear, his eyes never leaving an iron fire exit set into the back of the old building. "The Lateral Vascular Neck Restraint. Favoured choke hold of law enforcement agencies around the world."
The man was thrashing beneath him. Einar kept his entire weight on the man's back, legs splayed like stabilisers to prevent being rolled.
"Unlike the air choke, which restricts the trachea and can damage the hyoid bone, the vascular restraint cuts off blood to the brain. Safer, quicker, and doesn't require as much strength to apply, so I can quite easily hold this until you go unconscious."
Three seconds later, the man beneath him went limp. Unconscious. Einar kept the chokehold in place.
"See, that's you unconscious. Now is when a law enforcement officer should release the grip. Because now we're heading towards cerebral infarction. That's brain damage. But because this choke is easy to apply, I can hold on long past that. Until you die."
There was some kind of joke scrawled on the metal fire exit. Einar read it while he kept the choke applied. It made him giggle. How many guns does it take for America to fight a war? Two - one for them, and one to sell to the enemy so they can shoot back. He read it twice more, just to pass the time, then climbed off the man and checked for a pulse. Two minutes had passed since the guy went unconscious.
"See, that's you dead, and my arms are hardly burning at all." He shook them to get the blood flowing. "With an air choke, I'd be all out of adenosine triphosphate
in my muscles and I'd never have the strength left to lift your corpse into the boot." He opened the boot and bent to pick up the body. "As you can see, though, the blood choke means my arms are fine."
Einar slotted the body inside. He was impressed by the boot space of the Golf. Might have to get himself one. He bent to pick up the discarded file. The man's phone got kicked away. He skimmed through the file and tossed it into the boot with the body. There was nothing inside that he didn't already know.
He slammed the lid and turned and looked at the white van. The van surely belonged to James Marsh.
His phone rang. It was the same number that sent him the text. The man paying to see James Marsh wiped off the face of the earth. Einar answered the call, but held the phone to his ear without speaking.
"Einar?" a deep voice said.
"That's me." He strode to his car, climbed in and parked it next to the Golf as he continued the conversation. "I feel I must ask why a man of my success was denied the simple task of removing a lowly supermarket worker." He spoke in clipped tones, thinking two words ahead. He hated sounding so politician-like, but felt it fit the kind of man the people who hired him expected him to be.
"That is now a moot point, Einar. You were well paid for your patience. You can be well paid to a greater degree if you are willing to reconsider the same contract."
"I take it your other hitman - and please don't deny there was an alternate - is for whatever reason no longer a viable option?"
This time, silence.
"I earn good money for good reason," Einar said. He stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he opened the Audi's boot and extracted his guitar gig bag. "I get the job done, and I have ways of finding information easily and quickly."
"Then I will lay it out for you. I will up the fee to fifty thousand, but for that I must add a target. Two men, and the contract is void should either one escape you."
Einar laid the bag on the ground and unzipped it, drew out his Steyr rifle. Connected a sling. Watched the windows and the fire exit, but none showed activity. "None will escape me. None ever do."
"James Marsh and the other hitman – you are right, I did offer the contract to someone else. He goes by the name The Chopper. He had the gall to threaten me, and for that I want him dead. Both men. And this is very urgent. Today. I believe both men are together."
Einar believed that, too. From inside the bag he extracted a wicked hunting knife with a serrated blade. He stuck it onto a Velcro patch on the side of the rifle. Inside that building was a man with a skillset almost as good as Einar's – if he got a chance to use the knife instead of the gun, he would do so simply to test himself.
He said, "I suggest that is a tough ask. If killer and target are together, something has gone very wrong with your plan. These men will be hiding, and London is a bustling, convoluted city." Einar tossed the empty bag into the boot and slammed it. He locked the car and pocketed the keys.
"I can get you whatever you need. I have the capability to track credit and debit cards, if you need that. I have a network of people in high places who can access databases, and a team who can be dispatched in various places to limit your own travel. You are already in London, so there is of course no need for you to travel any real distance."
Einar ran along the road beside the building, cautiously, eyes far ahead, seeking movement, anything suspicious.
"I do not need help, sir," he said. "I will find these men, wherever they are. It is what I do. I am the best in the world at hunting the human animal. Which is why I will offer you this deal, just to prove my worth. Just to show you the mistake you made when you chose another over me in order to save money."
Silence for a few seconds. Then: "Einar, do not presume this threatening, but The Chopper offered me a deal, and it is for this reason his name is part of the contract now."
Einar reached the end of the building. The road widened into a large car park, and at its far end was a neat row of trees behind which he could see the odd flash of brick and glint of glass. A housing estate. A housing estate had roads and exits that would provide him with alternative escape routes if anything went wrong here. And Einar liked the comfort of a tree. He could sit for hours amongst the branches, waiting. The smell of the leaves and the soft touch of the bark were things he had grown fond of over the years. He had enjoyed eroding time in trees as a child whose parents didn't have much time for him. He rushed across the cark park.
"No threat, sir, but a genuine deal," he said, trying to keep his breathing steady and his pounding footsteps quiet. "If I deliver you photographic proof of both men's demise within one hour, you will pay me £75,000. Any later than one hour, and my fee will be zero."
He reached the grass verge where the pencil-straight line of oak trees stood and slung his rifle over his shoulder like a bag. As he climbed the tree, he held his phone between his teeth. With the volume up, he was able to hear the man on the other end clearly.
"That is a deal I will accept, Einar. It will guarantee your immediate launch into action. But your confidence contrasts with your earlier attitude. Did you not say that London is a bustling city and that these men will be hiding?"
Einar settled onto a hidden branch and stared through the leaves, at the building he now presumed was an old swimming pool. Something about the smell permeating the bricks.
"Bustling but small," he said as he raised his rifle to his shoulder, the scope to his eyes. "They may be closer than you think."
***
A sniper needed patience, and Einar was slowly losing his.
The first sign was a wavering scope, as if he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. The second sign was that his eyes kept flicking from the scope to the knife attached to the side of his rifle. He tried to combat the first problem by breathing slowly, and to undo the second problem by telling himself this was business, and personal satisfaction had no place in business. But it was no good. The crosshairs wavered and the eyes flicked.
Well done, Einar. Well done indeed for killing a man from a hundred metres away.
Einar cursed. No, that wouldn't do. So he refined his plan. Instead of killing all the men as they left the building, he would put a bullet through the heads of the Chopper's remaining henchmen and one in the Chopper's leg. Leave him alive so Einar could stroll over and use the knife. He had faced many dangerous men over the years, but never another hitman, and a special enemy deserved special treatment. Up close and personal, that was how it should go down between two professional agents of death.
Calm again, he focussed once more on the boarded-up doorway of the abandoned municipal swimming pool and waited. But again the crosshairs started to waver.
Well done, Einar. You killed a man already injured.
Einar cursed again: no, that just wouldn't do, either. It was a bad move to enter the building, but he had no choice. Pride was pride. The guys the Chopper had brought as back-up were just muscled henchmen, nothing to worry about, and no blow to his ego if he didn't give them a fighting chance. He would take those guys out quickly and without alerting The Chopper to the danger about to engulf him. That would leave Einar's special enemy uninjured and healthy. Any less than that, the guilt was probably going to keep Einar awake tonight.
So against his better judgement, Einar slipped out of the trees and, rifle slung over his shoulder, raced across the weed-encrusted car park, towards the run-down brick building. He braced himself for a shout of alarm, maybe even a gunshot. Neither happened, and eleven seconds later he was at the building.
Two floors. All the upper floor windows were gone, just gaping holes remaining, while those on the ground floor, and the entrance doors, were covered by wooden planks. Nailed on nice and thick to deter vandals and assassins. He didn't bother trying to find a loose one, because there was a rusted drainpipe he could use to reach the upper floor. The abandoned building and car park lay on land ringed by trees and walls, so he didn't fear watching eyes as he climbed.
The room h
e found himself in was bare, with cracked tiles on the floors and walls. There were pipe ends poking out of the walls in a line, seven feet off the ground. This had once been a shower room. Some comedian with a peanut for a brain had drawn a pair of testicles and legs to turn one of the protruding pipe ends into a metal penis. There was windblown dirt heaped in the corners, and dead doctors and priests and mass murderers in cell-form in three condoms stuck to a wall. There was no door in the doorway and Einar could see a balcony beyond. He approached the exit and stood to one side, peeking out.
The balcony had a metal grate floor and ran around three sides of the roofless building. Below, at the far end, was a square pool filled with clear water, while the remainder of the floor was laid with paving slabs. A hundred years ago bathers had relaxed under the sun in deck chairs on that concrete area, but today it was gone to ruin, just like the land beyond the walls. Weeds sprouted from the cracks between slabs and bushes grew thick where slabs were missing. There was debris and dirt everywhere. Einar was appalled that such a beautiful city like London could allow pieces of itself to rot, like a pretty lady ignoring a pus-filled wart on her porcelain skin. Was this any less disgusting than leaving the dead to rot in the streets?
He turned his attention to the man in the wooden chair next to the pool. He wore trousers and a plain white shirt that was grubby and torn and bloody. The man's head, battered and also bloody, was bent forward, as if he had fallen asleep. But Einar noticed that the man wasn't asleep, because he drummed a foot on the ground like someone enjoying a piece of music. And around that foot was a chain attached to a circular object.
Einar put his rifle to his shoulder and sighted through the scope, which put everything he saw in glorious, up-close high definition. The man in the chair was definitely Marsh, the unfortunate businessman with a price on his head. The object chained to him was a gym weight for a barbell. Twenty-five kilograms. So the Chopper had not yet assassinated Marsh and clearly did not plan to end him with anything as mundane as a bullet in the head: instead he was to be dumped in the pool and drowned. This put a fragment of concern in Einar's brain. Torture was not part of the kill contract, so the Chopper obviously had a sadistic streak in him. There was no reason to set up such a kill method except to watch a man suffer. Einar wondered if the Chopper and his henchmen had filled the pool just for this occasion.
