Assassin's Web

by Richard T. Burke

  Assassin’s Web

  A Dark Web Thriller

  Richard. T. Burke

  First Edition: August 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Richard. T. Burke

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing: 2019

  Published by RJNE Books

  www.rjne.uk

  Other books by Richard T. Burke:

  The Rage

  Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

  The Colour of the Soul

  For my daughter, Emily.

  You will always be the apple of my eye.

  Assassins did have a certain code, after all. It was dishonourable to kill someone if you weren't being paid.

  Terry Pratchett

  One kills a man, one is an assassin; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; one kills everybody, one is a god.

  Jean Rostand

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Author’s Notes

  Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

  The Colour of the Soul

  Chapter 1

  Day Five: Friday, 31st July, 2020

  Every fibre of my being screamed at me to run and hide. Instead, I sat at one end of the tatty, beige sofa, digging my fingers into the armrest. The room lay in darkness, lit only by the open screen of the laptop resting on the cushion beside me.

  A week ago, my biggest problem had been retaining control over a group of boisterous teenagers, buzzing with excitement on the final day of school term. Now, a mere seven days later, every television and newspaper in the country displayed unflattering photographs of my face. I found myself the most wanted man in England, accused of vile offences against children and a string of horrific murders. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a killer was on his way here.

  Outside, the tail end of a summer storm was passing over. The branches of the huge oak tree writhed in a frenzy of motion, back-lit by the last vestiges of daylight that penetrated the grimy windows. A strong gust of wind set the garden gate rattling on its hinges. The irregular clink of metal on metal carved through the blustery night, sounding like a prisoner frantically trying to escape his chains.

  I pushed myself upright and peered around the edge of the open curtain. Distracted for a moment, I studied the haggard reflection in the dim light from the computer display. The grey half-moons beneath my eyes contrasted with the paleness of my complexion. My skin sagged; exhaustion stared back at me from every pore.

  Focusing past the surface of the glass, I inspected the swaying foliage, seeking any hint of human movement. My gaze snapped to the right, drawn by surreptitious motion at the periphery of my vision. As I peered into the darkness, the black shape of the neighbour’s cat sprang into the air and over the fence between the two properties.

  My heart thundered against my ribcage, pounding out a jagged rhythm. I clasped one hand in the other to still the trembling of my fingers and resumed my search. Nothing else stirred beyond the tumult of the storm.

  Without conscious thought, my gaze strayed to the spot at the corner of the lawn where I caught the last glimpse of my sister, Elena. Even though she had vanished over two decades earlier, the events of that night remained seared in my memory. Over the course of the intervening period, I had always held myself partially responsible for her disappearance. Maybe my current situation was God’s punishment for not doing enough to save her.

  Pushing the familiar sense of guilt to the back of my mind, I scanned the deep shadows once more before returning to my seat on the sofa. As I lowered myself onto the sagging cushions, the laptop screen turned off, plunging the room into darkness. In a flurry of panic, I reached for the keyboard and stabbed randomly at the keys. The photograph of Elena wearing a red cardigan on her first day of school filled the display, once again illuminating the walls in its dim glow.

  “I don’t think they’re coming,” I said aloud, more to reassure myself than because I believed my own words. My voice trembled with anxiety.

  The killers who were tracking me had already murdered six people. The true number was probably higher, but those were the ones I knew about. My only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That and the note. In hindsight, I wished I had left the damned thing unread—or at least ignored its contents.

  But I hadn’t. They say curiosity killed the cat; my curiosity had come within a whisker of killing me. During the past week, I had used up most of my nine lives. Tonight, I prayed my luck would last long enough for me to survive until the morning.

  I strained my ears to pick up the crunch of footsteps on gravel but failed to detect anything above the fury of the storm. The hiss of the wind in the leaves built to a crescendo as the gale strengthened. Somewhere in the distance, a loose door slammed shut. Moments later, the sound repeated in a series of thunderous crashes.

  I glanced at my watch: twenty to ten. My heart wouldn’t take much more of this. Were they going to come? If they didn’t arrive soon, there was a distinct possibility my blood pressure would finish the job for them.

  Any hopes I might have harboured of postponing my ordeal vanished when an unfamiliar rattle came from somewhere inside the house. I held my breath and angled my head to one side, attempting to identify the source of the disturbance. A muted click originated from the hallway, followed by a thud. Somebody cursed in a low whisper.

  In the dim glow cast by the laptop screen, I watched the door handle turn. My actions of four days earlier had finally caught up with me.

  My executioners were here.

  Day One:

  Monday, 27th July, 2020

  Chapter 2

  Four Days Earlier

  The man pushed through the heavy, oak front door and headed towards the alarm panel. On his way, he dropped the two shopping bags at the foot of the stairs.

  “Hey, watch that,” came his wife’s voice from behind.

  The man rolled his eyes but said nothing. He had long sinc
e learned there was little to be gained by arguing with her. One bag contained a purple, Analeena designer handbag, hand-crafted from crocodile skin. The other held a Dolce & Gabbana evening dress. Between the two, they had cost more than most people earned in a year. And neither was in the least bit fragile.

  Something wasn’t right; the beige box should have been beeping. Instead, it remained silent. He peered at the status display: System Disabled. He could swear he had set the alarm. The car had been waiting outside, and they were running late. Perhaps he had forgotten the final keypress in the last-minute rush.

  A flashing red light in the top right corner of the fascia caught his attention. He lowered his head and squinted at the embossed text: Broadband. That must mean the Internet connection was down—again. Living in the countryside had its attractions, but the poor quality of the telecommunications services certainly wasn’t one of them.

  “I’m not getting any Wi-Fi,” his wife said, confirming the diagnosis. It seemed the problem affected more than just the alarm panel. She had dropped the two bags she was carrying by the door and was staring at the screen of her top of the range iPhone. “The 4G is down too,” she added. “How am I supposed to keep in contact with my friends?”

  She marched over to the mahogany hall table on which the landline telephone rested. Furrows creased the smooth skin of her forehead. She picked up the handset. Moments later, she slammed it down. The frown deepened. “That’s out too.”

  The man felt his blood pressure rising. He was already imagining the conversation with the hapless call centre operator. So much for guaranteed data rates.

  “Useless tossers,” he said. “I’d tell them what I think about their crap service if any of the damned phones in this house worked. I’ll walk down the road in a minute and see if the reception is any better from there.”

  “Well, I’m going upstairs to get changed. Can you bring my shopping up?” She turned and headed up the stairs without waiting for a response.

  The man watched the tautness of her calf muscles, the curve of the thin dress over her perfectly shaped bottom and the bounce of the blond curls. When she was out of sight, he took a deep breath and shook his head. What the hell was I thinking when I married her? She was fifteen years his younger and undoubtedly attractive to look at, but she seemed to take pride in being high maintenance. The most irritating part of it was the way she treated him like her personal manservant.

  The marriage was not yet in its third year, but already he was no longer receiving his conjugal rights. A month ago, she had announced she was moving out of the master bedroom into one of the guest rooms. He had only agreed to take her shopping in London that morning because if he did so, she hinted that she would spend the night with him in the super King-sized bed. It would have been considerably cheaper to hire out a top-class escort for the week.

  Maybe he should insist on a face-to-face inspection of the wares. Amongst the girls arriving in the country over the following days was an exquisite brunette. She claimed to be eighteen, but most of them lied about their age. Little did she know she would be performing more than just modelling assignments.

  She would be unhappy for a while but would soon get over it; they all did when their ‘manager’ explained the options. The problem was the women talked to each other. Word would get back to his wife, and the consequences would be dire; he’d be lucky to wake up with his private parts still attached to the rest of his body.

  Once the phone lines were working again, he resolved to call his lawyer and ask how much it would cost to get a divorce. In the meantime, he needed a stiff drink. He strolled down the hall to the expensively furnished kitchen. Of course, she didn’t cook. That would be beneath her. If they wanted to eat in, he called up a chef from an agency to prepare the food.

  He opened the door of the drinks cupboard and pulled down a bottle of thirty-year-old single malt whiskey. Leaving the bottle on the polished, black granite of the work surface, he shuffled to his right and grabbed a cut crystal tumbler. He held the glass beneath the ice maker attachment on the double size refrigerator and pressed the button. The grinding of the motor mingled with the clink of ice cubes.

  He returned to the bottle and sloshed in a generous measure, then used a finger to stir the contents. The ice cubes crackled as the amber liquid worked its way between the fissures. With a sigh of contentment, he raised the glass to his lips, inhaled the earthy aroma and took a sip.

  As he put down the tumbler, he sensed movement behind him. Before he could turn, a powerful, gloved hand grasped him by the hair and pulled his head back. Another hand drew a razor-sharp knife blade across his throat, severing his windpipe and jugular vein in one stroke. A gout of blood splashed against the clean, white walls. A drop landed in the glass, swirling in an inverted, red mushroom cloud as it sank slowly through the amber liquid.

  ◆◆◆

  The assassin held the man upright until the flow turned into a dribble. Then he gently lowered his victim to the ground, taking care not to step in the expanding pool of crimson. The target’s eyes remained open, his face still etched in a rictus of shock. He wiped the steel edge on the dead man’s light-green designer jumper.

  He placed the weapon on the work surface and retrieved the compact camera from his shirt pocket. The sudden flash left a floating, white afterimage on his retina. He took two more photographs and confirmed that the victim was clearly identifiable in the pictures.

  As a general rule, he didn’t like killing women. The contract only specified the man should die, but it wouldn’t be too long before she discovered the body. Despite the phone lines being out—the work of a mere few seconds for a professional operator—the remote location meant he would be unable to put sufficient distance between himself and the crime scene before she ran down the lane to call the police from a neighbour’s house.

  No, she had to die, too. It was a shame to snuff out something so beautiful, but self-preservation came first. This was a job, pure and simple. Regrets were for amateurs.

  He picked up the weapon and crept up the stairs, holding the knife blade out before him. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t need to use it; he planned to finish her with his bare hands. His heart beat faster at the prospect. The last few seconds were the most fascinating. Some struggled right to the end; others gave in quickly, seemingly resigned to their fate. Either way, looking into somebody’s eyes as the life faded from their body was an intimate and exhilarating experience. The buzz it created was almost sexual in nature.

  Despite his careful movements, one of the steps creaked.

  A voice called out from behind the partially open door of the room straight ahead. “Thanks, Babe. Just put them on my bed, will you?” Her words carried the hint of a Russian accent.

  The assassin paused for a second then continued his progress to the top step. Despite the loss of surprise, he now knew her location. He approached the wedge of light penetrating the doorway and bent down to place the knife on the deep, shag pile carpet. Straightening up, he gently shoved the door all the way open.

  She had her back to him, studying her reflection as she applied a layer of mascara. Her gaze rose, and their eyes met in the mirror above the sink. A slow smile curved over his face. The brush stopped in mid-stroke. She frowned in confusion as her brain struggled to take in the presence of the grinning stranger in her house. It was only when he moved towards her that she turned and screamed.

  The assassin took two long strides. His hands closed around her neck. There was little chance of anybody hearing her cry for help given the remote location, but all the same, he preferred to keep things quiet. He angled his head away as her fists flailed at his face. She lifted her leg to knee him in the groin, but he sensed the sudden movement and adjusted his position to the side. The intended blow glanced off his thigh.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, tightening his hold.

  She staggered, unbalanced by her attempt to escape the steel-like band around her neck. Her mouth opened, but little
more than a gurgle emerged. He stared into her eyes, studying the flecked, pale-blue irises as the light behind them slowly faded. Moments before the end, he allowed her lungs to fill one last time, then leaned in close and inhaled her final breath. Even when all movement had ceased, he maintained his grip for several more seconds.

  Eventually, he lowered her body to the ground. A shiver of excitement ran through him. He placed a finger against her neck and checked for a pulse, marvelling at the warmth of her skin. She had seen his face, so he couldn’t risk the possibility that she was still alive. In his line of business, witnesses could result in the premature end to a career and a lifetime in prison. Nothing.

  He performed a final check of the room. The woman’s body lay on its side, one leg angled awkwardly beneath the other, exposing a band of white underwear where her dress had rucked up. His gaze lingered for a minute. Even in death, she was beautiful—way out of her husband’s league. It just showed what money could buy. The assassin shrugged. It was a shame, but he wouldn’t lose any sleep over this murder.

  Satisfied that everything was in order, he backed out of the bathroom, retrieved the knife and headed down the stairs. Unlikely though it was the man could still be alive, years of experience had taught him not to underestimate the human instinct for survival. He entered the kitchen and surveyed the body once more. Nothing moved other than the slowly expanding puddle of blood.

  With a final backward glance, he closed the front door and strolled along the long, curved driveway. He was yards from the imposing, stone gateposts when he detected a shift in the shadows in the woodland to his left. Ducking behind the granite column, he watched as a rambler emerged from the footpath and ambled along the lane past the entrance. The new arrival seemed preoccupied, his eyes downcast instead of taking in the scenery around him.