Assassin's Web

by Richard T. Burke

  In a few minutes, a forensic team would arrive to commence the excavation that would validate the information. From the short time I had known Nick, I suspected it was genuine. I allowed my mind to wander, imagining the paedophile’s last moments. Had he been genuinely remorseful, or had he resisted until the end? If I ever saw Nick again, I would have to ask him.

  Cathy glanced down at the letter. “You should have told me you found out who had taken her.”

  We had held this conversation several times by phone over the past two days. I repeated what I had said previously. “What difference would it have made? The police informed me they couldn’t use it to prosecute him. I didn’t want you and Mum to suffer any more.”

  Cathy’s frown deepened. “You thought you’d play the martyr and keep it to yourself to protect us?”

  “What good would have come from telling you?”

  My sister shook her head and turned her back on me. A tremor ran through her body. “I could have done something about it.”

  “What? Like arranging a hitman to pay him a visit?”

  Cathy froze as if I had slapped her. I apologised immediately. She remained frozen in place for several seconds then shuffled around to face me. At first, I thought my thoughtless response had angered her. As I studied her expression, I recognised a different emotion. Rather than the fury I expected, I detected resignation in her eyes.

  “So, you know?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Know what?”

  The question lay unanswered between us. My brain whirled in a frenzy, trying to make sense of what I had heard. Then it all fell into place. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words failed to materialise.

  She lowered her gaze. “I thought you’d worked it out.”

  In the aftermath of my brother-in-law, Jamie’s arrest, we had barely found the opportunity to discuss my ordeal, and I was still none the wiser as to the identity of my mystery benefactor. Under police questioning, Cathy denied all knowledge of her husband’s activities. What she had just said revealed that to be a lie.

  Finally, I forced my vocal cords into action. “It was you who placed the contract to protect me.”

  “Yes.”

  “But …” I faltered, unable to say more.

  Cathy raised her head. “Jamie created the site, but it was all my idea.”

  “I don’t … Why did you do it? Was it for the money?”

  Cathy scowled at me. “You seriously think we set everything up for financial gain? Is that how little you understand me?”

  “Well—”

  My sister cut me off. “Twenty-five years ago, somebody abducted and killed Elena. The police gave up on the case and stopped searching for the man who did it. I came to the conclusion I couldn’t sit back and do nothing, so I persuaded Jamie to create the website. Then I started my research. I decided if I was unable to identify the bastard who took our sister, I would at least try to prevent others from suffering the same fate.

  “The targets I selected were paedophiles, particularly those involved in creating child pornography or worse. I paid the fees, and the hitmen we signed up did the dirty work. In most cases, it was made to appear like suicide, but for the worst offenders, I wanted to send a message.”

  “Are you saying you arranged the murder of the first couple they accused me of killing?” I asked.

  Cathy nodded. “Indirectly, yes. He ran several legitimate businesses, but I learned he was also bringing underage girls into the country and selling them into prostitution.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to die. She must have disturbed the killer. Either that or she saw his face.”

  “And you managed to find out about this man all by yourself?”

  Cathy sighed. “No. When we started out, I did my own research. I learned a lot talking to the victims I came across during my charity work. But then those two policemen, Bowman and Wickford, became involved. They worked in Vice and it turned out they were investigating some of the same people on my list. Somehow, they discovered a link between the targets, and eventually, they tracked us—or should I say Jamie—down. But rather than arresting him, they made him work for them. They never realised the site was my idea.”

  She must have seen the confusion on my face because she continued to explain. “Where they were investigating a case with insufficient evidence or little chance of a conviction, they instructed Jamie to create a job to target the suspect. As long as he placed the contracts, they agreed not to arrest him.

  “They paid all the fees, but they were careful to distance themselves from the site and always used Bitcoin to transfer the money. When Jamie asked them where it came from, they refused to answer. My guess is they siphoned off some of the proceeds from the crimes they investigated.

  “For a while, our objectives aligned, but then they started targeting a different group of people. I suspect most were still criminals, but I can’t be sure. By then, we couldn’t back out without implicating ourselves. Jamie and I argued about what to do, and that was one of the reasons we split up.

  “Despite our quarrels, we did agree that neither would give evidence against the other if they ever arrested one of us; it meant the girls would always have at least one parent to look after them. Then, by sheer chance, you found a note with the login details to the site.”

  I dreaded the answer to my next question, but I had to ask. “Who placed the contract on me?”

  “After you visited him, Jamie panicked, and told Bowman and Wickford. At first, they attempted to discredit you by planting the material on your computer. When you contacted that policewoman, they threatened to kill him and the girls if he didn’t place a hit on you. As I said earlier, they weren’t aware of my involvement, so I created a job to protect you. I arranged for the man to pick up my old mobile so he could find you. I left the house with Sophia and Zoe, and tried to persuade Mum to join us. She had no idea about any of this stuff, and I certainly couldn’t tell her. In the end, she refused to leave. I never thought they would do anything to her.”

  “Who sent the username and password?”

  “That was me. I wanted you and your protector to be aware that somebody was out there trying to kill you. But I also needed to keep it anonymous in case the police got hold of the phone.”

  “I’m guessing one of you took the money from my bank account.”

  “Jamie did that. He needed the cash quickly to place the job. Bowman and Wickford said it was his problem to sort out and refused to pay for it. As you figured out, he put the software on your laptop to tell him your location whenever you turned it on. Once it was installed, he also gained access to all your data.”

  “Why did they target Mum?” I asked.

  “Jamie was getting cold feet. He was about to confess. They did it to demonstrate how far they were prepared to go if he went against them.”

  “Christ,” I said, “what a mess. What happens next?”

  Cathy’s eyes locked onto mine. “That depends on you. If you tell the police what I’ve just told you, both Jamie and I will end up behind bars, and your nieces will grow up in foster care.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Bowman and Wickford have no knowledge of my involvement, and Jamie will keep me out of it. He’ll spend a long time in prison either way, but at least the girls will still have their mother to look after them.”

  I raised my hands to my face. Despite the warmth of the air in the clearing, my fingers felt cold against my cheeks.

  Cathy played her final card. “The thing is, it was totally unnecessary. Yesterday, I found out you identified that sick bastard over three years ago but didn’t tell anybody. Had I known, it would all have ended with him, and we wouldn’t be in this situation today.”

  The sound of vehicles disturbed the stillness. Through the trees, I picked up the approach of two dark-coloured vans and a white police car. The engines died one by one. The clunk of shutting doors reached m
y ears, followed by raised voices.

  I turned to my sister and examined her face. She stared back at me. The decision was easy to make. Two decades ago, I had lost one sister. I wasn’t about to lose the other.

  THE END

  Author’s Notes

  Dear Reader,

  I’m flattered that out of all the books on the market, you chose this one. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it. If you did, I would be extremely grateful if you could tell your friends and leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads (or preferably both). Reviews are an important factor in helping to sell books and are especially important for independent authors. I pay particular attention to all comments and use them to try to make my books better.

  If you would like to receive news of forthcoming books and a free short story, please sign up to my mailing list at www.rjne.uk.

  I would like to express my gratitude to my early reviewers and readers, including Marika and the members of my Facebook launch team. Thanks also to fellow authors, Ross Greenwood and Andrew Maclure, who provided loads of useful advice and encouragement.

  All the above gave their time freely to help me with this book, and I am eternally grateful for their support.

  This book has undergone thorough review, but those typos are pesky beggars and sometimes sneak through undetected. Please let me know if you find one so that other readers will benefit from your sharp-eyed attention. The best way is to leave a comment on my website.

  The Dark Web is a fascinating subject, and there are numerous articles on the Internet. There have been several stories over the years about sites for hitmen, but these days, there’s a good chance any such website has been set up by law enforcement officers as a honeypot to catch criminals.

  The software tools I mention in the book (TOR and Bitmessage) are freely available. I can’t confirm whether Internet Service Providers track their usage; all I can say is that nobody has contacted me about my occasional access during the research for this book!

  I have some ideas for a sequel but whether I write one or not will depend to some extent on the reaction to this volume. I am always interested to hear from readers and would welcome any feedback via the comments feature on my website at www.rjne.uk. I try to read and respond to every comment I receive.

  If you enjoyed this book, you might like to try one of my other novels such as Decimation: The Girl Who Survived (http://mybook.to/Decimation) or The Colour of the Soul (http://mybook.to/COTS). Short samples follow.

  Thanks for reading.

  Richard T. BurkeAugust 2019

  To read the author’s blog and to see news of upcoming books, please visit www.rjne.uk or follow him on Twitter @RTBurkeAuthor.

  Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

  by Richard T. Burke

  Monday 3rd January 2033

  She sensed the contraction approaching like a breaker bearing down on a beach, and then it hit, engulfing her, crashing through in an implosion of bone and muscle. It seemed as if every sinew and tendon in her body was being stretched to its limit.

  “Just try to relax,” the midwife said, her voice muffled by the white surgical mask that hid the lower part of her face.

  “You’ve got to be bloody jok–”

  “Breathe, Antimone,” the girl’s mother interrupted, her face also partially covered by a mask. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her daughter’s cheek.

  The girl fought through the pain and forced herself to exhale through gritted teeth. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, the tension eased as if somebody had loosened a band around her stomach. The white material covering her nose and mouth felt damp as it clung to her skin.

  The midwife glanced at her watch. “That was three minutes. I think we need to get her to the operating theatre.” She strode across the small white room and through the open door.

  Antimone turned her head to the right and met the anxious gaze of her father. He clasped her hand between his own, and she realised her fingernails had been digging deep into the flesh of his palm. She smiled gratefully at him, and he gave a gentle squeeze in return. The harsh ceiling lights reflected from a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  “Don’t worry, Dad, it’ll be alright,” she said although she knew it wouldn’t.

  “It’s just so damn unfair,” he began, but before he could continue the midwife returned to the bedside.

  “The porters are coming now, and they’ll take you to the operating theatre. I know we’ve been over this before, but you know what’ll happen next?”

  Antimone stared out of the window at the dark clouds scudding across the pale grey expanse of the winter sky. This would be her last glimpse of the world outside. Her eyes slid across to a poster on the opposite wall. In the picture, three remarkably healthy looking patients in hospital beds surrounded a cartoon representation of a sneezing man who seemed far more unwell than any of them. ‘Always Wear a Facemask’ read the caption beneath, followed by the text ‘Germs Kill’.

  The midwife raised her voice. “Antimone, you know what’s going to happen next?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Antimone snapped. “You’re going to put me to sleep, cut me open and take the baby out. Oh, and I’m never going to wake up. Is that about right?”

  A flicker of irritation crossed the midwife’s face before she forced a tight-lipped smile. “We’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

  “They’re only trying to help,” the girl’s mother said.

  “Okay, I know,” Antimone said. “I’m sorry.”

  The midwife stepped outside the small room leaving the father, mother and daughter together, each counting down the seconds until the inevitable conclusion.

  “We’ll look after the baby as if … well, as if it were you,” her mother said.

  “I know you will,” Antimone replied. “Just don’t let him get anyone pregnant.”

  Her father made a sound that started as a laugh but turned into a sob.

  A metallic clanking noise drew their eyes to the door. Two porters dressed in pale green overalls entered the room pushing a narrow hospital trolley. The midwife followed a couple of paces behind.

  The taller of the two consulted a clipboard. “Are you Antimone?” he asked, pronouncing it An-tee-moan.

  “It’s Antimone,” her father replied. “Like the metal.”

  The man stared at him blankly.

  “An-tim-oh-nee,” her father repeated, stressing each syllable.

  “Nice name. Okay Antimone, if you could just pop yourself off the bed and onto this trolley, please.”

  Antimone made no attempt to move. The man turned to his colleague in confusion. “Is she …?”

  The midwife intervened before he blundered further into the minefield he was laying for himself. “She’s paralysed from the waist down, so you’re going to have to help her.”

  The man’s face turned a bright crimson colour as he consulted the clipboard once again. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  The smaller man took charge. “You’re her parents, right?”

  Antimone’s mother and father responded in unison.

  “We’ll put a sheet underneath her then slide her over.”

  He manoeuvred the trolley alongside the bed and applied the brakes. Meanwhile, the midwife unfolded a sheet and laid it out, adjusting the girl’s position until she lay on top of it. In one swift movement, they transferred Antimone across. The taller man, his cheeks still glowing with embarrassment, removed the brakes and raised the sides.

  “Another one’s coming,” Antimone said.

  “Okay, we’ll wait here until it passes, and then we’ll move you,” the midwife said. “Don’t fight it, just let it come.”

  Within seconds, another contraction enveloped her. Her teeth ground together as she tried to ride the wave, her head thrown back. She groaned in agony. It was as if she was trapped in a machine that was testing the breaking point of the human body. Just as she felt she was about to snap, the pressure lessened.

>   “Jesus,” she muttered. “What a way to die.”

  The midwife consulted her watch. “That was less than three minutes. We need to get her to that operating theatre quickly.” She led the way as the two porters wheeled the trolley along a corridor interspersed with numbered doors every few metres. Her parents hurried behind. They turned two corners before arriving at a room labelled ‘Operating Theatre 3.’

  The midwife addressed Antimone’s parents. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait outside during the procedure. It’s time to say goodbye now.”

  Antimone’s mother bent over and hugged her daughter. “I love you so much.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  Her mother could no longer hide her tears as her father embraced Antimone one last time. “You know we both love you. We couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  “You can watch through the viewing window if you want,” the midwife said, leading Antimone’s distraught parents away.

  Antimone brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Despite the presence of the two porters, she had never felt more alone in her life. They pushed the trolley on which she lay through a set of double swing doors. A woman wearing a dark blue operating theatre gown, a light blue hairnet and a white surgical mask separated from the other two doctors and crossed the room. She consulted the clipboard and smiled down at Antimone.

  “I’ll be putting you to sleep. We just need to get you ready for the surgeon.”

  The porters turned away, the taller of the two giving Antimone a self-conscious wave.

  The anaesthetist positioned the trolley beside a rectangular platform covered in a green sheet and applied the brake. The two men halted their conversation, one moving to Antimone’s head, the other to her feet. On the count of three, they transferred her to the operating table.