Hit List
Maggie Black Thriller #2
Jack McSporran
Copyright © 2019 by Inked Entertainment Ltd
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978-1-912382-11-8
This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Series Guide
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
Series Guide
The main Maggie Black Series consists of full-length novels featuring secret agent Maggie Black.
* * *
The Maggie Black Case Files is a prequel series of self-contained missions which Maggie completed prior to the events of the main Maggie Black Series.
* * *
Both series can be read before, after, or in conjunction with the other.
Maggie Black Case Files
Book 1: Vendetta
Book 2: The Witness
Book 3: The Defector
* * *
Maggie Black Series
Book 1: Kill Order
Book 2: Hit List
To my best friend and first-ever reader, Kelly.
Chapter 1
Beijing, China
9 July
* * *
Secret Agent Jim Hunter was homesick.
He’d been in Beijing for over a week now and was glad his mission there would soon come to an end. Hit jobs were easier. In and out. Leave as soon as the target was dead, and head back home to Susan and the kids.
It was Becca’s birthday soon, and he made a mental note to hunt the airport stores before his flight for something she might like. John was more straightforward, being only eight. Teenage girls were a whole different experience, and one Jim often stumbled through with badly timed dad jokes and dodging the odd, unexpected meltdown over some trivial thing or other.
Becca was a good girl all the same. Almost a young woman now, though never in his eyes. No matter how old she got or where her life took her, she’d always be his little princess.
One thing Becca would not be getting for her birthday was a new phone. Not because it was too expensive, or the fact she’d just gotten one less than a year before, the model already out of date, or so he was told. No, she wasn’t getting one for her own safety.
It was the same reason he found himself in Beijing, so many miles from the comfort of home. He longed for the frantic mornings where everyone rushed to get ready for work and school, munching on the toast and jam he always made sure they ate before leaving. Longed for the movie nights they enjoyed each Friday, snuggling on the couch and eating popcorn.
This was his last factory visit today, and he’d seen more than enough over the last week to seal the deal on the case against Mark Islington.
“Mr. Rundell?” asked a pock-faced man waiting outside for him, yawning under the rising sun.
“Please, call me Andrew,” Jim replied, shaking the local’s hand and bowing. “It’s nice to meet you, Fu Peng.”
Andrew Rundell was one of many names Jim had adopted during his time at the Unit. Sometimes it was difficult to keep track of them, each cover profile blending into the next. Thankfully, deep work with aliases wasn’t a common exercise for him, other than using his fake passports during his fleeting visits around the world. As one of the Unit’s go-to cleaners, most of his work was done behind a sniper rifle or involved sneaking up unannounced to quickly euthanize whomever his employers dictated. A snap of the neck. A slit of the throat. Easy, effective, and efficient.
In this case, he’d been sent on the undercover mission due to another tool in his skill set. Being one of the few agents fluent in a host of East Asian languages, he was sent to China’s capital to gather intelligence.
Jim, a.k.a. Andrew, flashed his security ID pass.
“Where is Mr. Xiao?” Peng asked, checking over Jim’s shoulder like he expected him to round the corner any moment.
“He couldn’t make it, unfortunately. Took ill last night and hasn’t been able to leave his hotel room since.”
The extra-strength powdered laxative Jim mixed into the broth of Mr. Xiao’s soup during dinner the night before had done the trick and left his assigned escort incapacitated. Xiao had a habit of sneaking up behind him, and Jim wanted him out of the way for his last day of snooping around Mark Islington’s factories.
“He’s not coming?” Peng asked, scratching his head and looking back at the factory doors.
“It’s just me today. For the inspection.”
Peng froze. “Mr. Xiao never mentioned anything about an inspection.”
“That’s because he didn’t want you to know,” Jim replied in fluent Mandarin.
While he spoke Pekingese, the prestige dialect of Beijing, Peng, like most of the factory workers, had been brought in from small villages far beyond the city. The further into the sticks you traveled, the cheaper labor you’d find. Not that any of the locals Islington employed had it much better, but the villagers were more desperate and less streetwise than their city folk counterparts.
“Shall we?” Jim asked, walking past Peng and letting himself in. Peng may be in charge of this particular factory, one of many Islington owned in Beijing and the surrounding areas, but so far as the Unit could gather, no Brits had ventured out to them since Islington first opened the doors, relying on less than legitimate Chinese business partners to keep things in order. The fact Andrew Rundell was here did not bode well for Peng, or anyone else.
Or so they’d think.
Peng mopped a layer of sweat forming across his top lip that had little to do with the sauna-like humidity. The possibility of failing this supposed surprise inspection would be enough to distract the man while Jim collected the final pieces of evidence required to put Mark Islington’s business ventures to a stop and, hopefully, the man himself behind bars.
Given the sweltering heat outside, Jim didn’t think it was possible to get any hotter, but an intense wave of stuffy, human-stewed air swept over him when he opened the rusted metal door. Sweat and oil overpowered his senses, and Jim shrugged off his linen suit jacket, his only reason for wearing it to instill an official air about himself.
“What is it you’re inspecting? If you don’t mind me asking?” Peng hur
riedly added.
In truth, it was the standards, or lack thereof, of Mark Islington’s manufacturing company. In the last six months, four Brits had died due to his faulty products, which he had made in China and exported around the world. The batteries inside certain brands of mobile phones were the culprits of the fires that had sparked in the victims’ houses, malfunctioning when plugged in to charge. Being burned alive was some way to go, and Jim was glad to help in taking down Islington, who refused to accept fault and continued producing the dangerous and defective goods.
“Overall production,” Jim replied instead. Production and costs would be all Islington cared about, and any mention of standards would likely raise suspicion. From the exposed pipes and electrical wires in the uncovered ceiling, to the leaking taps in the corner that sat near huge production line machines, Jim doubted the words health and safety had ever been muttered in any of Islington’s factories. Every one he’d visited before this had been the same, and he was unsurprised to learn one of them had caught fire and burned to the ground with some of the workers trapped inside.
“We’ve never come up short on a quota, and all our orders and shipments go out on time.”
“Mr. Islington thinks you’re capable of doing more. It’s my job to discern if that is indeed the case. Now, please show me around.”
Peng complied, keeping his opinions about an increased workload to himself. From the pale, drawn expressions on the workers’ faces they passed on the shop floor, everyone was pushed to the brink already. Jim even had to step over some hastily made beds shoved in nooks and crannies behind machinery and under tables. Unlike in Britain, work-life balance was not a concern for management and the very notion of an HR department appeared unthinkable.
Like he had done in all the others, Jim made a show of pressuring Peng with a slew of rapid questions as he typed away on his phone. He even pretended to take a couple of calls along the way as he inspected the damp, rat-infested stock room and gave the excuse of a cafeteria a wide berth. The smell alone was informative enough.
Along the way, Jim kept his phone recording the audio while snapping a deluge of photos to deliver to the Unit when he got back to his hotel room. Leon Frost, his new boss after the debacle with Bishop, would be pleased with his work. He’d collated enough evidence to ensure not even Mark Islington’s best and most expensive lawyers could defend him in court.
Peng never noticed, too busy stumbling over the answers to his questions and wringing his hands each time Jim stopped to pretend to inspect something or to snap a quick photograph under the man’s nose.
After thirty minutes of procuring photos and recording Peng’s incriminating answers to his many questions about the factory, the workers, and how things were managed, Jim was just about satisfied with the inspection.
“What’s through there?” he asked, spotting a door down a narrow corridor.
Peng instantly startled and almost jumped on the spot. “Nothing. It’s just a back office. That’s all. Nothing to concern yourself over.”
“Is that so?” Jim asked, stepping toward it.
“Wait,” Peng cried, catching up with him. “Don’t go in there.”
Ignoring Peng, Jim ventured down the hallway and turned the door handle, stepping inside before Peng tried more than words to stop him. Whatever lay inside, Jim was willing to bet it was something he should know about.
“Ah,” said Jim, taking stock of the room as the door slammed behind him and Peng sauntered off back down the hall. Two armed men stepped in front of the door he’d just entered through and shoved him in front of the man waiting behind a large desk.
It was indeed just an office, as Peng had said. It was who sat inside that was the problem.
“Jim Hunter,” Mark Islington said, motioning to the empty seat in front of his desk. “Sit down, please.”
It seemed Peng’s nerves hadn’t come from his lies about the inspection. It was over getting Jim to this point without giving Islington’s plan away.
Touché. Perhaps Peng would get a bonus for pulling it off. Or at least avoid the beating he would have received had he failed.
Jim scanned the room for an alternative exit, the two brutes by the door too risky to try to break through given their pistols aimed at his head.
“I think it only fair I know your name if you know mine,” Islington said when Jim didn’t try to run past his men or drop to his knees to beg forgiveness. His accent spoke of old money and an Oxford education, surprisingly not too far off Jim’s background. Though, he was a Cambridge man through and through.
Jim sat down, not showing the slightest sign of fear, but it was most definitely there as he noted the lack of escape routes. Not even a window.
Islington appeared just like the pictures Jim had been supplied with, as if he’d just walked off a yacht on the Jamaican coast and sauntered into his seat. His thinning hair was slicked back with too much product, his tan not altogether genuine, just like his porcelain teeth that winked at Jim through smiling lips.
“Nothing to say?” he probed.
“What were you expecting?” Jim asked, turning over every option in his mind. He hadn’t come armed, worried about being searched before being allowed entry to the factory—an omission he was sincerely regretting now.
“Oh, I don’t know. I would have at least liked you to appear shocked at the mention of your true name.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Jim quipped. He would need to apprehend a weapon from one of them. Maybe get around Islington before his men had time to react and hold him hostage to garner safe passage out of the factory. Even as he reviewed it in his head, Jim knew it was a long shot.
He shifted his weight on the seat, ready to pounce at an opportune moment.
“Who do you work for?” Islington demanded.
Jim cocked his head and leaned forward, resulting in the movement of the men behind him, their feet creaking on the bare floorboards. “Now, that is one conversation we are not going to have.” Giving up the Unit wasn’t an option. Never had been and never would be.
Gripping the armrests of the rickety chair, Jim tensed on the balls of his feet and prepared to attack first. The element of surprise would be his best bet.
“Very well, then,” Islington said, appearing almost pleased with Jim’s refusal.
Before Jim had time to get up from his chair, Islington revealed a gun of his own and pulled the trigger.
The last thing Jim Hunter thought of was his family, of Susan, Becca, and young John, as the blast of a single gunshot rattled through the room and a bullet buried itself between his eyes.
Chapter 2
Alicante, Spain
10 July
* * *
Ex-secret agent Maggie Black sprawled out on the lounger with a contented sigh. The scorching sun hung directly above the penthouse apartment she’d been staying in for the last week, the sloshing of waves below the perfect soundtrack to her rest and relaxation.
The private top floor of the apartment was a little slice of paradise, high up and secluded from the busy stretch of coastline below. An outdoor seating area took up one side, surrounded by lush plants and flowers where Maggie had curled up on the comfy couches and devoured five books. It had been a while since she’d been afforded such luxury. Working for the Unit didn’t leave much time for reading anything other than classified files.
Her phone buzzed, and Maggie reached to answer.
“Chaírete,” said a familiar Scottish voice in her ear.
“It’s ‘hola’ now. I came to Spain.” Greece had been wonderful, but Maggie wasn’t used to spending so much time in one place. Old habits die hard, and after two weeks in Santorini, she began to grow uncomfortable.
“Madrid again?” Ashton asked.
Maggie shuddered. “No, I headed south this time. Alicante.” After what happened a little over a month ago, Madrid didn’t hold the happiest memories.
“Nice,” Ashton said. “I’m supposed to go and see my paren
ts, but it’s bloody freezing up in the Highlands right now. Want me to come visit you instead?”
“I’m not in the mood for clubbing.” Maggie got up from her lounger and padded across the warm wooden floor to the balcony. She leaned on the railing and looked out at the glittering ocean. The water was a brilliant aqua blue, the sand of the beach almost white and dotted with people who seemed no bigger than her thumbnail from this high up.
“That’s fine,” Ashton said. “We can just chill by a pool and get drunk on sangria.”
“Now that I can get on board with.” Maggie turned away from the picturesque view and walked around her little haven.
She dipped her toe into the swimming pool, which filled up most of the outdoor space. The sun had warmed the water to the perfect temperature, and she sat along the edge and submerged her legs.
“How did you get on at the doctor?”
“A clean bill of health,” said her best friend.
“Liar.” Maggie knew from experience a broken rib took at least six weeks to heal, and Ashton had multiple fractures to deal with.
“Well, the prescription the doc gave me makes it feel that way. Have you heard from Leon?”
“No.” Maggie hadn’t spoken to him since Bishop’s funeral. He understood her reasons for needing to get away from it all for a while and be by herself. After being framed for murder by her boss and leaving the Unit, she needed space to think and recharge.
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