Forced Assassin

by Sam Crescent

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone trilling jarred Bishop awake. He stared at the dark ceiling for a second or two, disoriented as to where he was. Then he remembered, and everything came crashing back. The red phone-alert light mounted above the door blinked along with every ring. He got out of bed, checking that Fallan remained asleep, then strode through the living area and into the office, comfortable about being naked because the cameras were still off.

  “Hello?” he said upon answering, knowing it was Huntington.

  “Get ready. Now. You need to have left ten minutes ago.”

  “I have plenty of time. It’s only ten-fifteen. Waterman won’t be alone until at least—”

  “Things have changed. Waterman’s just pulled up with his driver outside Lash’s flat.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yes, so you need to get there fast.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it fucking does, because if you’ve got an agent posted outside that flat feeding you information, why can’t the agent do the job?”

  “Because I want you to do it.”

  Bastard.

  “You’re one sick fuck, Huntington.”

  “Don’t you want to get him back for what you witnessed him doing when you were undercover there? All those young girls forced into the sex trade… Hmm?”

  Bishop gritted his teeth.

  “And,” Huntington said, “you know what happens if you don’t do what I ask. And who knows what might befall Miss Jones without you around…?”

  Bishop held off calling his boss a wanker—the man would probably get pleasure from it. “I’m on it.”

  “Hurry up.”

  Bishop cut the call then returned to the bedroom, dressing quickly in his blue boiler suit. He didn’t have time to attach the facial hair so slapped on the spectacles and the beanie hat, hoping they’d be sufficient in securing his true identity. He knelt beside the bed to place a soft kiss on Fallan’s temple, then went to the kitchen and wrote a note.

  Gone to work. Be back soon, B.

  He almost laughed a little too loudly at the absurdity of that. What, did he think she’d give a shit where he’d gone, when he’d be back? All she wanted was to go home and pay off her debts, and he couldn’t blame her. Yet something inside him said she would care, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. He’d get this job done to keep her safe and for no other reason. Yes, Waterman was a bad seed, but he’d been under observation for a long time, and those young girls had been removed from where they’d been placed hours after being put there. They were safe. Huntington didn’t need to give Bishop an excuse to help him ease any guilt he might feel when killing Waterman. Fallan’s safety was plenty reason enough.

  He left the note on the counter then, in the office, switched on the cameras. If it meant Huntington perved on her while she slept, so be it. In the lift, he went through what he’d have to do, flirting with different scenarios so he always had a back-up plan should things take a different turn from what he’d expected. Leaving the cottage in the van that someone might well recognise from his earlier visit, he steadied his nerves with a few deep breaths. It was dark now, and if the residents of the East End had any sense, they wouldn’t bother looking out of their flat windows at night. Not with the deals going down on the street outside, being witnesses to goings-on they didn’t need to see.

  On the road, he mentally checked his toolbox. The gun was still loaded from last time, and, hopefully, if things went well, he wouldn’t need to reload. Still, he’d make sure he had extra ammunition in his pocket, just in case.

  He reached the housing estate Lash lived on seventeen minutes later and parked behind a battered, moss-green Ford Mondeo. It fitted the surroundings, and he guessed the driver was a government agent or a drug pusher. He reached for his toolbox, taking out his gun and extra bullets, sliding both into the inside pocket of an old black leather jacket on the passenger seat. After putting it on, he checked his face in the rear-view mirror then left the van. He walked along the path, glancing into the Mondeo, receiving a nod from the unkempt driver, noting the butt of a gun poking out of the glovebox. Satisfied his back was covered, Bishop headed for the flats, taking the same route as he had before. Once he reached the top of the stairs on the second floor, though, he paused to scope out the hallway.

  All the doors were closed. He sidled along the wall opposite them until he stood in front of Lash’s. He stepped forward and pressed his ear to the door. Muffled sounds came from inside, grunting from someone and faint orders from another—Waterman, if he wasn’t mistaken. He turned the handle, relieved when the door opened, and peeped through the crack. Seeing no one, he went inside, closing the door quietly.

  They were upstairs—the shuffling footsteps and talking told him that—and, if he remembered correctly, judging by where the noises were coming from, they were in Lash’s bedroom. He briefly wondered what Waterman’s expression had been like upon discovering Frankie with a bullet hole in his forehead, his brains plastered all over the bed. Not a happy man, he’d bet.

  Taking a deep breath and getting out his gun, he moved to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Shadows played on the wall, a macabre dance of arms and fingers and the unmistakeable shape of someone holding a body beneath its armpits. They’d be on the landing any second, so he withdrew to the living room, hiding behind the door.

  “Get him the fuck downstairs! I don’t care whether you want to or not!” Waterman bellowed.

  Clonking soon followed, Bishop guessing it was Frankie’s feet smacking each step as Waterman’s goon hauled the body down the stairs. He stared through the crack in the door, just below the top hinge, his breathing stuttered and his heartbeat going way too fast. Adrenaline surged through him, making him momentarily giddy, and he blinked to regain focus.

  A man came into view, walking down backwards, his black suit crumpled behind the knees. Lash’s body was somewhat stiff. Rigor mortis had started, then, which would make it difficult for Waterman and his employee to make Frankie’s removal look casual, like he was drunk and they were just carrying him to the car. A stiffening body would put paid to that idea.

  The man, one Bishop hadn’t met when ‘working’ for Waterman, was dressed in a suit, a flat peaked cap on his head, slightly askew, the badge on the front denoting him as a driver. What the hell was going on if Waterman had to resort to using a man who wasn’t used to this sort of shit? When he’d been in Waterman’s employ, a driver was just that—unversed in violence and there to cart Waterman from one place to the next. Then he remembered Kemp was also dead and wondered if Waterman’s mob wasn’t as well ordered as he’d thought.

  “Take him into the living room,” Waterman instructed, coming down the stairs.

  Bishop’s heart rate accelerated further, and he thanked whatever entity was listening—things were going his way. With any luck, he’d have no trouble here and could leave the mess behind for someone else to clean up.

  The man dragged Frankie into the living room, puffing and panting, a hitched sob tacked on to the end for good measure. Bishop pressed himself against the wall, easing the door closer to him and hoping the man was occupied enough that he wouldn’t see it moving. Bishop glanced to the side, through the crack again, and shuddered at the sight of Waterman rounding the newel post and heading for the living room door. He hated him, no question, but he didn’t relish killing the man. Yes, Waterman was a bastard, did a lot of damage to a lot of people, but… No, Bishop had to get rid of him. He had no choice. If he didn’t, Waterman would kill him, leaving Fallan at the mercy of Huntington who, Bishop had no doubt, would use her for fucking…or worse.

  He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  And as for the driver? Was he innocent, literally just a driver, working for a man he hadn’t realised until now was a bad lot? Did he have a wife and kids waiting at home, relying on him to bring home the bacon?

  He didn’t want to think about tha
t.

  Waterman was in the room now. Bishop dared to peer around the edge of the door. Both men stood with their backs to him, staring down at the mess Frankie Lash had become. Bishop almost heaved at the sight—one he’d created.

  Fuck.

  Frankie’s skin was a mottled grey. Purple splotches marred his cheeks and forehead. Blood matted his hair, the tufts sticking up in all directions, sprinkles of dried brain in places. His hands were stuck in stars, maybe from his shock at coming face to face with a gunman, remaining that way because he’d been shot so fast he didn’t have time to change their position. His mouth was a skewed circle, the shape reminding Bishop of the globs of wax in those rocket-like lamps that had come back into fashion a few years ago.

  “Rolling him up in a rug’s out,” Waterman said. “It’d look dodgy.”

  The driver rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I didn’t sign up for this, sir.”

  “I know you didn’t, but I did tell you when you started you might be needed for other things, and I distinctly remember you assuring me you’d help out anywhere you were needed. Ain’t that right, Gavin Brent of 67 Fringley Road—where a wife and three little kiddies dwell, safe for the moment, safer still when you do what I fucking tell you? Are you getting me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, break his arms and legs, then we can be on our way.”

  “What?” The driver looked up, showing Bishop his profile. His mouth shape matched Frankie’s, and his eyes were wide and watery.

  “You heard me,” Waterman said, rolling his shoulders. “Break his fucking legs. We can’t carry him out like that, can we? He’ll be stiff as a damn board soon if we take any longer. People’ll start to wonder, but if he’s floppy…then we’re talking.”

  Bishop couldn’t handle watching. Yes, he’d broken legs in the past, but never on a dead body. That didn’t make it any better, but—

  He raised his gun, aimed at the back of Waterman’s head and fired, the report nothing but a loud puff of air because of the silencer.

  Waterman lurched forward, the inside of his head finding its way to the opposite wall, a red and black mural on a cream expanse. He went down, his top half landing on the sofa, legs sprawled over Frankie’s torso. Somewhere in the distance was a male scream, and Bishop realised he’d entered some kind of zone where sound was dulled. It was the driver, who gaped at Waterman then slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Don’t,” Bishop said, automatically going into work mode. He came out from behind the door, true sound returning. “Don’t puke. If the police arrive before my people, because you screamed, they might be able to identify you from your vomit, along with any hairs and skin cells you’ve left behind. Very silly of you not to wear gloves, don’t you think?”

  The driver twisted to face him, expression one of horror and confusion, hair soaked from what Bishop guessed was a sudden bout of sweating.

  “I didn’t… I wasn’t… This isn’t—” His eyes darted from side to side, gaze finally settling on the doorway.

  Bishop read him easily. The man was getting ready to bolt.

  “I know.” Bishop trained the gun on him, level with his chest. “Nevertheless, if you want to remain safe, you’ll have to come with me.”

  “But I…I’m just a driver. This wasn’t… I didn’t realise… I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I—”

  “Be quiet.” Bishop jerked the gun in the direction of the door. “Now move. Nice and slowly. We’re going to go downstairs, go outside. There’s a car out there. You’re going to get in it.”

  “But Mr Waterman’s car. What about that?”

  “That’s the least of your worries. Now go. One wrong move and your head’s mine, got it?”

  The driver nodded while heading for the front door. He opened it, cuffing his nose with his free hand, which shook. He walked like a good citizen, down the stairs, into the piss-riddled foyer, and out into the night. They made it to the kerb without encountering anyone. At the Mondeo, Bishop opened the rear door and shoved the man inside. To the agent, he said through the open car window, “I did what I had to do, but I’m not sorting this bloke here. Find someone else. And Waterman’s car will need returning to his offices.”

  He strode away and climbed in the van. Started the engine. Drove off.

  Back to Fallan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fallan moaned as she rolled over. Her body was sore in a deliciously sinful kind of way. For so long she’d woken up knowing she’d been all alone, all night long, but now she could smile. She had a man. Bishop wasn’t your typical man, but he still had a dick and knew how to use that monster.

  She pulled the blanket away from her body and saw the handprint bruises he’d made on her hips. The bruises, a true mark of his possession. What on earth was she thinking? How could she have begun to imagine Bishop as being her boyfriend? The man was a contracted agent for the government who’d abducted her. He’d said she was nothing more than a job to him—someone to play with to pass the time while on a mission, she guessed. She’d known that, should accept it, but he was so goddamned ‘her type’ she’d allowed herself to slip into the ‘What if?’ game.

  Dangerous.

  Just because she happened to like being with him didn’t make the guy hers. Did it? Ugh, she needed some coffee. For first thing after waking this was some heavy shit to think about.

  Would she want Bishop as a full-time, long-term boyfriend? What if he was the kind of guy who’d get everything wrong? Forget her birthday and Valentine’s Day? What good would he be when going to the parents’ for Sunday lunch…?

  Hold on… She didn’t need to worry about parents. Both of hers were dead. She didn’t believe in Valentine’s Day—she preferred love to be shown all year round not just on one day. And who wanted to celebrate the fact they were getting older?

  “This is too much. I need coffee,” she growled.

  It wasn’t a great surprise to find the bed empty. She imagined Bishop would never admit he liked a cuddle after sex. He would lie about it if she asked, saying he preferred a fuck just like her and that was that, but she sensed the truth. No way could a man hold her as tightly as he had and hate snuggles.

  Naked, Fallan walked through to the kitchen. A coffee pot was already at work, plopping drips of brew through freshly ground beans into the glass carafe below. The scent was an aphrodisiac to her senses. As she went to grab some powdered creamer from a cupboard, she found a note from Bishop.

  Gone to work. Be back soon, B.

  A chuckle escaped from her lips. They were at the ‘I’m leaving but not without letting you know’ stage. A warm, fuzzy feeling engulfed her. She held the note and kept reading the words. She thought it was cute how he’d signed the letter—B. How he’d set the coffee on for when she awoke. He might give the impression he was a hard-hearted bastard, but what hard-hearted bastard prepared coffee for the woman he was currently fucking if he didn’t give a shit about her? Coffee cup in hand, she walked back to the bedroom and, feeling all domesticated, she cleaned their mess.

  The bed made and the clothes taken care of, she found a washing machine and tumble drier in a small utility room off the kitchen, beside the office.

  I could get used to this. Being with him. Caring for him…

  Fallan shocked herself with how easy it had been, and, in such short time, to fall for a man and be at his beck and call. Already, even not having known Bishop long, she knew she’d do anything he asked. Part of her trusted him more than she had ever trusted anyone in her entire life.

  That must be wrong. She normally depended on no one but herself to stay safe and make it through the muddles in her world, working and paying the bills.

  Those sad, morose thoughts interrupted her cheery mood and she slammed the cup in the porcelain sink, smashing the cup.

  “Shit.”

  She couldn’t deal with this…this bullshit dream world. Any minute he’d come back with the intent of sending her on her way. Job done, off you
go now, Miss Jones. Nice knowing you—fucking you—but we’re done. Next! No thank you or long, sweet goodbye. Their time together would be completely over.

  But she didn’t want it to end. She could picture their life together in this basement—a small place to make love and work together for a future, hidden below a cottage where no one knew where they were and they could indulge in one another with no interruptions.

  Bishop might be an enigma at the moment, but he must crave the same things she did. Didn’t everyone want happiness with someone they loved? Before meeting him she’d never thought of settling down and having a family, but with him she could do it. How the fuck had that happened? She could almost believe in love at first sight, in fate and all the crap she’d previously scoffed at.

  God, I’ve got it so bad.

  She rummaged through the freezer and found some frozen chicken breasts and a bag of vegetables. She set to work on supper. She didn’t know what time he’d be home, but she was starving and cooking would occupy her mind.

  She filled a pan with the vegetables and the chicken, a can of chopped tomatoes and seasoned them with salt and pepper. Someone must have stocked the cottage before they’d come. No way would all this stuff be edible after months, even in the coldness of the fridge and freezer. The heady scent of the food cooking permeated the basement in no time at all, and, with no choice left, at eleven p.m. she settled down to read a book she’d found lying around—an old-style romance, one of those bodice-ripper books. What the hell was that doing here? Did the people who used this cottage regularly bring women here?

  The book pissed her off. She couldn’t for the life of her think how the woman in it could fall for a hero who was so fucking cruel. After some time she put the book down and pondered on the similarities between the hero and Bishop. He could be seen as cruel—a kidnapper, someone who’d gripped her up in the bathroom of the previous hideout, a man who’d fucked her as soon as she’d offered it.

  But he isn’t. I know it. There’s someone kind underneath.