by Thomas Waugh
He walked down the corridor towards the entrance to the requisite hotel suite. He could still turn back. But he didn’t. The world would be a slightly better place without Rameen Jamal, he judged. The only way he would be free, the only way he could consider honour to be satisfied, was if he fulfilled the promise he made – to God and Birch – all those years ago, in the evac-chopper.
Devlin told himself that his weapon would be reliable and shoot true. As he would. His nerve and skills would not abandon him. If the Sig Sauer somehow failed to fire he would retreat. He was brave, but not stupid. He had his escape route planned-out. His enemies might hesitate, but he wouldn’t.
Devlin reached the door. He checked his watch, a CWC chronograph. The same watch he had worn in Helmand. On the day. The professional killer then glanced, in both directions, along the corridor. He listened out for any ping of the elevator or the sound of someone turning a handle to the doors of the adjacent suites. But there was blessed silence. His heartbeat increased. But that was normal. Healthy. Fine. Devlin drew out the Sig Sauer and calmly fixed the suppressor. He then retrieved Mariner’s special key card from his trouser pocket.
Remember to count discharged rounds. Two shots each. Centre mass. If they’re close, a head shot.
Devlin quickly but quietly opened the door and, as fearless as a bushwhacker, advanced, his gun raised. He had studied the floorplan of the deluxe suite beforehand and knew he would immediately inhabit the lavish sitting room when entering.
His intention was to take out the bodyguards first. It was unlikely (though possible) that Ahmadi and Jamal would be armed. But play the odds.
The brutal-looking Basel Mourad only had time to widen his snarling eyes in surprise before a brace of bullets zipped through the air and struck his large chest. The deep pile carpet cushioned the big man’s landing. The marble-adorned walls deadened any other sounds. The Afghan’s starched white shirt began to crimson, as if someone had already placed two red roses on the corpse.
Ahmadi turned his head towards his stricken friend and bodyguard. His mouth was agape with horror, as he turned back towards the stone-faced gunman. Or perhaps the silver-tongued diplomat was opening his mouth to speak. To beg for his life. Or offer the assassin a bribe. Or threaten him. But Ahmadi would be unable to talk his way out of things this time. The words stuck in his throat, as did a copper jacketed 9mm round. Blood splattered against the embroidered sofa and antique tallboy, which stood behind the Afghani fixer.
Sadiq Tahir’s first instinct was to duck behind the back of the chair his was sitting on. His next instinct was to reach for his Glock and return fire. At no moment did Tahir think to rush and take a bullet for his boyhood friend and employer. Devlin fired the first round into the back of the upholstered armchair, striking the bodyguard’s elbow. He then raised his gun aloft to create a better angle – and fire down on his target. The second bullet took off the top of the Afghan’s head. Half his brain slapped against – and dripped down – the widescreen TV in front of where the Tahir fell to the floor.
Rameen Jamal stood, petrified, with his hands up in surrender. Mercy. He snivelled or sniffed – either from fear or his cocaine habit. The Afghan was accustomed to being the one holding the gun and having others – especially young women – beg for their life.
Devlin took a few steps forward. The cold killer neither smiled triumphantly nor vengefully. He had no desire to explain who he was or why he was here. All that mattered was to slay the villain who had killed Connelly and crippled Birch. Fulfil the contract.
The bullet travelled through Rameen’s left eye socket and chipped a piece of marble off the wall behind him.
Devlin kept his gun raised and scanned the area to check that everyone he shot was out of play. He listened for any noises coming from the adjoining bedrooms and bathrooms. Blessed silence. But just as Devlin was beginning to think the room was clear he saw movement out the corner of his eye. A mirror, hung up in a hallway, picked up the reflection of an arm – and a Hi-Power Browning pistol – moving along a corridor.
Nil desperandum. Instinct, training and experience kicked-in. Muscle memory. Kill or be killed. Devlin darted forwards and - before his opponent could come out from around the corner - created a line of fire. He shot off three rounds. The first spat into the wall but the rest struck their target. The familiar odour of cordite warmed Devlin’s nostrils, like the smell of freshly baked bread.
Charles Tyerman lay dead. The Hi-Power Browning pistol was still in his hand, his finger curled around the trigger. A York Security tiepin glinted in the light of the ornate chandelier, hanging from the ceiling. The blood drained from Devlin’s face, as if he were a corpse too. He thought the ground might swallow him. Or he wanted it too. His hand and aim had remained rock-steady whilst firing his weapon. But as he reached down to forlornly check Tyerman’s neck for a pulse his hand trembled. His stony features cracked.
Devlin gazed around, despairingly. The professional killer in him knew he had to leave immediately. But he was rooted to the spot. Confused. Anguished. Tyerman was supposed to be away in Cyprus. Had MI5 called him in to spy on Ahmadi, using the cover of his personal security company? Was Tyerman looking to get Rameen in his sights and avenge Connelly himself? Or, as he had mentioned at lunch, was Tyerman just covering a security shift himself? The CEO of the company would not want to lose an important government contract. Devlin only had questions. Not answers. If he had known who it was about to shoot he would never have fired his own weapon. But how could he have known? He told himself he was innocent, but unconvincingly.
Devlin remained disorientated. Angry. Guilty. The light seemed to now scorch the back of his retinas. The last time he felt similar to this was when he received the call about Holly’s accident. The husband and would-be felt that God was playing a cruel joke on him. He wanted to kill himself. It was the right thing to do. Tears welled in the former paratrooper’s eyes but, as well as a debilitating sorrow, the killer experienced a surge of envy as he watched the carpet soak up Tyerman’s blood, as it oozed out from the wound in his stomach. He envied him, because he was dead. Whilst Devlin was as far away as ever from finding some peace.
He noticed his watch. It still contained a grain of sand, underneath the glass, that had somehow got trapped there during his time in Helmand. Sometimes it seemed to disappear but sometimes it rattled around in the bold, black and white face of the timepiece. Emma had asked him what he had brought back from Afghanistan. Perhaps it was more than just a grain of sand, he gloomily thought.
Devlin finally took possession of himself, before something took possession of him. He managed to get to his feet and reach the lift. The walls to the elevator felt like they were closing in on him. He couldn’t look at himself in the reflective panels. But he knew that a determined expression had turned into a haunted one. Devlin gasped for air when he freed himself from the hotel, like a drowning man breaking through from the skin of the sea. Veering from his plan he headed left into Green Park. He found a quiet corner and leaned against a tree. A passer-by mistook his silhouette for a drunk, about to be sick. Devlin heard the distant sound of police sirens as he exited the rear of the park. He felt light-headed. His stomach churned, like a man in need of a meal or one too full. Devlin flagged down a black taxi. The dour cab driver thought he was just picking up a late-night reveller, a little worse for wear. Still he blended in.
Devlin thought he would feel better once he made it across the river. But he didn’t. Sensing that he might be sick he asked the driver to drop him off at Elephant & Castle. He walked the rest of the way home, via the backstreets, avoiding as many people as possible.
Emma was thankfully asleep when he returned. Oblivious. Innocent. The widower loved her, in his own way. But just not enough. He checked his phone, which had been on silent. He had seventeen missed calls from Birch. He sent a text: “It’s done”. There was nothing else left to say. The alcoholic downed a large whisky and took Violet out for a walk. He still needed some
air. Devlin thought that if he somehow encountered Sean Grady and his crew he would kill them. Or allow them kill him.
16.
The Thames was as black as the Styx. The pleasure boats were back at their moorings for the night. The lights were off across the water - candles pinched out by a niggarding churchwarden. Darkness visible. The temperature dropped. But Devlin barely noticed. He had not even complained during the bitterly cold nights in the desert, in Helmand.
Violet lay at his feet. The dog peered up at him with a degree of confusion – as well as devotion – in her expression. She whimpered a little, every now and then, either in sympathy for her master – or she wanted a biscuit.
Devlin took another long drag on his cigarette. He had found a late night off licence and bought two packs of twenty Rothmans. The smoke settled his stomach and helped him breathe normally again. He knew smoking was bad for him. But it felt good. Right.
The killer sat on his bench. Thick, fungal clouds covered the sky. Not a soul stirred. He had just tossed the Sig Sauer in the undulating river. Porter had recommended him to do so, during their lunch, as without a weapon (and CCTV coverage) the police would never be able to bring a case against him - even if they were able to track him down and arrest their suspect. But Devlin disposed of the weapon, as he never intended to fire it again. The gun felt even heavier in his hand, at the end.
He let the smoke flood his lungs again - warm them, feed them – and took another swig of vodka from the hip flask he had brought out with him. He listened to the rhythmic lap of water against the mossy timbers of the riverbank and thought of Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach. Devlin remembered how, during his honeymoon, he had recited the last verse of the poem to Holly, as they lay in bed together. He gently closed his eyes and tried to feel again the kiss she had given him, in reply.
The phone, vibrating in his trouser pocket, was ignored. He didn’t know, or care, if it was Birch, Porter or Emma.
Emma. Devlin made a promise – to himself and God – that he would end things with her in the morning. It would bring unhappiness to them both. But it was the right thing to do. He dearly hoped she would let him keep Violet. But whether he deserved to or not was another matter, he conceded.
The temperature dropped even more. What stars, which could be glimpsed between the clouds, shone dimly. Police sirens sounded in the distance. But they were coming towards him. Getting louder and louder. Harsher. He wouldn’t resist arrest.
God knows I already feel like a condemned man.
We are where we are.
