A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1)

by James Quinn

  She clutched the handset of the payphone tightly, concentrating and trying to remember every detail. “No. This one is big, bigger in the shoulders, hard-looking, plus he's a lot older. The man in the Caribbean was younger, thinner and looked… cold.”

  Grant let the conversation pause. Nicole seemed convinced she'd seen at least one of the killers, and he knew from living and working with her over the past few weeks that she wasn't given to flights of fancy or wishful thinking.

  “If what you say is true, it means they're still here in Marseilles for some reason,” murmured Grant.

  “Is one of the targets due to visit here soon?”

  “Not according to our intelligence, no. They're all still in their own locales. It could be that they're using this as a temporary base, ready to move off to the next hit. Good work, Nicole, at least we've confirmed that they're still in Marseilles.”

  Nicole smiled to herself. Gorilla gave out praise sparingly, so she knew she'd done well.

  “Right, get yourself back to the apartment, we can pick them up again, maybe see what the local informants can come up with.”

  “That's just it, Jack. The other man is seated at a bar across the courtyard from where I'm making this call! He's been here for the past fifteen minutes,” she said, the excitement clear in her voice.

  “What! You stay put, that's an order! I have seniority on this operation and you don't go anywhere until I come and get you!”

  “What if he moves, damn it?”

  “Do not follow, do you understand? Now where are you?”

  She gave him the address of a small family cafe in the courtyard. She would sit outside, have a drink and read a magazine. It gave her a perfect view across the small square to where the sullen-looking man was sitting, nursing his drink and appearing like a man at the end of his tether.

  The standoff went on for the next fifteen minutes, with Nicole tensing every time the man moved. They were having their own little Cold War standoff, played out against the cafe society of Marseilles. The watcher and the target engaged in an unwitting chess game of inactivity. Come on Jack! Where are you, you should be here by now! Nicole fretted.

  She glanced up from her magazine and saw the big man was reaching into his jacket to retrieve some money; he threw the cash onto the table, gave a brief wave to the barman inside, stretched, and began to move away. She stared unashamedly in his direction as his stride grew longer. The conflict in her was palpable. Grant had given her a specific order, she knew. She also knew he would go mad at her for disobeying his instructions, but more importantly, for putting herself at risk.

  To let him go would mean they were effectively back at the beginning again, with no leads and the possibility of losing their quarry forever. Sorry Jack, but I'm not letting the only lead we've had for weeks wander off into the back streets of Marseilles. So with a stubbornness her father would have recognized instantly, she set off after her target.

  Nicole tried to remember as much as she could of her training in surveillance, limited though it was. There were rules for static, foot and vehicle surveillance which she had been taught by the instructors on the training days around London and the Home Counties.

  In the end, the only things that remained in her mind from those long-ago training sessions was never to 'show out'. The wisdom was that it was better to lose them than give the game away, and never point at a target when explaining the target to another team member. The rest was a confused overload of information.

  Nicole decided she would just act natural, keep her distance and live her cover of a tourist wandering through the Old Port of Marseilles. She turned off the main thoroughfare and onto the quieter Quai de Rive Neuve. There were less people and more doorways which didn't offer their wares to the passing tourist. These streets ran at a slower pace than the main roads, more solemn and weary. She kept a steady pace, not moving too keenly, the man's back always in her sights. He didn't falter; he didn't glance in shop windows or peruse cafe menus. He just walked, oblivious to what was going on around him.

  The amble carried on down more back streets until, not ten feet in front of her, the man stopped, turned and looked straight at her. She blushed and composed a halfhearted smile, that in her mind, came out more like a grimace. She took in his hard face, the grey hair, the direct stare, and knew she had what her instructors on the one-day street surveillance refresher called 'showed out'. Her Dad would have called it having a 'bit of a dither'.

  She did a shuffle with her feet, to carry on walking or to turn and feign an interest in the nearest shop window, unsure which option to choose before her instincts and training took over and she carried on crossing over the street so as to avoid risking another bout of eye contact. She just hoped it was enough. For today, she would have to cut her losses and abort the surveillance of the hard-looking man with the grey hair.

  She spent the next fifteen minutes backtracking, and hoping that she'd covered her tracks. Better to lose the target for a day than to be completely made, is what her instructors would have said. There is always another day. Another day – maybe she could wear a disguise, maybe let Gorilla take over tomorrow or bring in a watcher from the local station, anything to pick up the target again.

  Gorilla! Damn him, she could almost hear him now, telling her not to go back, it was too soon with too greater risk of being spotted. She knew he was right, but she had her mother's stubbornness. Her father would quite often, rather politely, call her willful. 'I told you so' is sometimes the one phrase we don't want to hear, even if it's true.

  She turned onto a side street, one that would eventually take her back to the main road leading to the harbor. It was then, seemingly from nowhere, when she felt the presence of another human being beside her right shoulder, in her blind spot. A voice whispered, almost lovingly; “You shouldn't have smiled. No women smile at me, especially not ones as pretty as you. That was your mistake, my dear…”

  * * *

  Gorilla had calmed down, composed himself and gone to bring her back. He knew where the cafe was and he just hoped she hadn't been spotted. He would drag her back, kicking and screaming if he had too. He had seniority on this operation and he was damned if he was going to be dictated to by a novice.

  He grabbed his weapon, slung on his jacket and rushed from the apartment into the street. From their apartment to the Old Port would take him about twenty minutes on foot, quicker if he could hail a taxi. He moved at a brisk pace. He was a businessman, enjoying an afternoon walk, perhaps on his way to meet an acquaintance and not wanting to be late. He knew where she was, plus she also had a distinctive red coat which made her visually easy to find. Follow little red riding hood.

  He arrived at the cafe out of breath, expecting to see her. Nothing. He scanned left, right – still nothing, so he moved further along the street. He knew she'd disobey a direct order, that stupid bloody girl. Keep calm and look, he told himself. He did a full rotation and to his relief spotted her moving off down the far end of the street, dodging the busy traffic as she crossed the road. Thank God for that red coat. As visual markers went, it was bloody perfect.

  Now that he had her in his sights he did what he did best; kept his distance and blended in. There was a definite art to the task of stalking a target, especially through the busy thoroughfares of one of Europe's major cities. It wasn't a science that could be studied quickly on a training course, nor was it something that could be learned by rote; instead it was something much more intangible that certain agents were not attuned to, while for others, it came as naturally as breathing. A good 'watcher' needed three things; a cool nerve, the ability to blend in to their surroundings and finally, luck – always luck.

  For Gorilla, he certainly had the first two in abundance. As a hardened field agent, he'd earned his spurs in the melting pot that was post-war Berlin and had done his share of street work, but very rarely had he needed to follow a watcher who was following a target. Even for him that was something new, so he kept his dist
ance and followed her into the warren-like streets.

  * * *

  The quick violence of the man's attack shocked her. No, it was more than that; it sent her into a spin of confusion. One moment she was backtracking, desperately trying to find a way back to the Old Port by cutting down a side street and into an alleyway between two buildings, and the next she was confronted by the big man and his hands roughly grabbed her and almost lifted her off her feet, half-carrying, half-dragging her.

  There was no scream, she was far too terrified for that, but just for insurance, the big man had clamped a large, meaty hand over her mouth as he continued to drag her further down the alleyway and into its dark recesses. They were no more than fifteen feet from the alley's opening, nothing really, but it might have been the far side of the moon as far as anyone seeing them and coming to her rescue. She found herself lung back into an alcove covered in rubbish, animal waste and rat droppings. Then the man pressed against her; his forearm holding her chest and his other hand covering her mouth until she was pinned and silent.

  “Don't scream, or I'll snap your neck like a twig,” he said in a rumbling whisper, his breath smothering her.

  She looked into his weather-lined face, noted his head of grey hair, and took in the piercing coldness of his blue eyes. He spoke in French, but the accent was definitely German.

  “Who are you! Why have you been following me for the past fifteen minutes?” he demanded.

  The question was barked at her, like a prison guard ordering a prisoner. He saw the fear in her eyes; and she knew in that moment that he knew that she knew that she had been following him. No pretense, no subterfuge; the guilty look in her eyes confirmed it for him in an instant. He glanced behind him briefly. “Are you alone?”

  Nicole gave nothing away. Silence was her best ally. She knew she'd fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book; she'd been 'made' and then lured to a choke point and then… this. She felt a fool.

  The German changed his grip and moved his hand from across her mouth, instead clamping it tightly around her throat. She gulped in air, getting as much into her mouth as she could before he shut off her windpipe completely. The German moved his head in closer until his mouth was almost touching her ear. “Are you Israeli? A Jew? Are you and your people hunting me still?”

  “Get off me, let me go, just let me go,” she spluttered for something to say, something that would stay his hand of execution for a few moments longer. “Or… or my team will come and get me!”

  He laughed, not a harsh laugh, but a pitying laugh; as a parent might find amusing the lies of a child. “No, little Jew-girl, I don't think that's the case, I don't think anyone's coming to get you. I think it's just you and me and this back alley. I think you are out of your depth; solo surveillance on a subject is notoriously hard to do.”

  She knew then that she would never make it out of here alive unless she fought. She tried to move against his weight, wriggle out, plead for mercy, anything – but his strength was too much and was backed up by a gentle squeeze of her delicate throat, like a vice holding an eggshell.

  “Shhh, don't fight,” he cooed. “It will go worse for you; better to stay calm, you are in good hands.”

  She looked into his eyes; they were alive, dancing like fire. She felt him swap arms, his left forearm now pinning her to the wall, leaving his right hand to move under her dress and up the length of her thigh. She felt his fingers begin to scrape away at the lining of her underwear and she shuddered. No, God, please don't let it be like this, she thought.

  “I don't think I've ever fucked a girl as pretty as you before.” His voice was deep with anticipation.

  Nicole's reality had condensed and slowed and consisted of the man's heavy breath pumping into the side of her neck and his fingers fumbling under her dress. She could feel his hardness pressing against her stomach, felt him move his hand down and free himself from the confines of his trousers as he pushed himself upwards in the hope of consummating his attack.

  She started to cry, more out of shame than fear or pain, and that weakness hurt her more than any physical assault could ever have done. Do something, anything, her Dad would have said. And in those few moments the fear of never seeing her papa's face again was too much to bear. Move! Now!

  Her right arm had become free when the German had unzipped his fly, and his head was leaning to one side, exposing the left side of his face. It was a glorious target. She did the only thing she knew how to do, one of the few things she'd learned on the new intakes unarmed combat course. It wasn't terribly amazing, exotic or even useful in most situations. But right here, right now it was all she had and all she needed.

  She bunched her small delicate hand into a fist, extended her thumb with one beautifully manicured nail protruding from the end like a talon, and thrust it deep into the corner of the man's eye, dragging the thumb deeply from left to right across the surface of the eyeball. She felt cold liquid running down her thumb, and for a brief moment, caught the sight of blood oozing from the man's eye socket.

  And in that moment, she wasn't certain what was sweeter; the release of pressure across her chest, allowing her to breath, or the virulent howl of pain from the animal in front of her.

  * * *

  If it hadn't been for the howl of pain which echoed around the brick-lined alleyways, Gorilla would have moved onto the next street and missed them completely. He was lost, had no visual marker on either Nicole or the man she'd been following, and the backstreets had suddenly turned into a maze which snaked out in multiple directions.

  His mind was whirling frantically, his eyes constantly searching out the most likely route Nicole, or indeed the man she was following, could have taken. He felt like a parent who temporarily loses a toddler in a department store; panic-ridden and bewildered with a kaleidoscope of nightmarish scenarios playing through his mind.

  But the scream – a man's scream of pure agony – had brought him back. He slowly retraced his steps along the small side street, no more than twenty feet from the alleyway he knew had to be the place. Bloody hell, I nearly missed it, he thought. It was then that he saw it; a shoe, one perfect woman's high heeled shoe in fawn, half hidden among the boxes which had been dumped out for garbage collection. It was Nicole's shoe. He heard a raised voice in German; someone was being called a ficken fotze and in that moment, he knew he had only seconds left to find her.

  He raced down the alleyway, spotting another shoe before he turned a corner and there, with his hands around her delicate throat, was a man, a huge man, attempting and possibly succeeding in strangling Nicole. Her face was contorted with the pressure and the color was draining from her fast.

  No time for the gun, Gorilla decided, too noisy and the last thing he needed was witnesses. He needed to act fast. Gorilla finally got to do what he was both paid to do and what he was good at, and as the German belatedly became aware of a presence behind him and started turning to face the potential threat, Gorilla set his mind to very carefully, and very precisely, killing the other man.

  * * *

  Alfred Nadel had once strangled a member of the Dutch Resistance to death with the man's own belt. True, the victim had been tied to a chair and was unable to move or resist, thus making the physical act of strangulation that much easier, but he had never shied away from the immense physical effort needed. In fact, he relished it far more than using a machine gun or a blunt instrument on his targets.

  Over the years, he had fashioned himself a number of garrotes and ligatures, and on more than one occasion, in a professional capacity, he'd chosen the art of garroting as his chosen method of assassination. No such luxury was available here, though. It was to be his bare hands for the elimination, never murder, of this female he'd spotted tailing him for the past half an hour. He had no idea who she was, possibly police or possibly one of the teams of Israeli agents from Mossad, who still hunted men like him.

  Whoever she was, he'd spotted her clumsy attempts at surveillance straight
away. It was embarrassing, actually. He had been a hunted man for virtually all his adult life; been followed by policeman, soldiers and spies, so he knew the signs of what to look for and he also knew the signs of amateur surveillance, especially by one person.

  When he'd turned the tables on his watcher and made eye contact on the street, he knew instantly that it wasn't just his imagination. Her eyes had said one word to him; guilty. The rest was simple. Trail the bait and lead them into an isolated location with no witnesses; after that, well, he could do as he pleased.

  He was a big, powerful man, and despite his age, was more than capable of dealing with amateurs, especially where violence was to be used.

  So it had surprised him – shocked would be a better word – that she'd fought back. She was, to his eyes, a frightened slip of a girl, almost stick thin and yet she'd taken his eye from him with a ruthlessness which belied her small frame. He'd experienced the searing pain in his eye and knew then that his 'fun' would no longer be an option – but her death definitely would be.

  He slapped her across the face, sending her sprawling to the ground – fucking bitch – then he lifted her to her feet and slowly began to squeeze at her throat. An eye for an eye, wasn't that one of the Israeli's mottos? How very apt. But now, as he began to deal out his chosen method of murder, he was aware in his heightened state of something, or someone, coming up behind him.

  * * *

  Gorilla had been on all manner of unarmed combat courses during his time in the Army and with the Service. Most of them, in his opinion, were next to useless. Overcomplicated and unnecessary techniques designed to trip, sweep or put someone in a wristlock weren't like anything he'd ever encountered during his more 'active' assignments.

  He thought them bullshit.

  As a boy, he'd been taught by his uncle about the harsh reality of street fighting. Fists, boots, elbows, knees and head-butts had been the order of the day, especially for the small-framed new lad with the funny accent, growing up on the terraced streets besides the docks. Thus far – and Gorilla himself would be the first to admit that he was no sportsman or world class athlete – they had never let him down. He trusted them, knew how to use them, and despite his small build, could generate enough power into his punches to fell a mule. And a punch, or more accurately, a hook punch from the rear was what he used now against Nicole's attacker.