by Rob Aspinall
Suddenly, Nathan’s glass shattered his hand, splintering to the floor tiles around his feet. His hand dropped limp to his side as a silent bullet travelled through the frontal lobe of his brain and out through the back of his skull.
Nathan’s lifeless body fell backwards and slapped against the balcony tiles, eyes glued open and face muscles fixed in a wide grin.
50
Epilogue Part II
The sniper watched the target’s body drop from across the street and two storeys up. He checked for movement through the blue-laser guide of his rifle sight.
Nothing.
But his instructions were to make absolutely certain, so he switched the sight function to heat vision and watched the target’s body cool.
Satisfied, the sniper pulled his rifle apart, just as he’d done thousands of times. He packed each component away in a slim black briefcase. He picked up the case and walked away from his position in front of the triple glazed glass of an empty office space, the wind whistling in through a six-inch circular hole drilled in to the window.
It was a short stroll from the office tower to his car; a silver Audi Quattro saloon parked on the basement level of a multi-storey. He popped the boot and slipped the case inside, before climbing behind the wheel of the Audi and closing the door behind him. He reached into the glovebox and pulled out a tablet. He tapped through to a Skype-like app and dialled a number.
The sniper preferred voice-only phone calls. But the new Operations Chief seemed to prefer talking face-to-face. She answered the call dressed in pink and black gym Lycra, running on a treadmill.
“Just a sec,” she said, slowing the treadmill and catching her breath. Sweat beading around her face and neck; her dark hair tied behind her head.
From what the sniper could make out, Nadia Mishra was working out in a home gym, with Japanese art on the walls and a white, shōji screen door behind her.
“Is it done?” she asked, dabbing the sweat from her face with a white gym towel.
“It’s done,” the shooter said.
Nadia hooked the gym towel around her neck, holding on to either end. She smiled and looked into the camera. “Welcome back, Mr Vasquez. Now we can begin.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
BOOK 5: SLAVE NATION
1
Sun Trap
I’m a kid again. Stick thin. Super-short shorts and a t-shirt that hangs off my bones.
Funny, I don’t remember owning a blue pair of shorts, or a dirty grey tee with holes in that says Knight Rider on the front. Whatever that is.
And I certainly don’t remember everyone speaking rapid-fire Spanish.
Or going abroad as a kid. Ever.
Yep, it’s gotta be the memories.
Don’t ask me why they’ve started again.
It comes and goes.
Hearts are fickle instruments, after all.
Especially when they belong to ex-assassins who kill as easy as smile.
This latest one has me sat on the pavement on an oven-hot street. Everyone’s dressed in 80s clothes, like the whole world jumped in a hot tub time machine.
I look down and see a pair of hot dog legs ending in a pair of battered trainers. I scratch an itch in a mop of thick, black hair.
I look up at shoppers as they pass by on the street. Shake a styrofoam cup with a few copper coins in. See gothic-style buildings rising high across the road. Choke on the chug of boxy old cars as they trundle past in a slow-moving line.
I guess we’re in a city.
I notice a few people in Barcelona tops wandering by. Yep, Barcelona, baby.
I check out the inside of the cup. It might get me a few penny chews if I’m lucky. I stand up and slide the change into a pocket. I rest the cup on a window ledge and pick my way across the street. I turn left and take a walk, kicking an empty coke can.
There’s a small yard in a clearing between buildings. It has black goalposts painted on one of the walls. Kids run up and down playing football. One kicks it too hard. It bounces towards me.
Now, if there’s one thing that fills me with terror, it’s a ball bouncing my way. Especially with a group of lads shouting at you to kick it back over.
I expect to do my usual. Throwing a foot at it and missing altogether. Then running around after the thing like I’m chasing a wild goose.
But no. I intercept the ball and flick it up with my heel. I juggle it on my shoulder and thigh before running towards the playground, the ball glued to my feet.
“Hey, give it back!” one of the kids shouts.
I hit the brakes at the edge of the playground. I stand in front of the other boys with the ball at my feet. They're older and bigger than me.
“Can I play?” I ask in Español.
The kids look me up and down like I’m sewage.
“Only if you beg,” a lad says, waving an imaginary cup. He's a goofy kid with bleached-blonde hair. “Beg, you gypsy bitch.”
“Yeah, on your hands and knees,” another one says.
I roll the ball forward as if I’m gonna give it to the lad with the bleach hair. He sticks out a foot to take it. I whip it away and run with the ball. The other kids fly in to tackle me. I slalom past them all. I curl the ball around a lanky kid in goal—inside the painted goalpost. It rebounds off the wall.
The goalie kicks it out to the bleach-haired kid. “Ugh! The ball's diseased!” he yells.
The kids boot the ball at each other. Each trying to avoid getting touched by it. Pretending to be sick at the smell of it.
As I trudge off the playground, I get a stinging smack in the back of the legs from the ball.
“Find another street, gypsy!” one of the kids shouts.
I walk with my head down and my hands in my pockets. I weave through the streets and see an office worker rest a sandwich bag on top of a bin, along with a can of cherry coke. As he leaves, I’m onto the bag fast. I open it up and find half a tuna sandwich. I scoff it down. Check the can. There’s a mouthful left. I neck it and move on around the corner.
I come across a long, wide pedestrianised street. It's lined with outdoor restaurants and quirky street performers. It’s busy with people. There are market stalls, too.
I wander past a pizza place. A waiter clearing up eyeballs me. I look away and act casual. A little further down, I pass by a fish restaurant with blue and white table cloths. I nip inside the barrier to a table yet to be cleared. I down a half-glass of water with the ice melted. Then I pick up the leftovers of a battered fish. No time to taste the sucker. I stuff it in, chew a couple of times and swallow. I ram chip after chip into my mouth. I see a bald waiter coming out from an undercover area. I slip out of there fast, chip mush spilling out between my lips.
I stop at another place a hundred feet on. I find a large black pan with some chicken paella welded to it. I grab a handful of chorizo and rice and wham it down. Tourists shake their heads at me. Disgust or pity, I can't tell.
But this time I’m not so lucky. A big, fat waiter comes running after me, cursing me and swinging a dishtowel.
I snatch the remaining chicken leg off the pan and dart between tables. I knock a couple of plastic chairs over to slow the waiter down and I’m away, running along the street, chicken leg in hand.
I break off the main drag and round a corner, breathing heavy. Still chewing. I slip the chicken leg in my pocket and stroll on for a bit.
I stop in front of a square where kids chase pigeons and people idle on benches in the sunshine. I gnaw on the chicken leg and watch two men on a bench. An older guy with a brown pointed beard and a university professor look. A younger guy with a flat face and double denim.
And not the two-tone, skinny-fit variety.
No, we're talking balls to the wall dad-wear in matching blue stonewash.
Ugh.
The older one has a silver Walkman in his hand. I think that’s what they’re called. You know, like an iPod, only far more ancient.
Anyway, he wears a set of spongey headphones. He hand
s the Walkman to the younger guy, along with the headphones. The younger guy slips the phones on and presses play.
I move in a little closer, working my way through the chicken leg.
The younger guy listens. He stops the Walkman and slips off the headphones, leaving them on around his neck. He nods and the two men talk. Only they’re trying to look as if they’re not talking. Yep, they’re intelligence agents.
So, so obvs.
The pair of them get up and split left and right without so much as a later alligator.
I track the younger one across the square. He tucks the Walkman in a rear trouser pocket and queues in front of a cart selling ice cream. I ditch the chicken bone in a bin and wipe the grease off my hands on the back of my shorts. I queue up behind the man as he makes it to the counter. He bends over to pick out an ice lolly from the freezer compartment, the Walkman peeping out of his pocket.
I snatch it fast and subtle. Like I’ve done this a thousand times before.
But the guy notices. “Hey!” he shouts.
I’m off like lightning across the square. Splitting a flock of pigeons. I turn to see the guy running after me. Yelling into a walkie-talkie.
I dart off the square, across traffic. Down a narrow side street with high walls and nowhere to go. The man is hot on my derriere. I dodge around wandering tourists. Cut through smoking locals. The man bundles them out of the way and gets an earful.
I break out onto the main street. A guy with a spiky brown haircut in black jeans and tee yells for me to stop. He has his own walkie-talkie in hand.
I look left and right. Sprint across the street, dodging slow-moving cars. Sliding over a bonnet as the guy tries to grab me. I tear across the playground where those kids carry on playing football. They shout abuse at me. I steal the football off the toes of the bleach-blonde boy. Flick it up, turn and volley it in the face of the guy with the spiky hair.
He holds his face and shakes it off. It buys me a lead, but Double Denim is fast and fit. He blasts past the other guy and chases me into a jam-packed street market.
I tip over baskets of apples and oranges behind me. I get a real ear-blasting from the female stall owner. But it blocks the guy’s path as locals scramble to pick up the rolling fruit.
I weave between stalls and find one where the owner's back turned. I drop to all fours and scramble under a table. I see Double Denim’s feet run right past me.
But the owner of the stall has spotted me under the table. He shouts at me to clear off. I stay put, but see Double Denim coming back. He stops in front of the table. I hold my breath. Ignore the stall owner. But a pair of hands reach underneath the table. I try to get away. He grabs me by the heels of my trainers and yanks me out into the daylight.
I react fast, tearing the velcro straps off the right and left trainer. My feet slip out, the trainers a size too big. The guy stands with them in hand as I run barefoot through the market.
He’s soon on my tail again, so I dodge through the crowds, into a clearing in the street. But the guy with the spiky hair blocks my exit, a red football mark on his face. Double Denim catches up too, blocking my only other route off the street.
They’ve got me now.
They close the gap.
“Give me the Walkman, kid,” Double Denim says in Spanish. “Give it back and we’ll let you go.”
I look around me, breathing heavy. The Barcelona sun beating down. I see a letter-box shaped storm drain between pavement and road. I make a break for it.
“Get him!” Double Denim says.
The pair of them lunge for me, ready to take me down. I slide out of the way. They tackle each other as I disappear through the gap.
I drop a few feet into the dark.
I land on my feet on cold stone.
Ugh. Smells like a thousand farts trapped in a jar.
There’s a thin river of sewage running down the middle of the tunnel. I straddle the river, walking wide-legged along the tunnel, towards a shaft of light.
There’s another storm drain leading to street level. I wedge the Walkman in my mouth and climb up, nimble as a monkey. I squeeze through the gap and roll onto my feet. I jog across a couple of streets, onto the main tourist drag where I stole the food.
I wander up and down, waving the stolen merch in the air. “Walkman for sale,” I say. “Brand new. Very cheap.” A few people smile at me on their way past, but no one buys. “Only one left,” I say. “Crazy low price!”
“How much?” a man says, speaking Spanish in a German accent. He looms over me. A shadow in the sun.
“Four thousand pesetas,” I say—whatever a peseta is.
A kind of bean?
He pulls out his wallet and takes out a couple of notes. “I’ll take it.”
As I hand over the Walkman and grab the money, I realise it’s the professor-type from earlier. Before I can run, a pair of hands plant themselves on my shoulders. It’s the guy with the spiky hair. Double Denim jogs to a stop, out of breath. The older guy hands him the Walkman.
“What do you want us to do with the kid?” Double Denim asks.
The professor-type looks at me. “I was thinking of taking him home."
Oh no, he’s one of those kiddie fiddlers.
“Him?” Double Denim says.
“He outran you, didn’t he?” the older man says.
“But he’s a street kid,” says Double Denim.
“They're all street kids,” the older man says. “Desperate minds are open minds.”
I squirm in the grip of Spiky Hair. It’s no use. There’s no getting away.
The older man bends down. Hands on thighs. "What is your name, young man?"
“Ricardo Antonio Alonso.”
“Well, Ricardo Antonio Alonso, have you ever been on an airplane?”
I shake my head.
“Would you like to?”
2
Lock And Load
“Are you ready?” Philippe says, laying out the parts of each gun on the worn wooden table.
“I guess so,” I say, sitting up in my chair for another round.
The wind whistles outside the cabin. Shakes the walls. I flex my hands out and try to really concentrate this time. We’ve got the frame of the Glock 17 pistol. The slide. The barrel. The recoil pin. And of course, the magazine clip to jam in last.
Philippe has the same, arranged in front of him in exactly the same way. He counts us in. “Three, two, one, and go.”
I grab the frame fast off the table. Pick up the barrel and slot it in. Then comes the recoil firing pin. It was fiddly on the first few goes, but this is take twenty and it goes in easy. Next I snatch the slide off the table and fix it smooth over the barrel. I slap in the magazine clip, point and shoot Philippe in the face.
Gah! He beat me to it again. His gun already aimed straight at me. An imaginary bullet in the head from the dummy clip. The show-off even has his dented metal mug in hand.
He takes a sip of his black coffee. “Again,” he says.
“It’s pointless,” I say, lowering my gun to the table. “I’m not fast enough. I'll never beat you."
“It’s not me you need to beat," he says.
“Be honest,” I say. “Was I even close?”
Philippe doesn’t answer. He puts down his mug and strips his weapon all over again.
I stretch out in the chair. My brain fried and hands aching. "Do we have to? Like, when am I gonna need to assemble a gun in a few seconds?”
“If it’s disassembled,” Philippe says.
“Then I won’t disassemble it . . . Simple.”
Philippe gives me the look. Raises a caterpillar eyebrow. “You must prepare for every eventuality . . . In life, you never know.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Philippe picks up his mug. He sips and stares at me.
“Fine,” I say. “But hell, this is so boring.” I disassemble the gun. Lay the parts out on the table.
“I tell you what,” Philippe says, taking an
army-green cleaning cloth in both hands. “We’ll even things out a little.” He ties the cloth into a blindfold over his eyes. He pulls it tight. “In three, two, one . . ."
I fly out of the blocks. Faster than ever. Barrel. Recoil. Slide. Clip. Point and shoot.
Gotta be.
Surely.
Philippe has the drop on me all over again. The blindfold off.
“Was I faster?” I ask.
“You were slower,” he says.
I push away from the table. “That’s it, I’m toast. If I do this again, my mind is gonna vomit chunks of brain.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Philippe says.
“See, I’m talking gibberish. Can’t we call it quits for the afternoon? Take a nap before enjoying more of that delicious gruel?”
Philippe taps the table with a finger.
I sigh, shoulders slumped. I drag my sorry carcass over to the chair and plonk myself down.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Philippe says. “So don’t give up on me.”
I scrape my chair in and shake my body loose.
“Again,” Philippe says.
3
Beards & Tatts
I woke up and raised my head off the curtain pulled across the window of the Greyhound. I was sat towards the back, the bus almost empty, except for a Mexican couple who’d come armed with a basket of snacks.
Looking around the coach, even they’d bailed out at some stop or other.
I checked my watch. Eight hours into the drive. The coach was slowing to a stop. I pulled the curtain aside. Caught a death-ray blast of sun to the face. I squinted as my eyes adjusted. Saw a street with a row of single-story buildings made of wood.
The air brakes on the Greyhound hissed. The driver stood and yelled back at me. “This is your stop, ma’am.”
I peeled myself out of the seat and walked on stiff legs towards the front.
