Forced Assassin (11 page)

Fucking hate this part of the job.

He tilted the mirror down a little more and slapped on new eyebrows. Once the glue had dried, he popped in blue contact lenses, then slid on some ugly, clear-lens tortoiseshell glasses—the rectangular frames altering his appearance more than the facial hair. He reached into the glove compartment for a black beanie hat and jammed it on, tucking his hair inside. He lifted a rusty red toolbox from the passenger footwell. A gun and tools for breaking in were inside. As ready as he was ever going to be, he got out of the van, locked it, and walked towards the block of flats.

In the main foyer, a stark, grey-walled square that reeked of dried piss and vomit, he took the stairs, not wanting to chance getting stuck in the lift. The toolbox bounced against his leg with every step, and he muttered curses. On the second floor, he stared at the four front doors and took a deep breath to steady himself. Adrenaline had unleashed itself on his bloodstream and he needed a second or two to adjust. Confident, he inhaled deeply again then rapped on the third door, rehearsing his bullshit speech about being sent from the council to check the taps. He waited a moment, but with no response he lifted his hand to knock again.

On his left, the second door opened and a young woman with a baby perched on her hip appeared. Boy or girl child he didn’t know—it only wore a nappy.

“He’s not in,” the woman said. “He was here last night, late, and before that, well, he isn’t here often, put it that way. Seems like he only uses the place to stash stuff or have meetings every now and then with…women. And he’s a right hard wanker. Wouldn’t mess with him if I didn’t have to.”

“Oh, right.” Bishop smiled. “Well, I’ve got to get in there. Leak’s been reported.” He placed the toolbox in front of the door so the back of it faced her, then hunkered down and opened it. He took out a lock-picking tool, closed the lid and stood.

“You allowed to do that?” she asked, eyeing the tool and repositioning the baby, who pulled on the woman’s lank black hair. “I’m sure you’re not allowed to go in. Says in my tenancy agreement that—”

“Yes, we have to give notice when we visit, but, in this case, when the flat downstairs might get flooded—”

“Fuck! Does Martha know? She’s got kids in there. Last thing she’ll need is water coming through the ceiling!”

“Which is why I have to go inside.”

She nodded. “Right. Yeah, right. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

She disappeared into her flat, and Bishop breathed easier, raising the tool to the keyhole and sliding it in. The fug of disuse slapped him in the face as he swung the door open, picked up his toolbox and stepped inside. He breathed through his mouth to prevent himself smelling the unpleasant, mixed odours of what appeared to be boiled cabbage and unflushed toilets. He pitied the women brought back here. Slipping the lock-picking tool into a pocket in his boiler suit, he closed the door.

The flat was a state if the hallway was anything to go by. Whoever paid rent on this place didn’t enjoy cleaning. He picked his way between coats slung on the floor and went through a doorway ahead, ignoring the one to his right. He stood in a kitchen where a dishwasher or use of hot soapy water in the sink was unheard of, wincing at plates covered in dried-on food scum and glasses bearing the remnants of milk and beer froth. He shuddered and shoved some crockery aside to place his toolbox on the work surface, remembering too late he hadn’t put on any gloves. Once he’d covered his hands, he took a cloth from his box and went to the front door, wiping where he’d touched inside and out then closing himself in again and going back into the kitchen.

He made straight for the freezer, shifting packets and boxes around, looking for the tell-tale open food containers where a package could be stored. There weren’t any, so he did the same with the fridge, recoiling at the stench of rancid milk. Nothing in there, either. He searched the cupboards and drawers, coming up empty-handed, so took his toolbox into the other room—a lounge—and began poking about in there.

Nothing.

Upstairs, he explored the smaller bedroom before going into the bathroom to check in a medicine cabinet, behind the bath panel, inside the electric shower casing, then under the lid of the toilet tank. He sighed in frustration, the beard itching like crazy and sweat dripping from his forehead into those infernal eyebrows. The little black pouch wasn’t there.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. Maybe it isn’t in a pouch anymore. Fucking hell!

He stormed into the double bedroom, a corner of the toolbox once again bashing his leg, and he gritted his teeth to stave off the aching tenderness in his calf. He was shocked out of the pain upon seeing the bedroom tidy, a vast difference from the rest of the place. Perhaps the tenant did care about making the room presentable for the women he brought back here.

Who knows? Who fucking cares? I need that pouch and I’m gone.

The sound of the front door opening then closing had him tiptoeing to a built-in wardrobe spanning the entire wall opposite. He opened one of the louvered doors, praying the hinges didn’t squeak, then shifted a small heap of dirty clothing across so he could stand inside. In the wardrobe, he put his toolbox on the washing then took out his gun, pleased he’d thought to attach a silencer. He closed the door. And waited, head hot beneath his hat.

Footsteps pounded the stairs. Despite having done this kind of job several times before, Bishop swallowed as his stomach rolled. The footsteps clunked on the landing. The sound of someone taking a piss filtered into the bedroom. Whoever had taken a leak didn’t flush the toilet or turn on the tap so they could wash their hands. The person strode into the bedroom, a grey hooded jacket obscuring their features, went straight for the bedside cabinet nearest the door, and picked up the book on top.

Bishop peered harder through one of the slats, his nose nearly touching the wood. He steadied his breathing, conscious that it might breeze out with sound and alert the man he was there—and it
was
a man by the look of his size. The tenant stood side-on to Bishop, opened the book and pulled out a black velvet pouch, hidden in the cut-out pages.

Fuck, one of the oldest tricks and I didn’t think…

Seemed there was a lot he didn’t think about since he’d met Fallan.

The man looked inside the pouch and nodded, then slipped it into his hoodie pocket. He made for the wardrobe, and Bishop had a split second to take in who the man was and what he had to do. He readied his gun hand. Pushed open the louvered door. Took aim.

And shot Frankie fucking Lash in the centre of his forehead.

* * * *

Parked on a grass verge, Bishop sat in the van halfway to the second hideout, taking five minutes to himself. He’d tortured. He’d maimed. But he’d never fucking killed anyone before. He hadn’t had much choice, though. Frankie’s and Waterman’s lives or his—that was the deal, that was his job. If he ran, the government would find him, of that he had no doubt. He’d been forced into being an assassin…and he knew in his gut that, after he’d killed Waterman, he’d have to kill more people. Once they knew he had, that he
would
, they’d ask him to do it again and again.

He took a deep breath, his mouth dry, and swallowed, grimacing at the aridity in his throat. He was fucked, good and proper, and his life as he’d known it was no more. He only hoped he didn’t have nightmares, that guilt didn’t take hold and cause him to make mistakes. He needed to think about what he’d done, accept it, then move on.

There wasn’t any other option.

He thought of Fallan, waiting for him in the hideout, possibly worrying that he’d abandoned her, lied in saying he’d be coming back. He felt the need to go and see her, to take her somewhere else, but it was best they holed up there until he’d offed Waterman.

He didn’t relish that one bit. Once done, it meant setting Fallan free.

Restarting the engine, he drove to the cottage and let himself in. Images of Frankie’s eyes going wide and him falling back onto the bed, his brains splattering the quilt, would stay with Bishop forever, as would Bishop taking the pouch from Frankie’s pocket and sliding it into his own. Fuck, Frankie had been a bastard, had killed people without a second thought, but he’d never done anything to Bishop. They’d got along when Bishop had been undercover, a part of Waterman’s outfit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stop tormenting yourself. It’s done. Better it was him and not me.

But was it? What did he have to look forward to now? What woman in their right mind would want to settle down with a killer? What woman would want to spend time with him, accepting that he did a job he couldn’t tell her much about, letting him go out there to earn a crust and not really knowing exactly what he was doing?

Fallan knows. It doesn’t seem to bother her…

Don’t even go there, pal. Do not even fucking go there.

Chapter Nine

Fallan had watched Bishop leave the basement apartment with bitter feelings. She understood this wasn’t one of the usual occasions between a man and a woman, but, hey, a girl would like to hear some words of appreciation. No, it wasn’t a hardship fucking him. The least he could do was pretend to feel something about what they’d shared together, though.

She’d mooched around, opening drawers and peering in cupboards. There were men’s clothes in the wardrobe, all different sizes, as though several people used this place. She’d walked over to the lift door at one point, tempted to reach out and touch to see if he’d been telling the truth. Shaking her head from her stupidity, she’d stormed to the kitchen.

Now, with a coffee canister found, she began making herself a really strong brew. Even though she was ‘only a job’ she’d still continue to sleep with him. She liked spending time with him. For some strange reason she was comforted by his presence and enjoyed the way he made her feel. The sex was fantastic—there was no other word for it.

Once her drink was made, she turned round to view the rest of the room.

She dropped her coffee onto the floor as she stared at a man walking out of the lift. He wore a black suit, had salt-and-pepper hair, and stared at her with unnaturally piercing, bright blue eyes through nasty-arsed spectacles. He was overweight, his paunch telling her he ate well and possibly drank a lot of beer. Whoever it was must have been allowed in, given what Bishop had told her about the electric current having to be switched off…unless he’d been lying so she didn’t try to escape.

“Who the fuck are you?” she said, stepping back from the mess on the floor.

“So your everyday language is just as bad as when you’re in the throes of fucking,” the man said, swiping a hand along the back of the chair where Bishop had been sitting earlier.

Had this man seen the action?

“If you’re wanting to sell it as a porno, I want some of the cash,” she told him, irate that the man clearly knew who she was, but she had no clue to his identity.

“It would certainly sell by the thousands. Pornos these days are all about the cum-shot. The women look half bored and are dry as bloody nuns. Maybe you and Bishop can charge your way into the industry. Call it ‘Kidnapper Gets Fucked’?”

She had no idea who this fucker was but already knew she didn’t like him. He should have
I’m a prick
written across his forehead.

“So pleased it was worth the watch.” Cursing the mess on the floor, she bent down and began to pick up the shards.

“Are you stupid enough to turn your back on a man you know nothing about?” he asked, moving closer.

“For fuck’s sake, what is it with you men? I wouldn’t know the first thing to do to protect myself. Besides, Bishop said anyone coming through that door would be a good guy. At least I think he did.
Shit!
” she yelped. A piece of porcelain had cut into the base of her palm. “Fucking cock balls.”

“You really do have a naughty mouth.” He came over and took hold of her hand. “A small cut and there doesn’t appear to be any china in there.”

“Thank you for the diagnosis.” She snatched her hand away.

“You really trust Bishop?”

“I’ve got no choice. He’s taken me and now I can’t leave until he decides I’m not some secret agent spy person.” Walking to the kitchen area, she washed her hand under the cold tap, pressing a towel to the small cut. The bleeding stopped after a few seconds.

“Bright girl.”

“No. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have thought for a second a ten-grand holiday was real. I’m in this mess because of greed…or need. Nothing more, nothing less.” Fallan started the kettle back up. She grabbed a cloth and wiped up the last of the spillage from the floor. “Are you staying for coffee?”

“You don’t even know my name yet.”

She didn’t want to know it. “And don’t expect a fuck, either. I figure you’ll tell me your name when you’re comfortable doing so. Well, do you want one?”

“What? A fuck or a coffee?”

“A coffee, arsehole.”

“Yes.”

In no time at all she had made him a drink. Then she went and sat on the chair in the living area. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable with him sitting there. She’d been intimate on it with another man only an hour or so ago.

He sat on the sofa. Not caring about his attention on her, she turned the television on and tried to blank him out. If he wasn’t going to talk, she wouldn’t try to initiate conversation. Some show about DNA testing came on. The drama would be more welcome than the tense silence.

Despite trying to switch her mind off her situation, Fallan thought about the man. Could he be a vicious killer? He looked harmless…but, then, so did Bishop.

“Are you really into television shows?” he asked.

“Not usually. I’m normally at work listening to the beep-beep-beep of a supermarket till.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I’m sure Bishop has told you everything about me.” She turned the volume up, hoping he’d get the message and be quiet.