Forced Assassin (13 page)

And maybe Bishop. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.

He sipped again, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Bishop really was becoming a problem. Before, he’d done as he was asked, threatened a few people, secured whatever needed collecting or reclaiming, and did whatever the hell he did in his spare time. But now? Huntington grimaced. That woman had changed him, made him want what he couldn’t have—a normal life.

She was beautiful, he’d give him that. Could see why Bishop had fallen for her. And he had, despite his denials. Huntington gathered Bishop had lied to him about his feelings in order to keep her safe, so when she was returned to her regular life she’d be left to melt into society again, an inconsequential woman who didn’t need watching.

I don’t think she does, either. She just wants her money, wants to go home and fix her life.

But what if spending more time with Bishop changed that?

He flicked on a monitor to his left and expected nothing more than the blank screen he got. Bishop had switched off the basement cameras, and Huntington wondered whether they were fucking now or had finished. Or perhaps they hadn’t even started. He’d told Bishop to get some rest before tonight. Waterman was best taken out under cover of darkness.

He picked up his secure phone and dialled. “Anything?”

“No,” said the agent. “Just the residents coming and going.”

“So Bishop did his job, then,” he said more to himself than to the agent. “Good. No visitors?”

“Not for the deceased, as far as I can tell. Just the usual rough lot who live around here.”

“Right. Call in if anything changes.”

“Will do.”

Replacing the receiver in the cradle, Huntington swigged another gulp of brandy and wondered when Waterman would discover Lash wasn’t going to be reporting in for work any time soon. The agent stationed outside Lash’s flat had to wait until about four a.m.—that crucial time where drug pushers finally went to sleep and burglars hadn’t yet woken for their early morning raids—before he could make a move and dispose of the body. One hour, plenty of time.

Sighing, he reached for the recording device and turned it on.

“Frankie Lash is dead, if that’s what you’re here to find out,” Bishop said.

“Good, but no, that wasn’t the purpose of my visit.”

“What was, then? Planting a new bug I’m meant to be unaware of? Reckon I’ll tell Fallan everything, give her information she can go to the papers with? The
government
with?” Bishop’s laugh sounded more sinister the second time around.

“No, I came to see Miss Jones for myself. It’s all very well having a report from you that she’s a good woman, but appearances can be so very deceptive, can’t they.” Huntington had meant it as a statement, a bold fact that he’d wanted Bishop to take the way he had.

“If you’re referring to me in an underhand way, Huntington, just come out and say what you have to say. I’m not into fucking about, dancing around the issue, you know that. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

“All right. I think you’re going to go off the rails. I think Miss Jones has affected you, affected how you think, and your future performances may be in jeopardy because of it.”

Bishop huffed. “I told you, she’s just a fucking job, nothing more.”

“A fucking job—exactly. That’s the problem. You’ve fucked her, got
involved
with a person who is a part of this mission. That isn’t allowed, you
know
that. Fuck whoever the hell else you want, but your sexual partners must remain oblivious to what we do—to what
you
do. You’ve allowed emotions—”

“The only emotions involved with her are those I get when I’m coming, all right? That blunt enough for you?”

“It’ll do for now.”

A shuffle sounded where Huntington had risen from the sofa to pace the room. “So explain this. She’s seen you in disguise, knew exactly who you were when you walked in. How
is
that? Did you tell her somehow what you’d be changing into for the Lash job?”

“No, I fucking didn’t! Watch the tapes, listen to them. At no point did I tell her that.”

“So how did she know it was you, before you even spoke?”

“I don’t fucking know, do I? Jesus. Maybe she recognised the way I walk, my hands, the shape of my eyes, I don’t know. Whatever—she won’t be seeing me again once she goes home, will she? Doesn’t know my real name, doesn’t even know where the first hideout is, or this one. Your name’s as much of a fake as mine. So, she’s none the wiser. She’ll go home, pay her bills—because I’ll be giving her the ten grand myself if you don’t—and eventually forget all about this.”

“I doubt it. Who could forget being kidnapped and fucked by her abductor?”

“Are you implying something? It wasn’t forced, nothing like that.”

“I know. I heard. Saw.”

“So you did.”

Huntington reflected now on how Bishop had said that. Three words etched with lashings of disgust.

He really does care for her. Fuck it!

Another shuffle where Huntington had walked over to the kitchen area and poured himself a glass of water, his tongue furry from too much of Miss Jones’ coffee. “You need information about tonight, Bishop. Listen to me very carefully. Miss Jones must
not
know what you’re doing. She mustn’t know what you’ve already done, understand?”

Bishop sighed. “Yep. Go on.”

“First, get some sleep. It might be a long night. I’ll call you with any information I get after I return to the office, but, if there is none, you’ll need to stake out Waterman’s place of business. We know he’s never home in the evenings, but we’ll post another agent there nevertheless. Once you deem it’s safe enough, go inside. Usual drill at first—find out whatever you can. Then do whatever you have to do. Once your job is complete, come back here and report to me.”

“Exactly as I thought it would be. I’m not happy about this new turn of events, I have to tell you that.”

“I know you’re not, but, like I told you before, it’s them or you, right?” Huntington had paused, a thought striking him, and he went back to the sofa. He’d leant forward, studying Bishop for signs of dissent. “Tell me, what would you have felt like before meeting Miss Jones?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your job description changing. Would you have refused to take anyone out? The way I see it, you had no one, nothing to live for, so us making you…disappear wouldn’t have been so bad. But now? Well, you have a little woman in there”—Huntington had tapped his temple then his chest, over his heart—”and us removing you from any and every equation suddenly isn’t an option, is it?”

“Oh, fuck right off. Don’t try and make this out to be something it isn’t. I may not have had much of a life before she came along, but I had one and I don’t fancy dying. I’d have killed for you, all right? She has nothing to do with this, and I’m getting hacked off with telling you that.”

“All right!” Huntington had raised his hands. “All right. I believe you.”

He didn’t.

Huntington switched off the recorder, mulling over the options. If Bishop continued seeing Miss Jones after mission completion, there would be no other choice but to have the woman taken out.

Unless…

Hmmm. I’ll think on it. She may very well make a damn fine agent if she learns to keep that rowdy mouth of hers shut.

* * * *

Waterman frowned. Frankie wasn’t answering his mobile phone—unusual for him, even when he was fucking a prozzer—and if he was doing some tart on work time, Waterman would have something to say about it.

He called his other employees—all out doing their usual jobs of collecting protection money, duffing a few people up, the normal things his crew tended to do, as well as keeping their ears to the ground as to that bastard Rook’s whereabouts. It pissed him off he still didn’t know the man’s name—his real one, not the moniker he’d used when working for Waterman. He needed sorting, that one, erasing permanently. Frankie was meant to have gone to his hideout flat, picked up the goods and returned by now. Then he was supposed to have been out looking for Rook. Fucking Lash wanker was probably shagging some bitch.

I swear to God, if he is…

He tried Frankie’s phone again. No answer. He hung up then redialled, just a jab on one button. “Can you come up to my office?” No please, no thank you…no need. His employees did as they were fucking told or they were gone.

Waterman waited. A knock came a couple of minutes later, and he straightened in his chair. “Come in.”

What’s-his-name opened the door and walked in, standing until Waterman nodded in the direction of the chair in front of his desk. What’s-his-name closed the door then sat, looking as though he was about to crap his pants.

“I need you to do me a favour,” Waterman said, eyeing the man, sizing him up.

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s your name again?”

“Gavin Brent, sir.”

“Gavin Brent, right. Gavin, all my men are busy. Kemp’s no longer on my payroll, as you know, and Frankie seems to be unreachable. Looks like I’m going to have to go to Frankie’s flat myself. Trouble is, it’s a rough area, know what I mean? You comfortable taking me?” Waterman didn’t care about the man’s comfort, didn’t care whether he wanted to go or not. He’d be going.

“All right,” Gavin said. “Shall I wait outside for you then bring you back?”

“Uh, no. This isn’t that kind of pick-up. I need you to actually go to his flat and knock on the door. I’ll be coming with you. Call yourself my protection, if you like. You know, bodyguard.”

Gavin puffed out his chest. Waterman reckoned the bloke would do nicely as one of his right-hand men, given a bit of training. He nodded absently. Yeah, he liked that idea.

“Yes, sir. Fine, sir.”

“Good man.” Waterman glanced at his watch. Fucking nine o’clock already. Where the hell was Frankie? He’d left to collect the bag hours ago. Waterman shrugged. Maybe Lash had decided to have a nap, the cheeky fucker. “I’ll give the tosser another hour to finish shagging his bitch or whatever the hell he’s doing, then we’ll go, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off you go, then. Make yourself a cuppa. A bit of something to eat, yeah?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Gavin rose and left the room.

Waterman waited for the door to click closed before he picked up his phone again. He dialled Frankie’s number, anger starting a slow burn inside him. Yeah, he’d been mildly annoyed before, but now he was getting a bit narked—more than a bit narked. If Frankie didn’t come waltzing in here within the hour, stupid grin on his ugly mug, then Waterman would have to accept that either something was dodgy or Frankie had run into a bit of trouble.

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.