An ear-splitting boom reverberated along the street, rattling shop windows
in their frames.
Amber Redgrave
moved with catlike grace, positioning herself between the origin of the
noise and the frail client whose bouffant hairstyle resembled a grey
crow’s nest atop her head.
Hand hovering
over the lapel of her dark blue jacket, underneath which the Glock Model
30 nestled in a holster against her breast, Amber surveyed the street. She
knew the bang wasn’t a gunshot, would know the distinctive sound anywhere,
and it took her a couple of seconds to work out that the noise originated
from the exhaust of a blue Citroen Saxo.
Small droplets
of sweat beaded on the clients forehead, squeezing their way through a
layer of industrial foundation that looked as though it had been applied
with a trowel by an inept builder.
“It was just a
car exhaust,” Amber said.
The old lady
looked ruffled. Her eyeballs bounced in their sockets as though she were a
spectator at Wimbledon.
“Are you
sure?” she said, her bottom lip continuing to tremble long after she fell
silent.
Amber noticed
the lady’s grip tighten on the Versace bag suspended over her shoulder.
“Yes, look.” She pointed along the street to where the car sat belching
smoke as it waited at the lights. As soon as the light displayed an amber
aspect the vehicle sped away, unleashing a double barrelled bang from its
exhaust that made a number of the shoppers along the high street jump in
surprise.
The old lady
placed the palm of her hand against her breast and patted it. “Oh my
goodness. For a moment there, I thought that was it.”
Amber smiled.
“Just relax, Ms Hawkins. You’re quite safe.”
“Thank you
dear. It’s so much easier having a female bodyguard than one of those
brutish men I’m so often lumbered with.”
The term
bodyguard rankled Amber. She found the term mercenary even worse. She was
a security consultant, her services available to the highest bidder.
A Specialist
Firearms Officer with the Metropolitan Police, the security work had
started as a lucrative sideline, but she found the most important aspect
that of helping people unable to help themselves. Although she had a tidy
nest egg squirreled away in numerous accounts, enough to live off if the
stock markets didn’t take a tumble and the taxman didn’t come knocking,
she didn’t consider payment her motive. No, it went much deeper than that.
A large sum of
her money came from untraceable sources, and an even larger part still
bore the blood stains, so she couldn’t declare her earnings, and no amount
of money laundering could clean her bounty.
The sudden
sensation of being watched made Amber’s spine tingle. She shuddered and
scanned the crowd, but failed to spot anyone staring back.
The job to
escort Ms Hawkins arose at the last minute, and she skipped her usual
thorough planning in favour of what seemed an easy assignment
‘babysitting’ a rich old widow with a paranoid complex that ‘people were
out to get her’.
Ms Hawkins was
a regular client of ex SAS man, John Richmond, but he said something had
come up which took precedence, and he asked Amber to step in. His exact
words had been, ‘She’s a nutter, but her money’s good.’
She had spoken
to Ms Hawkins before venturing out, but the client was vague, saying that
her dear departed husband had earned a number of enemies as a result of
his business dealings, and even though he was dead, she feared for her
safety.
The leaden
grey sky made the atmosphere oppressive, cast a dull pallor across the
faces of those out shopping as though both the weather and the human
condition were one and the same.
With her
concerns unfounded, Amber indicated they should continue toward the large
department store where Ms Hawkins said she liked to shop.
The automatic
doors slid open as they approached, and they stepped inside. Ms Hawkins
shivered.
“It’s nice to
get out of that chill wind,” she said as she uncoiled the snakelike scarf
from her neck.
Amber nodded
and scanned the shop. Racks of clothes stretched along aisles either side
of the entrance, leading to separate display sections. Set out over eight
levels, with each floor as large as a football field, a person could lose
themselves for days among the items on display.
“Oh this is
divine,” Ms Hawkins said as she fingered a blue cashmere cardigan. “It
would go just wonderful with your blue eyes.” She lifted the cardigan from
the rail and held it in front of Amber.
Amber glanced
at the cardigan and nodded politely. She hated shopping and would rather
spend her time field stripping her large collection of guns, making sure
everything was in working order.
“And if you’d
just grow your hair out a bit,” Ms Hawkins continued, “then I’m sure this
dress would look heavenly.” She indicated a red floral, knee length dress.
“You have the figure for it; I would die to be so slim. Do you work out?
Of course you do. Don’t get me wrong, your hair looks lovely short, but I
think just a couple of extra inches would make all the difference.”
Amber knew the
same could be said of a few men, but she refrained from smiling.
As Ms Hawkins
wandered between the aisles, Amber walked behind her, and slightly to her
side, in the best position to spot a potential hostile approaching from
the front, and offering protection from behind.
A group of
young girls, probably no older than fifteen, stood admiring a rack of
t-shirts. They huddled around the rack in what she recognised as a perfect
covering formation, giving one of the group the opportunity to stuff items
of clothing down her jumper while the others kept her hidden from the
cameras blinking overhead.
“What do you
think of this?” Ms Hawkins said as she placed a beret on Amber’s head.
“I’m not
really a hat person.”
“Rubbish, it
looks wonderful.” She teased out the edges of Amber’s short, black fringe.
“There, very Parisian.”
Although not
in Amber’s nature to be rude, she wished Ms Hawkins would concentrate on
shopping for herself.
“How about I
buy it for you?” Ms Hawkins said.
Amber shook
her head. “Thank you, but I really don’t thi-”
Ms Hawkins put
her finger to Amber’s lip. “I insist. It’s the least I can do.” She tugged
the hat from Amber’s head and kept a firm grip on it as she wandered down
another aisle.
From what she
had seen so far, Amber surmised Ms Hawkins was a lonely old lady. She
wondered whether her request for bodyguards wasn’t more for the company
than the protection.
“They do a
wonderful lunch in the restaurant on the eighth floor,” Ms Hawkins said.
“What say we have a bite to eat, and then let’s really go to town?”
As a rule,
Amber didn’t get asked to dine with the client, her presence low-key, but
she knew Ms Hawkins wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and come to
think of it, she was a bit hungry.
“Only if I can
pay for myself.”
Ms Hawkins
seemed to consider Amber’s statement for a moment, then she smiled. “Come
on then, follow me.”
She let Ms
Hawkins lead the way to the lift situated next to the stairs. If left to
Amber, they would use the steps, but she couldn’t expect an old lady to
walk up eight flights. Not that Amber would mind. Hell, she would run up.
She loved the exercise, and saw any opportunity to keep fit as a godsend.
As the lift
doors closed, she noticed a figure snatch a dress from a rack of clothes.
She only caught a quick glimpse, but it was enough to identify the
nondescript man as mid thirties with short brown hair and broad shoulders.
But it was the familiar hundred yard stare that caught her eye as he
glanced up and caught her gaze, which meant he would either make a good
friend or a dangerous enemy.
She wondered
what the man was doing looking at women’s clothing. He didn’t look like a
transvestite – although she couldn’t stake her life on it – and he didn’t
appear to accompany a woman. Of course he might be waiting for his partner
to exit the changing room, or he might just be out shopping for his
wife/girlfriend - but if that were the case, most men opted to buy
flowers, chocolates or the usual unsuitable underwear designed more for
titillation than comfort. What men knew about size never usually went any
further than a woman’s breasts (and they usually got that wrong), so a man
out shopping for a dress made the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle.
Amber and Ms
Hawkins were alone in the lift, not that many more could fit inside the
coffin sized box. This close to her client, she smelt the unmistakable
fragrance of Ms Hawkins Chanel No. 5 perfume, a floral bouquet of
Hyacinth, Jasmine Patchouli and Citron, which always seemed to smell
different on whoever wore it. Amber didn’t wear perfume, and she only
applied enough makeup to disguise the bags that sometimes hung beneath her
eyes. Fresh faced, she saw little reason to disguise what nature intended
with cosmetic slap, and she felt more at home in camouflage paint than
foundation.
“Are you
married?” Ms Hawkins asked.
Amber shook
her head.
“Sorry, I know
it’s none of my business. What must you think of me?”
Amber’s lips
curved into a faint smile. “I don’t think many men would appreciate their
wife following my line of work.” The smile wavered as she wondered whether
she could adapt to ‘normal’ life. Wondered when the time came, whether she
would be able to retire from a life living on her wits to a life of
leisure.
The lift came
to a shuddering stop, and the doors slid open. Amber stepped out first,
glanced left and right, and then motioned Ms Hawkins toward the restaurant
on the far side of the room.
To reach the
restaurant, they had to pass through kitchenware. The aroma of cooking
food wafted around the room. Amber wondered whether the pots and pans had
been placed on the same floor as the restaurant for a specific reason, to
get those interested in cooking to eat before they made a purchase. The
glass windows around the room gave a panoramic view of the surrounding
city, the grey sky close enough to touch.
Just as she
started to follow Ms Hawkins, movement caught Amber’s eye. She turned; saw
a man moving toward her from the top of the stairs: the man with the
hundred yard stare. To reach the top floor, he must have run up the eight
flights, but he didn’t appear out of breath. He gazed at Amber, and she
saw his hand move toward the waistband of his trousers.
Sensing the
imminent danger, Amber positioned herself between the man and Ms Hawkins,
who oblivious to the threat, continued toward the restaurant.
“Ms Hawkins,
get down,” Amber shouted.
She didn’t
turn to see whether the client had complied.
The man pulled
a gun from his waistband. Amber couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was a
Heckler and Koch USP Compact, a pistol with an effective shooting
performance capable of firing 9mm, 40 S&W, .357 SIG or .45 ACP cartridges.
So much for
John Richmond’s claim that Ms Hawkins was imagining the threat. Amber
chastised herself. She should have acted upon her earlier assessment of
the man, stayed in the lift and returned to the ground floor where she
could have escorted Ms Hawkins from the building.
With not
enough time to withdraw her own gun before the man fired, Amber rolled
aside. Taking a bullet was not an option. She would be no use to her
client dead. The racks of pots and pans offered little protection, but
they gave her the opportunity to withdraw her weapon.
The gun felt
good in her hand.
The whiplash
crack of gunfire rang out, but Amber couldn’t detect the calibre. If she
could, and if she got the make of gun right, then she would know how many
rounds it held, but at the moment, she was guessing with both hers and the
client’s lives on the line.
A bullet
struck a saucepan near her head and whined away. Screams rang out as the
shoppers realised someone was firing a gun in their midst.
Amber couldn’t
understand what the man was thinking making his move in a busy shop. It
wasn’t the best place to stage a hit as there were too many witnesses -
unless the man was either crazy or stupid, both of which seemed probable.
“Ms Hawkins?
Are you okay?” Amber shouted.
She heard
movement to her side. “My goodness,” Ms Hawkins said as she crawled toward
her.
“Stay where
you are,” Amber said.
She needed to
draw the man out to get a clear shot.
Another bullet
struck the pots and pans at her side, causing them to ring out with a
strange percussion sound. They swung to and fro as she stared between a
gap in the aisle. Where the hell was he?
Another shot
rang out, but the acoustics of the room made the sound hard to trace.
She needed to
pinpoint the man before she fired. Too many innocent people could be hurt
otherwise.
Putting her
head to the ground, she stared through the gaps under the aisles. She saw
the shoes of people fleeing in panic, but then about three aisles to her
left, she spotted the sand coloured boots of someone standing still and
facing toward her.
It had to be
the man with the hundred yard stare.
A display of
plates and dishes exploded over her head as another shot rang out, and
shards of crockery rained down. A dish shattered on the tiled ground,
sending slivers of porcelain flying like shrapnel. A number of the slivers
embedded themselves in Amber’s cheek. She ignored the pain, her senses
working at hyper speed; she could almost see the bullets coming toward
her, her mind adopting a tunnel vision principle to cope with the
situation at hand.
She turned,
looked overhead at the fire sprinklers blossoming from the ceiling.
Butterflies danced in her stomach. She knew the principle behind the
sprinklers. Each sprinkler contained a glass tube filled with a liquid
that expanded when subjected to heat. When the tube broke, it allowed the
pressurised water to push out the plug. She also knew that setting off one
sprinkler wouldn’t activate the others – and one sprinkler wouldn’t
provide much of a distraction, but it might unbalance the man with the
hundred yard stare enough to give her a shot.
She had ten
rounds in the Glock, but it might take most of them before she hit the
sprinkler above the man’s head, then she might not have enough time to
reload. In a shooting encounter like this, it wasn’t the first round fired
that won the engagement, but the first accurately fired round. She needed
a clear shot, so it was a risk she had to take.
“Stay down,”
she said to Ms Hawkins. “I’m going to try to draw the man out.”
“Be careful,
dear,” Ms Hawkins said.
Adrenaline
coursed through Amber’s veins. She took a deep breath, steadied herself,
then she stood up, aimed at the sprinkler above where she had seen the man
standing, and fired seven rounds. The gun kicked like a disobedient dog in
her hand. She saw the man in her peripheral vision, heard the bark of his
gun as he returned fire, and she dropped to the ground. After a moment,
she heard the satisfying hiss of water raining down; she thought she also
heard a muffled voice say, “shit,” but she wasn’t sure.
Using the
aisles for cover, she released the used magazine, letting it tumble to the
ground. With a round still in the chamber, reloading was faster as she
didn’t need to release the slide. Then she inserted a fresh magazine into
the well, using her index finger to guide it in, something she had
practised until she could do it in seconds blindfolded.
Hoping the
water was enough to distract the man, she crawled to the end of the aisle,
braced herself, rose to a standing position, used the shelf as a support,
tensed her finger on the trigger and aimed, but the man wasn’t anywhere to
be seen.
Cursing under
her breath, she scanned the shop floor. A crowd of people sheltered in the
far corner of the room, while other people charged for the stairs,
knocking others patrons out of their way as they ran.
The place
resembled bedlam. Water from the sprinkler rained down, splattering a pile
of pots and pans like an impromptu dishwasher.
Where the hell
had he gone? She narrowed her eyes, tried to calm the racing thud of her
heart. Gun clasped between both hands, she stalked through the aisles,
scanning the faces of the people she could see as she tried to spot the
target.
A deathly
silence descended where everyone seemed to hold their breath in
anticipation.
That’s when
she heard it. A slight click followed by the sound of hollow metal
bouncing off the ground as the man reloaded.
Amber spun
toward the source of the noise, and saw the man propped against a display
cabinet full of crockery. With no time to hesitate, she aimed and fired
two rounds.
The first
bullet disintegrated a bone china cup at the side of the man’s head. The
second struck his right shoulder, knocking him back and twisting his body.
Someone in the crowd over in the corner screamed. The man’s left hand flew
to the area of impact, staunching the flow of blood. He bared his teeth,
grimaced and dropped out of sight.
Amber couldn’t
lose the initiative, so she ran along the aisle to find the man crouched
on the ground, gun propped between his knees as he tried to reload with
one hand.
“Give it up,”
she said, aiming her gun at the man’s head.
The man looked
up, his blue eyes haunted. He spat a wad of phlegm in her direction.
“Go to hell,
bitch.”
You’re too
late, I’ve already been there, she thought. “This isn’t worth dying over.”
“Who said
anything about dying?”
Before Amber
could react, the man launched himself toward her, using his legs as
powerful springs. He extended his good hand, fingers clasped like a claw
to gouge her face.
Acting on
instinct, Amber fired a single shot. The bullet passed through the man’s
eye, leaving a vacant socket and putting an end to his hundred yard stare.
For a brief moment, she saw daylight through the man’s skull as the bullet
tore a chunk of bone from the back of his head. Blood and brain matter
sprayed the ground, creating a macabre puzzle, and the man collapsed in a
sack of twitching flesh.
Amber returned
her pistol to its holster, turned and hurried back to Ms Hawkins. As she
reached the end of the aisle, she noticed Ms Hawkins still lying on the
ground.
“It’s okay,
you can get up now,” she said as she approached.
Ms Hawkins
didn’t respond and a cold stab of fear prodded Amber’s stomach.
“Ms Hawkins?
It’s safe. The man’s dead.”
She took a
couple of steps closer … and saw the pool of blood seeping from underneath
Ms Hawkins chest.
“Jesus.” She
ran toward the prone figure and crouched down at her side. Blood dribbled
from the corner of Ms Hawkins lips, leaving an exclamation mark down her
chin. Amber felt for a pulse, but it was too late. One of the hit man’s
bullets had found its target. Amber had failed.
She bit her
bottom lip. Took a deep breath. This was bad. This was very bad. She
closed Ms Hawkins eyes and rocked back on her heels. Death never got any
easier to accept. She pictured her brother, Simon in her mind, saw the
rictus of pain etched across his face, the rope pulled taut around his
neck, creating a second chin below his cherubic face; his body swinging
too and fro below the landing, as though rocked by unseen hands.
The chatter of
shoppers brave enough to venture from their hidey holes brought her out of
her reverie, and in the distance, she thought she heard the wail of a
siren.
She couldn’t
afford to be found at the scene. If her superiors found out she had been
moonlighting, she would be sacked on the spot, and no doubt her bank
records would be scrutinised with a fine toothcomb which would lead to
questions she didn’t want to answer.
She wiped the
hint of a tear from her eyes.
Then she stood
and ran toward the stairs.
***
Amber walked
unperturbed out into the street and mingled in with the crowd. Before
leaving, she had found the security office and destroyed the security
recordings so they would have no way of recognising her. The look on the
old security guards face had been a picture when she gained access to the
room and pointed the gun at him before ordering him to look away. But it
was not something she was proud of.
She wasn’t
concerned about the ballistic fingerprint that her gun would have left on
the bullets as the gun was untraceable, and already aware that the police
could take an actual fingerprint from the bullet casing, she always loaded
her weapons wearing plastic gloves. She liked to think she prepared for
every eventuality – until now.
Despite what
John Richmond had said, there was nothing paranoid about poor old dead Ms
Hawkins, and she was going to kick Richmond’s arse from here to
Timbuk-fuckin-tu when she next saw him.
As she walked
away from the building, she took out her mobile phone and pressed the
speed dial button. The call was answered after three rings.
“Stevenson’s
cleaning services.”
“It’s Amber.
Something’s happened. I need to get away for a while. Fast.”
“Hey, Big Red.
You must have read my mind. There’s a job come up, and I think you’ll be
perfect for it.”
“I just need
to lay low for a while.”
“If the
situation is as messy as you said, then this will be perfect for you. It’s
on the other side of the country.”
Amber glanced
behind her to make sure the coast was clear, and then she ducked into a
doorway where she pulled off the short black wig. She ran a hand through
her wavy shoulder length, strawberry red locks and stuffed the wig down
her top. Satisfied she looked okay, she stepped out and mingled into the
crowd, talking as she went, “Just tell me where and when.”
