Spoiler! :
Trap
He turned, instinctively aware of someone else in the room. The gun was held out in front of blue teenage eyes, peering out at him from the holes of a balaclava, like satin in a coffin. They found him, he knew they would, but why send this kid? He controlled his heart, focussed on breathing, his mind working.
Guns were stashed through the house, under the couch, behind the headboard. Everywhere except here, in his son’s room and holding the mess of cotton and flesh in his arms was the only reason he was still standing. He knew it.
“I was right where you are, ten years ago,” he said coolly.
The boy still held the gun high, showing the full white of his eyes, the yellow of his teeth.
“You are going to have to wait before you use that thing, I’m afraid. It’s part of the programme, if I don’t press the responder every five hours, the RUC turn up. Last time I pressed the responder was when I woke, at 10 am. Do you know what the time is?”
The boy shook his head from side to side and he held the gun as if he was hanging from it.
“It’s a little after three. Which means over five hours have passed, the RUC will be here in a minute or so, unless I press the responder. Have you been to prison? A boy like you would be a right treat, passed around like crisps.”
“Where is it?” His first words came in one sharp breath.
“It’s in the kitchen, I can take you there and I will press it so long as you only kill me. You promise?” He paused, his pupils under his brow, locked on the boy. “I trust you. You promise to only kill me. Leave my son and my wife, you hear?”
The boy nodded, and he watched the huge frame lower the baby into the cot.
“Don’t you try anything? They told me what you are like,” his voice came with false bravado, a subtle inflection and James realised his eyes were wide not with adrenalin, but terror.
“Oh they did, did they?” James scoffed. There was no responder, this kid really was amateur. James would never have fallen for this crap. In, two shots, out. No chitchat, no mercy. They were training them weak nowadays, he thought, keeping a smirk concealed between tight lips.
“It is just under the sink here. I am going to grab the responder, but I am not going to key in the code until I am in the garage. I don’t want my wife to find me here in her lovely kitchen.”
This was his favourite part, knowing he had won. Knowing he was in full control. If he remembered correctly, it was a sawn-off shotgun, duct-taped to the underside of the sink.
He crossed the kitchen, reached out with a steady hand, and pulled the cupboard open. He glanced back at the boy, whose eyes were casting through the window, about the street. James, gently slid his palm over the weapon, admiring its cold steel finish. He had promised her this wouldn’t happen again, not after last time, but she would understand. Here he found himself, hit man behind him, shotgun in hand. No options left. The adrenalin came on like a palm to the cheek. He pulled, stood, turned and squeezed. The boy hit the fridge, all blood and torn skin. The perforations were perfectly round for a moment, and then as the blood gushed they were lost. His eyes grew wide and his chest heaved in staccato. Blood spilled out of his mouth and without a shot, his hand dropped.
James knew the blast would queue his driver. He reached down and ripped the balaclava up, dropping the boy’s dead head, bloody chin to still chest. He pulled it down over his own face and took the silenced pistol. The driver is next.
A white station-wagon crept along the street; a hooded driver looked out at the house. James opened the door and dashed across the lawn, head down and eyes up. The driver reached across and opened the door.
“Quick, let’s go!”
James lifted his arm straight and squeezed. The first shot hit arm and the wheels screamed to move. James could pin point the flash of realisation in the drivers eye, his companion was dead, time to go. He got one more shot off, this one didn’t miss. Red sprayed the windscreen and his head slumped over the wheel.
He snatched up Phoenix, carrying him to the garage and strapping him into his car-seat. He called his wife, who was fetching groceries. She was told clearly to walk outside of the grocery store in exactly five minutes, no sooner, no later. Out of habit he checked the boot and under the car for a semtex mix. Then he was gone, never to see this house again.
He dialled the special unit as he let the wheels slide, turning out of his driveway.
“Yes it is Wolfe calling for Honey or Carlos.” He repeated the phrase, annunciating each syllable.
“Carlos, it’s Wolfe. Send a unit to my house, you will find two dead Procs. One in the kitchen, one in a white Saab outside. We need to be moved again Carlos. Can I come in?”
“James, hold on. There are two dead men at your house?”
“Yeah they must have found out where I was moved. I told you it has to be outside of the U.K. you have a rat.”
“That’s impossible James, how do you know they were Procs?”
“It might have been the hand gun they pointed at my head.” The car was squealing between lanes. In less than a minute he would be at the grocer.
“Okay. Go to the parking garage on Collins. I will meet you on the fifth floor; do not get out of your car. I will flash my lights and you can follow me. Do not get out of your car.”
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