Forced Assassin (8 page)

Frankie laughed. “Nice one, boss.”

Waterman stifled a sigh. Frankie really was getting on his nerves lately, almost as much as Kemp, who stood in front of his desk, face like a slapped arse. Waterman guessed Kemp was pissed off at Frankie pipping him to the post. What Kemp had to suck up was that Waterman gave the orders. Frankie had been sent to deal with the CCTV man, and Kemp was supposed to be finding out where that wanker might have gone. And by that instruction he’d meant for Kemp to visit the hotel and ask a few questions. Instead, Kemp had driven out of the city, parked on a quiet side street, and let a prozzer entertain him until Waterman had given him a call to say Frankie had come up with the goods.

He’d deal with Kemp later.

Waterman would never forget that wanker’s name. Rook, it was, Peter Rook, but if he worked for the government, as Waterman had found out, he wouldn’t be using the same name now. But he’d be finding out what his alias was very shortly when they turned up at his hideout and forced it out of him.

Would Rook bleat, though, that was the question. A man contracted to work for the government wasn’t known for caving during torture. Rook would keep all the information to himself, of that Waterman had no doubt. Still, what did a name matter, anyway? Slicing off his bollocks and feeding them to the fishes was all he needed to make him feel better. Rook being introduced to the Thames would be satisfaction enough for Rook gaining his trust the way he had when he’d worked for him. Mind you, a bit of torture passed the time, didn’t it? Gave them all a laugh, a bit of a breather, so toying with Rook before they offed him was definitely on the cards.

“Right, you have his location, you say?” Waterman asked Frankie, deliberately keeping Kemp out of the conversation.

“Yep. Our CCTV man worked out Rook lives in some remote farmhouse in the sticks. Fifteen or so miles away, give or take.”

“Right.” Waterman picked up a half-smoked cigar from his ashtray and used it to crush the ash in the bottom. “And our CCTV bloke—how was he after he gave that information?”

Frankie stuck out his chest, prancing from foot to foot as though in the corner of a boxing ring, more than ready to start the next round. “Reckoned he wouldn’t do anything like that for us again. Went on about him losing his job if he did. Same shite as last time.”

“And how did you respond?” Waterman had a damn good idea, but he liked hearing his employees relate their actions all the same.

“Gave him a Cheshire cat, didn’t I?” Frankie nodded a few times, still prancing.

“Nice one. He knows we mean business. He’ll be in my employ now, I think.” Waterman lit his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth before blowing out smoke rings.

“Yeah, I told him he might be,” Frankie said, finally halting his irritating dance.

“And you, Kemp.” Waterman stared at him, leaning back in his chair to take another puff of his cigar. “What did you come up with?”

“I didn’t find anything out,” he said, trying and failing to keep his eyes from darting left to right.

“Ah, well. Doesn’t matter,” Waterman said jovially.
It does—oh, it fucking does, you tosser.
“So long as we got the result we wanted. Right. Frankie, get on the blower and tell what’s-his-name to get the car ready. Kemp…you sit your arse down here and have a nice drink with me while we wait.”

Although it was the middle of the night, Waterman wasn’t affected by being out at such an hour. Most of his work was done in the darkness, his body clock set to him kipping during the day and coming alive in the evening. Daylight had a habit of showing up all the starkness of blood, the colour so much more startling when the sun shone. Had a habit of alerting the good citizens of London that something was amiss. A man stabbed in broad daylight while out shopping with his missus. A bloke mowed down by a bus as he crossed the road on his way to the local boozer. Although some jobs had to be done in daylight hours, he preferred the majority of them to be completed in the shadows. Less chance of witnesses. Better chance of getting away with it.

He sat in the back of the car, What’s-his-name driving them to their location, the man unaware of why they were going, and not enquiring why, either. He was a good sort. Did his job, looked the other way, and, as far as Waterman was aware, kept his mouth shut. Frankie and Kemp sat opposite, Frankie looking pleased with himself for a job well done and Kemp appearing decidedly queasy. Waterman had plied the latter with brandy and a tab of LSD—two large shots that had Kemp wincing as Waterman encouraged him to drink up quick—and Kemp had eyed him oddly, no doubt sensing the tension that had sprung between them once Frankie had left the room.

Fucking tosser ought to know me better by now. I carry no one, let no one take the piss out of me.

“You all right there, Kemp?” he asked, keeping a poker face. “Only, you appear to be a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine thanks, Guv,” Kemp said, staring out of the window at the countryside spilling by, eyes glazed, fingers twitching on his knees.

Waterman followed suit. No street lamps here, only the glow of the moon, its meagre illumination doing nothing but giving the world a dark grey hue where it touched, the rest in black shadow. Trees zoomed past, stout, spiky branches stabbing the air, twigs on the ends resembling hands in star shapes or giving a two-fingered salute. Clouds scudded across the moon, swift on their journey, indicating quite a breeze must have picked up since they’d got in the car.

Bored of the scenery, Waterman returned his attention to the interior of the car. He opened his mouth to make small talk, but the glass partition between the rear and What’s-his-name in the front hummed down.

“We’re almost there, Guv,” the driver said. “Place over there to your right, look.”

Waterman did look, spying a squat dwelling that sat in a field all by itself. No trees, no coverage. Dangerous.

“Cheers,” he said, reminding himself to become reacquainted with the driver’s name once they got back to his office.

The car turned right and What’s-his-name slowed as he drove them up what felt beneath the tyres to be an asphalt track. He doused the headlights, and Waterman leant forward to get a better glimpse of the place out of the windshield. From the shape of it the building was a non-descript farmhouse, something no one would take any notice of if they drove past. The lack of anything around it was a wise move on Rook’s—or the government’s—part. Rook would be able to see in all directions, his sights clear to the fields beyond, to the sides, and the road ahead.

They drew closer, and Waterman’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t been out on a job in a long while—getting on in years had seen to that—but it didn’t mean he wasn’t able to look after himself in a dodgy scenario. He kept fit pumping iron, jogged once or twice a week, a minder at his heels, and indulged in target practice—not that he could ever forget how to use a gun. Didn’t hurt to pop a few shots off every now and again, though, did it?

The car came to a halt, and Waterman nodded at Frankie and Kemp. They got out and disappeared into the darkness, coming back after a few minutes to proclaim the outside was clear. No traps, no men hiding around corners. Waterman got out, adrenaline spiking.

He rapped on the driver’s window and waited for it to glide down. “Turn around, mate, and wait for us.”

Waterman strode towards the Cotswold stone house, narrowing his eyes at the windows. No bars, but he’d bet his last quid that was toughened glass—bulletproof, most likely. The front door looked like any other, except, if Rook was as savvy as Waterman suspected, it would be lined with steel, the opaque glass panels as bulletproof as the windows. He nodded, impressed at how normal the place seemed, when, in fact, it could be riddled with booby traps with Rook lying in wait inside. He lifted one hand and flicked his wrist.

Frankie was the first to obey the silent command. He went to the car boot, now facing the house, and popped the lock. He brought out a battering ram, over a metre long, in daylight a lurid yellow but in this light a murky grey. Waterman nodded, and Frankie went to work. The door was a stubborn bastard but opened eventually, swinging back on its hinges and smacking against the interior wall with an almighty crash. The noise was nothing compared to that which the ram had made, and it was a good job the location had no neighbours otherwise Waterman would have had more people to silence.

Frankie went inside, but Kemp remained on the doorstep, teetering a bit. The cold fresh air had probably made him feel drunker and more out of sorts than he had when getting in the car.

Waterman grinned. “Don’t fancy doing a search-and-find then, Kemp?”

Kemp shook his head. “No,” he said, the word sounding like
nose
. “You don’t employ me for that kind of thing. I don’t even know why you ‘sisted on bringing me here.”

Being even bolder now he’s having a trip, is he? Cheeky bastard.

“Thought you might like to see how things are done on this side of it,” Waterman said. “I mean, it’s all very well being the one who goes around quietly finding out information, but I feel it’s best to know all aspects of the business, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Nose,” Kemp said, nodding to a beat only he could hear.

Frankie appeared in the doorway, his face grim, eyes blazing.

“Well?” Waterman asked.

Frankie shook his head. “No one here, boss.”

“Any sign they have been?” Waterman frowned at Kemp, who wove through imaginary obstacles, arms out in front as though he was wading through foliage.

Prick.

“Yep, bed’s still warm.” Frankie bit his bottom lip and clenched his hands.

“Just missed him, then.” Waterman sighed and stared at Kemp again. “Still, seems a shame to waste such a quiet location.” He smiled at Frankie.

“What d’you mean, boss?”

“Well, there’s no one around to hear any screams, is there?” Waterman jerked his head in Kemp’s direction.

Frankie nodded and approached the tottering man. Waterman turned and walked to the car, getting in the back seat, pleased by the warmth.

“Give those two a minute,” he said to What’s-his-name. “Then Frankie will be out and we’ll get back to the office.”

Chapter Seven

Fallan couldn’t see a thing. Bishop said it was better this way, if she didn’t know where he was taking her, but the blindfold chafed the bridge of her nose, making her want to rip it off.

Not the best way to wake up but she supposed it was better than looking at the business end of a loaded gun. The whole secrecy thing was beginning to annoy her, though.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“I’ve told you it is.”

She growled in frustration and moved her hands together, the metal of cuffs chaffing her wrists. Life was so unfair at times.

“Just out of curiosity, will I be home in time to pay the ten grand off on my house?” she asked, wondering if she’d even get it now.

“We had sex last night and you want to know about paying your debt? I rather thought the sex would have been at the forefront of your mind.”

Fallan smiled. He sounded a little insecure.

“What can I say? I’m not the type of girl to remember one-night stands.”

The van took a swerve and her arm connected with the side panel where she sat in the back. “Ouch. Either drive carefully or budge over and let me drive.” She couldn’t even rub the sore spot. Damn cuffs.

“Stop ordering me around. I’m the one who calls the shots.”

“Is this really necessary with the cuffs?” She thrust her wrists in the direction she guessed Bishop was driving.

He sighed. “How many times have I told you? Yes, they are.”

“You know, you were fucking me not long ago and all of a sudden I’m treated like the most wanted criminal in London. How many times must I tell
you
that all I want to do is pay off my house and deal with the fact my mum died and my life is shit?” She screamed the last bit, her anger coming forward.

If she could have lashed out and smacked him she would have done.

“I thought you didn’t mind fucking,” Bishop said.

“Oh, that is just bloody great, that is—you thinking of the sex first. Typical man. I’ve got more problems than a little shag, Bishop. I’ve got to deal with my house, my life, and work. It may be easy for you with your whole secret life and messed-up career with no money issues, but to those of us who have a
normal
job with
normal
pay, it’s important to keep it. If I don’t get back home by tomorrow, I won’t have a job on Monday when I’m supposed to be back there. Not only will you and your cock keep me out of a job, but they’ll make me lose my house, and to add to that I’ll probably end up at the bottom of some dirty, disgusting river because you’ll kill me. So no, this is not about the fucking for me.”

Fallan slammed her hands on her knees and turned to what she hoped were the rear doors. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Her heart raced with the anger surging through her. Out of all the problems she could have, Bishop—or sex with him—wasn’t one of them. Well,
he
was a problem because he was currently taking her God knew where for God knew what reason. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she thought she’d end up at the bottom of some dirt-infested water. Having unprotected sex with him hardly came into it because of that.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Would it matter if I’m not?”

“I was expecting some hysterical woman cursing and having a go at me, not worrying about all the other problems,” he said.

“I’m a normal girl with normal problems and I want nothing to do with the shit that goes on with what you’re dealing with. Now, please tell me, will I be able to pay the money on my house?”

The house she’d grown up in and the one place she loved more than anything. Her parents had taken out a second mortgage and used the money to help with medical bills. They’d opted to go private. The NHS queue had been too damn long for them to get treated quickly. They’d had her quite late in life, and by the time she’d been ready to go out and enjoy the world she’d been dealing with two sick parents. Having anonymous sex with strangers had been the easiest way to seek the release she needed at the end of a hard and stressful day. But being with Bishop last night had been the first time she hadn’t used any protection, and now she wished she had, just in case he
did
take her home at some point. Since her mother died, she’d vowed to find that special someone to spend her life with. Her mother had asked as her dying wish for her to find someone she would love for the rest of her life and who she could spend good, quality time with. Fallan hadn’t wanted to burst her mother’s bubble by saying she doubted any man like that existed for her, so she’d agreed. The problem was, after dealing with her death and everything that went with it, Fallan couldn’t remember if she was up to date on her contraceptive jabs.