Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

The ceasing of the shower focussed his attention, he padded quickly to the door, lifted the fawn mackintosh and tweed hat from back of the door and left, quietly closing it. The room’s occupant emerged a micro second later and began drying himself, looking at himself in the full length mirror. It was whilst putting on his pants that he suddenly noticed the sandwiches.

Out in the corridor Mason recalled that his clothes were in the gents’ toilet near reception. He pulled the coat around him and sure from the map in his mind that the lifts were opposite the toilet he took the lift to ground floor.

DIC staff were gathered in the foyer. The decision not to call police had been made higher up. Shadz was given the job of watching the reception area, others were sent to the exits and Jaz with another was to sweep through the hotel floors. The DIC teams split to their tasks as Mason, hat on head, emerged from the lift and went into the toilet. Locked in a cubicle he began changing as quickly as possible.

Shadz stood in reception looking around, somewhat tense. He kept the image of Mason in his head and suddenly noticed from the mental image that Mason was dressed as a temp worker, kitchen clothes. Shadz decided to check the toilet to see if he had changed there. Learning the lesson from Glasgow bus station he drew his Sig as he entered only to find himself pointing it straight at Mason’s head as he emerged fully dressed from the cubicle.

The two stood staring at each other and Mason grinned as he saw the slight shaking of the hand holding the weapon and the slow gulp Shadz made as he swallowed his nervously rising bile.

Mason tensed his muscles, then relaxed them and took a single step towards Shadz.

“Don’t move Mason! Put your hands in the air!” Shadz spoke nervously.

“Or what?” Mason’s reply came with a wry smile.

“I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Shoot an unarmed man? You don’t have the balls.”

Mason stepped towards Shadz and made a scissor movement with both hands, sweeping them into Shadz’ gun holding wrist. The impact knocked the Sig from his hand and Mason followed with a forward kick to the stomach. Shadz folded exhaling through his teeth. Mason grabbed his head, rammed it down onto his up coming knee, rocking Shadz with a powerful blow and smashing his nose. Mason swept his hand under Shadz’ head, tilted his chin up and broke his jaw with a ram rod downward blow. Shadz crumpled. Mason watched the body slump, picked up the Sig, slid it into his belt below his coat, checked his reflection and walked straight out. There was no-one to be seen. He walked out of the hotel and hailed a passing taxi.

Time for that rest and relaxation he thought to himself as the taxi drove away in the direction of Camden.

Back in the hotel on the second floor Jaz found a man standing outside his door holding a plate of sandwiches and talking to a member of the waiting staff.

“… gone and my coat and my hat and these were on the table. I want the manager, now!”

Jaz pulled out her badge.

“What’s going on?” She asked.

The man was half way through his story when Jaz connected the theft, the temp worker at reception, the sandwiches, the man’s words as she approached and the flash image of a man in a coat and hat entering the toilet from the lifts just as she left the foyer. She pulled out her phone and called Shadz on fast dial; it rang twice before she leapt to the stairs and tumbled down them into reception.

She dashed across to the toilet door, drew her Sig, off safety, and entered the toilet. Shadz lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Jaz nearly cried out and pulling herself together and holding his wrist felt a flood of relief feeling the weak, but regular pulse. Once more on the phone she called an ambulance and then the rest of the DIC team. Then she checked Shadz. He was unconscious, damaged, but clearly alive.

She waited with him and called DIC centre. The check on CCTV was stepped up. A trace on the taxi was begun too.

Claridge’s Hotel Mayfair London

6 – 15 p.m.

April 18th

Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair was just what the doctor ordered for Cobb. The contact had dropped Cobb off at the grandiose entrance and had the porter pull a glossy set of luggage from the boot of the Honda. Cobb out of place in his rough looking clothes, carrying the lumpy black bag with weapons in it, drew disparaging looks from the severe receptionist until his reservation under a diplomatic booking, no less than first class and a suite at that, quickly changed her mind.

Cobb’s luggage was carried ahead of him into the lift and onward into the well designed and impressive one bedroom Claridge’s suite.

Cobb tipped the porter, though not too generously and waited for the man to leave. He took a turn around the rooms, found the mini bar and poured some Bourbon into a glass and dropped some ice in. He took a long drawn out swallow from the drink to feel the ice rest against his top lip before it dropped back into the glass.

He smiled almost manically.

The first class treatment suited him well. To the victor the spoils he now knew to be true. He unpacked the black leather cases to find full sets of clothes, which he unpacked and put away. There were two suits, one dinner suit and a black single breasted wool rich suit. He briefly checked the sizes and was impressed at the accuracy. There were clean cotton socks and boxer shorts in plain sober colours and the shirts were well made and comfortable looking. There was a stainless steel Rolex Oyster in its box, white gold cufflinks and Cobb’s favourite after shave, Calvin Klein Contradiction. There was a set of Gillette’s best disposables and every other type of bathroom self grooming product. There was also an envelope with five hundred pounds in notes and change, all used. Finally to his great joy there was a carton of Lucky Strike and a stainless steel Zippo, already primed and fuelled.

Cobb opened the carton slit open a new soft pack, flicked a cigarette out, did a neat trick lighting the Zippo with a finger click, drew in and pushed out the smoke in a heady sigh and went back to the mini bar. After having poured and drunk another glass of Bourbon he began to try and book a table in the restaurant only to find that it had already been done. Having also established that there was a Casino nearby he headed for the bathroom.

It was half an hour later that he emerged and dressed himself in the dinner suit. He checked his reflection. He’d made a few small changes to his appearance, not much, but enough to make the ‘search pictures’ vaguely inaccurate. He checked the time with the speaking clock and set the Rolex, slipping the expanding strap comfortably over his thick wrist.

He sat for a moment with the PSS pistol laying on a hand towel. He took it apart and cleaned it. He had only four rounds left, but he did have the black bag with the sub machine gun under the bed, there were three clips of ammunition too. Cobb put the silent PSS pistol into the waist band at the back of his trousers and turned his reflection in the full length mirror this way and that. Sure that he looked great and that the pistol didn’t show he picked up the cash and his key and walked to the lift.

The Gordon Ramsey restaurant was expensively low key and Cobb was amused that they’d booked him a reservation, that couldn’t have been easy. Cobb knew that the cost of the dinner would go with the room and someone else was picking up the bill. It was all gravy from there and he felt sure he’d make the hit and take the million. With the hardships of the last days in mind, like Mason, he set his heart on some rest and recreation. He settled down in the 1930’s style restaurant, plush red chairs and bright white linen creating a blood stain contrast, the irony of which was not lost on him. When the food was drifted in by waves of waiters it was exquisite, as was the well chosen wine.