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Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

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Tom Hinshelwood The Killer

The Killer: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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A Ludlum-esque debut thriller involving a classic cat and mouse game between governments and assassins and filled with adrenaline-charged action The hunter has become the hunted. Victor is a freelancer, a professional, a killer – the best there is. No one knows his background, or even his name. For him, it is a straight transaction. He is given a job, he takes the target out, he gets paid. The less he knows about the target – and the client – the better. And the less his clients know about him, the safer he feels. Paris, present day. Victor is hired to kill his target and recover a flash drive. Job done, he realizes that there is a team watching him, and he has become the next target. Narrowly shooting his way out of trouble, he goes on the run across Europe to find out who bought his services and why they now want him dead. Without realizing it, Victor stumbles into the crossfire of an international conspiracy unfolding across four continents. No place is safe for him anymore. But Victor is not the kind of man to double-cross.

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He moved closer, staying near to cupboards and work surfaces for cover in case someone burst through from the alleyway beyond. An approaching siren beckoned him to walk faster, but his awareness of the current danger ensured his movements were slow and controlled.

If another gunman was waiting in the alley and covering the doorway, Victor would need to have surprise on his side to stand a chance of making it out alive. Hurrying would only make an enemy’s job easier. They were going to have to earn their money today.

He took another step and stopped.

Movement.

A reflection on the stainless steel cupboard door to his left. Just a blur of motion, but he understood its meaning and spun around to see a pantry door swinging open hard, a dark-haired woman charging out of the darkness, her handgun rapidly coming into line with his position.

Victor reacted faster, shooting first, two shots, hitting center mass. The impact knocked her off her feet and threw her backward into the adjoining room from where she’d emerged.

He covered the distance fast, saw her lying on her back, alive, eyes closed, two small circles of blood around the scorch marks in her blouse. She was gasping, one lung collapsed. The gun was right next to her, but she didn’t try to get to it. She was too scared.

Victor’s shadow fell over her and she looked up. She was surprisingly attractive, twenty-eight or-nine, pain in her delicate features, terror in her piercing eyes. She stared at him, gaze pleading, tears spilling down her cheeks, lips he would have liked to kiss, moving but making no sound, not enough air in her lungs to speak, to beg. Or to tell him anything useful. He spared a moment to consider how someone like her could have ended up in this business. But whatever her story had been, it was about to have a depressing end. Her head shook slowly from side to side.

The smoking cartridge bounced on the floor tiles.

He searched her. Like the others she had no wallet, no identification of any kind. They were clearly smart operators even if they had been dumb enough to take this contract. One of those left had to have something Victor could use. He didn’t want to entertain the thought that they might not.

He discarded the Beretta and picked up the dead woman’s gun. It was a good weapon, a Heckler and Koch USP, compact version,.45 caliber, with a short, stubby suppressor. He pulled out the eight-round magazine, saw the match-grade hollow-point rounds, and slammed the mag back in. Obviously a killer who took pride in the tools of her trade. Well, used to.

He grabbed a spare mag from her jacket before rushing out the back entrance and into the alleyway, keeping low, gazing left, then right, sweeping the HK as he looked. No one. He hid the gun in his waistband and headed toward the main street, pleased that finally one of them had a decent gun for him to steal. Assassins could have such very poor taste.

With the woman dead that made five down.

Only two to go.

There was a large crowd outside the front of the hotel. Guests and employees alike, shocked, overawed and scared, seeking solace together. Only a handful of people knew what was lying in a corridor on the fourth floor, but talk of blood and bodies had spread fast. A single policeman was doing his best to try and move them back. Pedestrians were rushing to the scene to find out what was happening.

Victor exited the alleyway and walked among the crowd, his pace brisk but no quicker than anyone else’s, moving laterally as much as he could, not wanting to give any possible snipers an easy target. It was unlikely that anyone would take such a shot, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it. He saw the blue van parked fifty yards down the street, sitting anonymously along the curb by a phone booth. The rear doors were facing toward him. He couldn’t see if anyone was behind the wheel.

If it hadn’t gone yet there was a good chance that at least one more assassin was still about. As Victor approached he caught sight of exhaust gases emanating from the van. Good, there would be someone behind the wheel while the engine idled. In the commotion, Victor knew he could get right up alongside the van before any driver knew he was there. He went to cross the street, his right foot leaving the curb, but he went no farther.

On the other side of the road, directly opposite from the hotel, a stocky man was hurrying down the steps at the front of a whitewashed apartment building. Slung over his shoulder was a large black sports bag, the kind that could easily contain a tennis racket, hockey stick.

Or high-velocity rifle.

He stopped dead when he saw Victor looking straight at him. His reaction a perfect ID. Both men stood completely still as chaos swept around them. The sniper was first to break the stalemate. He glanced to his left, toward where the van was parked. He and Victor were equidistant from it.

Victor took a step forward. The sniper took one backward. He reached into his jacket. Victor did the same. A police car turned onto the street, lights flashing, siren blaring. Both men saw it and any thoughts of drawing guns vanished.

The sniper again glanced at the van, perhaps in the hope that help might be coming. When he realized it wasn’t he turned around and rushed back up the steps to the apartment building.

Victor quickened his pace but to avoid drawing attention couldn’t run. He reached the opposite sidewalk in time to see the door slam shut behind his prey. He took the steps two at a time. He tried the door handle but it was dead bolted. He couldn’t risk kicking it in or shooting the lock through, not with more police entering the street.

Victor descended the steps and looked both ways down the street, searching for some way to get round to the back of the building. There was an alleyway twenty yards to the right. Victor hurried toward it.

As soon as he was out of sight he sprinted, coming out of the far end and into the backstreet,.45 in hand. No sign of the sniper. If he’d left the building already Victor would be able to see him now. Which meant he was staying put. Victor was surprised. The sniper had chosen to wait, to fight.

Victor wasn’t about to disappoint him.

The lock on the back door was a good one and would’ve taken Victor almost thirty seconds to pick had the fat.45 caliber slugs not blasted it to pieces. He loaded a full magazine and stepped into a wide, sparsely furnished hallway, the floor covered in a colorful mosaic. There were three interior doors, two with numbers on them. A large staircase dominated the space.

Victor approached it, gun held out before him in a two-handed combat grip. His hotel room had been on the fourth floor and so it would be from the fifth that the sniper had been covering Victor’s window. That room was familiar, safe. If the sniper had fled to anywhere, he would have gone there.

Victor took the steps one at time, slowly, quietly, always looking up, ready in case the sniper was waiting to ambush him. He reached the second floor, scanned the landing, then started his way up the next flight of stairs.

He paused for a few seconds on the third floor to listen. When he didn’t hear anything he made his way up to the fourth. From the fifth floor, he heard a door open, then a woman’s voice, somewhat surprised, but friendly, helpful.

“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” Can I help you?

Then a clack clack followed by the thud as a body hit the floor. Victor made his move, sprinting up the flight of steps while the sniper was momentarily distracted. He saw the sniper as he was turning around from his kill, standing at the top of the stairs.

Victor fired on the move, the angle bad, and a hollow point blew a chunk out of the banister. The sniper instinctively lurched back, and two more bullets blew holes from the ceiling above him, a fourth struck the black iron lattice beneath the banister and sent off a flash of bright sparks. The sniper let off a few rounds from his own handgun, firing blind as he threw himself out of Victor’s line of sight. He appeared again briefly, firing as he moved, Victor returning fire, neither man hitting.

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