Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

Victor was on his feet in an instant, quickly changing position, moving into the center of the room, knowing that he had to keep moving, that to stay in the same place only made it easier for his assailant.

The sniper ducked back round the corner and fired off two quick shots in the direction of the doorway, the bullets sailing through the open space where Victor’s head had been seconds before. He moved further into the room, making the angle between him and the sniper more and more acute. If the sniper wanted to see him he was going to have to stick his head around the corner. When he did, Victor was going to blow it off. But he didn’t take the bait.

Five seconds passed and Victor imagined the sniper moving through the apartment to get behind him. There were two other ways out of the lounge, too far apart to watch them both at once.

Victor dashed over to the dining-room entrance, leaned round the corner. The sniper had gone. There was an open door at the opposite end, through which Victor could see the kitchen. Silently he moved over to the kitchen and peered inside. Empty. There was only one other door. Victor hurried over to it, noting the tiny dark spots of blood on the white tiled floor.

Looking through the doorway he saw the sniper. He was crouched down in a hallway, his back pressed against a wall, gun in both hands, about to lean into the lounge and shoot Victor in the back. At least that’s what he thought.

He was taking a series of deep breaths, summoning courage. He stopped mid inhale. Maybe he saw a dark shape in his peripheral vision, maybe some sixth sense warned him. He twisted to fire and Victor shot him in the chest. He slumped farther down the wall, still alive, the gun held loosely in his hand. On his face was etched an expression of amazement, as if he couldn’t comprehend he’d been shot. A red mist hung in the air.

The slide was back on the.45, so Victor released the empty mag and slammed the spare in, pulled the slide to load a bullet into the chamber, and shot the sniper twice more.

Victor checked the body, took the earpiece and transmitter, but found nothing else. He headed to the floor’s other apartment. Inside the hallway he found the black sports bag; unzipping it he discovered a SIG556 ER rifle with scope and what looked like a custom-made suppressor. In a side pocket, he found a dry-cleaning receipt and an electronic door key. He took both. On the receipt it said: Le Hôtel Abrial.

Now he had something.

He moved into the lounge and opened a window. Leaning out, he saw the blue van still parked by the curb in the street below.

A crackle of static. A voice came through the earpiece. The French was broken, strained. Another foreigner. The ones who could speak French probably used it as the common language. Maybe it had been a requirement on the application form.

“Venez dans quelqu’un, quiconque.”

In the background he could hear a police siren, close to the speaker. The last man was outside. Then the voice came through again. The same plea for contact. Again the police siren in the background, then the rumble of an engine as a vehicle passed the speaker. Victor watched a police motorcycle slowly pass the blue van before stopping right in front of the hotel.

He took the rifle from the bag and extended the collapsible buttstock. With his left hand, he turned the radio’s frequency dial a fraction counterclockwise, to add some static. He held the radio up and pressed send, speaking in French, his accent deliberately off, sentence construction as basic as possible to make sure the guy would understand.

“We’re the only two left,” he said, sounding scared. “He’s killed everyone else.”

He released the button, giving whoever it was chance to respond. The voice that came back was thin, desperate.

“Where are you?”

“Inside the hotel.”

“The target?”

Victor began screwing the suppressor in place.

“Heading for the front exit. He’s wounded. I shot him.”

He made sure the suppressor was tight and attached the telescopic sight.

“If you’re quick you can get him when he comes out. He’s not armed. Hurry.”

He checked the scope’s magnification, made sure a bullet was in the chamber, and thumbed off the safety. Victor put the radio down, took up a seated position on the window sill, and held the rifle out of sight.

The driver’s-side door opened and a man jumped out onto the curb. He was strongly built, well over six feet tall, short hair, wearing a loose denim jacket. He quickly moved along the exterior of the van and leaned round the back end, looking toward the hotel across the street. He drew a handgun and held it out of sight under his jacket, attention firmly fixed on the hotel entrance. He was in good cover, between the van and a phone booth. Victor watched him, anticipating his movements. The man moved well, skill evident. They should have used him inside.

For a long moment he remained perfectly still, watching, waiting. After a minute his posture stiffened and he glanced from side to side, eyes searching the crowds. He stepped back, out of cover, turned around, looked up.

Straight at Victor.

Through the telescopic sight Victor watched the man’s eyes go wide for an instant before a corona of blood erupted from the back of his head. He dropped out of sight, leaving half the contents of his skull sliding slowly down the van’s rear windows.

08:45 CET

Victor left the apartment building through the front door. In the street outside the crowd had grown considerably. He counted half a dozen police officers, but none of them were paying him the least bit of attention. Farther up the street Victor could see the red splash on the back of the van, but the body was hidden between the parked vehicles. Everyone was too preoccupied to notice it.

Knowing he didn’t have much time, Victor hurried along the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians who stood gawking at the commotion. The morbidity of the general public always amazed him. He closed the distance to the van, glancing down to see the corpse lain down in a heap between the van and the sedan parked behind it. No one was looking, but it wasn’t worth the risk to check the body’s pockets.

He opened the door against the curb and climbed into the driver’s seat. It smelled musty inside-the smell of too many men in an enclosed space for an extended period. Resting on the dash was a cardboard tray with six empty coffee cups. There was nothing else in the cab, so he opened the glove compartment. Inside was a manila envelope that contained his dossier, thankfully brief. It was a single piece of paper listing his details-race: Caucasian, height: six-one/two, weight: one hundred eighty pounds, hair: black, eyes: brown-and included a short paragraph stating he was a contract killer and a dangerous target. Scrawled by hand at the top of the sheet was the name of his hotel, his room number, and his current alias, Richard Bishop.

Victor placed a hand to his stomach. More like one seventy eight.

Beneath the dossier was his face, or at least a face that could have been his. It was a digital composite, close enough to the real thing to have been composed from reasonably reliable and recent information. A verbal description here, a grainy closed-circuit camera image there-add a dash of rumor and serve.

The photo-fit was a worry, but he was relieved to find that their knowledge of him was so limited. If they knew anything else it would be here as well. Even the most amateur of assassins knows the value of a detailed dossier, and even the most cautious of clients wants his hirelings to have every advantage available. He folded the sheet up and placed it into his inside pocket. There were no postmarks on the envelope so he left it.