Michael Carroll - Sakkara

“They might still be interested. It could be worth phoning them. Just to see.”

“What are you talking about?” Niall asked, looking from one to the other.

Before Danny could reply, the television once again cut back to the newsreaders in the studio. “Breaking news just in,” the male newsreader said, clearly excited, “another Channel 6 exclusive! It seems that following this evening’s rescue of five people from a burning toy store, new heroes Diamond and Kid Titan saved a young couple from four men attempting to mug them. Apparently, the heroes managed to scare off the muggers, but not before Kid Titan was knocked unconscious.”

Danny suddenly sat up straight.

The newsreader continued: “One of the muggers’ intended victims – part-time nurse Jacqueline Caldwell – used her mobile phone’s built-in camera to take this photograph of Kid Titan.”

The screen showed a grainy, low-resolution photo of Colin, unconscious and unmasked, lying on the ground.

Niall squealed and was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “I told you Colin was Kid Titan!” he shouted at Danny. “I told you!”

ALMOST FIVE THOUSANDmiles away, in the Chinese city of Jiamusi, a gunman lay on the balcony of his luxury hotel room, a high-powered rifle in his hands.

The gunman was in his mid-forties, though little about his physical features gave that away. He was completely bald – lacking even eyelashes – and his pallid, mottled skin was a network of thick red and white scars. He was tall, but slightly built, with long wiry arms ending in thin, nailless fingers.

He had not moved from his position since before dawn, staring through the rifle’s telescopic sight, which was fixed on a specific window of the apartment block across the busy street.

Through the sight the gunman could only see a small portion of the room opposite, but he had chosen his location carefully: that portion of the room contained a mirror, and reflected in that mirror he could see part of an occupied bed.

Then the occupant of the bed stirred, reached out to shut off an alarm clock.

Finally , the gunman said to himself. Barely moving, he reached into his shirt pocket and removed a single bullet-shaped pellet. He used his teeth to tear open the pellet’s plastic coating, slipped the pellet into the rifle and waited, finger on the trigger.

Two minutes later, the apartment’s window opened – as he knew it would – and directly in his line of sight was a woman’s bare arm.

He squeezed the trigger. The rifle made a faint phut! sound and the arm was instantly pulled back.

The gunman waited long enough to watch – through the mirror – the woman climb back into bed, yawning.

Now – move! He quickly crawled backwards, into the hotel room, disassembling his rifle as he went.

Getting to his feet, he dropped the rifle’s components into a black canvas bag, slung it over his shoulder, then quickly and quietly darted from the room.

The gunman silently raced along the corridor and dashed quickly past the room occupied by the businessman who – for some unfathomable reason – never fully closed his door.

As he ran, the gunman pulled a forged key-card out of his pocket. The previous day, he had picked the pocket of the guest staying in room 1102, duplicated the card then left the original where it could easily be found in the hotel’s lobby.

Directly ahead was room 1102: the gunman slipped the card into the lock and stepped through.

Inside, a startled man was sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating toast and reading a newspaper. He barely had time to say, “What…?” before the gunman emptied the contents of a small aerosol canister into his face.

The man collapsed backwards, unconscious.

The gunman checked the hotel guest’s pulse. Good. Strong and steady. He’ll sleep for about four hours and won’t remember a thing.

The gunman opened the balcony doors and peered out. His car was parked in the alley below, ten floors down. He pulled a thin rope out of his canvas bag, connected the quick-release hook to the balcony’s railing and vaulted over the edge.

Hand over hand, he quickly rappelled down the rope, dropping the last two metres. A quick, sharp tug on the rope and the hook above automatically disconnected. He caught the hook, then ran for his car, coiling the rope as he went.

He had his car keys in his hand and was reaching for the lock when the car’s windscreen suddenly shattered.

The gunman instantly vaulted over the car, just as a hail of silenced bullets ploughed through the air, barely missing him.

Damn it! I knew they’d try something like this!

Then a voice called out, “Mr Jackson? You would do well to surrender!”

“Perfect,” he muttered to himself. “It’s Junior.”

“We know your methods, Mr Jackson! We know you never carry any lethal weapons on a mission where you’re not expected to kill! We have you outnumbered. There is nothing you can do!”

Right , the gunman thought. You think you know me. You think I’m some honourable assassin who always plays by a set of rules. Well, if you think I didn’t see this coming you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

He reached into the canvas bag and pulled out a Heckler and Koch P7K3 semi-automatic pistol, a small snub-nosed weapon that in the right hands could be deadly accurate.

Lying flat on his back, the gunman crawled halfway under the car and looked out. He could see three pairs of feet. Two of his would-be killers had their feet spread apart: the stance of someone proficient with a powerful hand-gun. Junior’s bodyguards.

He aimed and fired four times in quick succession, hitting the bodyguards’ ankles. The men fell to the ground screaming.

The remaining set of feet shuffled, then turned and ran.

The gunman rolled out from under the car and charged after the young Chinese man.

Junior had almost reached the entrance to the alley when the gunman floored him with a flying kick to the small of his back.

He pulled Junior to his feet, pressing the muzzle of the gun into his neck. “Whose idea was this? Your father’s?”

Junior shook his head. “No!”

The gunman dragged Junior back towards his car and handed him the keys. “Get in.”

Shaking, Junior unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Start it up.”

As the car rumbled to life, Junior asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere,” the gunman growled. He reached in, grabbed Junior around the neck and pulled him out of the car. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t have a bomb wired to the ignition.” He forced the young man to his knees. “You hire me to put your rival out of commission so she’ll miss today’s meeting. You don’t want her dead because that would bring her gang into conflict with yours. That’s good thinking. I applaud that. She misses the meeting and suddenly it looks to everyone that her people don’t care about your precious trade agreements.”

“Mr Jackson, I—”

“Shut up. I’m not finished. So all on your own you decide that instead of paying me my two million dollars, you and your friends will kill me and keep the money for yourself. And Sheng Senior will never find out, right?”

“No, it wasn’t like that!”

“Then what was it like?”

Junior Sheng didn’t have an answer.

“I thought so. Junior, your old man is a fool if he believes that one day you’re going to be able to take over his organisation.” The gunman laughed. “You actually thought you could kill me. You hired me because I’ve got the best reputation in the business. I have never failed to take down a target, but somehow you thought that you and your goons would be able to stop me.”