Jon Merz - Raider X

The man stopped but didn’t turn around. Silence draped itself over the courtyard like a wet blanket. Even the birds seemed to be listening.

Thatcher’s voice sounded distant. “I couldn’t let him run.”

The man turned around. “Why not?”

“He would have gone straight to the police. I couldn’t risk it.”

“So you made your decision.”

Thatcher nodded. “Not my proudest moment, sir. I’ve never claimed I enjoyed killing, not even to my best mates. But when the time came, I felt I had to do it.”

“And you did.”

“Yes.” It felt weird hearing himself confess it. He hadn’t even done that with the priest last night. But here he was blathering away to a complete stranger like they were two old gals gossiping about the latest scandal.

The man walked back toward Thatcher. “Think you could do it again?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“You heard me. Could you kill again?”

Thatcher’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding. His head hurt now with all these questions. And throughout this brief exchange, those damned rifles still hadn’t moved.

Thatcher looked the man in his eyes. “I could.” He swallowed the bile that had been reaching up toward his mouth. “If I had to.”

The man continued to stare at him. Thatcher stared back.

After a moment, the man smiled ever so slightly. “You interested in a job, then?”

“A job?”

The man frowned. “Mind you if you say yes, the first thing we’re going to have to work on is you answering questions with more questions. It’s bloody annoying.”

“Just how long is this job, sir?”

The man smiled. “Is that a yes?”

Thatcher glanced back at the captain and the guards. He could see their frustration. He grinned this time.

“It’s a yes.”

The man nodded, turned, and waved to the captain. “I’m afraid we won’t be needing your services this morning after all, Captain Wakefield. You and your men are dismissed.”

The captain’s face fell, but he recovered himself quickly, barked out two more commands and the squad marched away, their boots stomping in perfect rhythm.

Thatcher stood there watching his executioners move off. He remembered to breathe and soon his face felt flushed.

The man came back and stood in front of Thatcher. “My name’s Stanley Hewitt. You and I are going to be fast friends, we are. And boy, do I have a job for you.”

Two hours later saw Thatcher freshly shaven and dressed in the rumpled dark gray suit he’d worn at his trial. He sat next to Hewitt as a grim-looking driver who looked as though he could easily tear the head off a lion without blinking drove them into London.

Hewitt noticed Thatcher giving the driver a steady look. “He’s my bodyguard. It’s his job to stop anyone who might have designs on harming me.”

Thatcher shook his head. “Why would anyone wish to harm you?”

Hewitt chuckled. “Wartime, Thatcher. London’s got a problem right now. German Abwehr agents are scattered throughout our lovely island home and they’ve been paying particular attention to my organization as late.”

Thatcher turned to watch the rest of the world pass them by. “Which organization do you work for? SIS?”

Hewitt showed a small smile. “You’ve heard of them?”

“Rumors mostly.”

Hewitt shook his head. “I don’t work for SIS. Damned fools have nearly ruined everything in Europe. Had two of their best captured by the Nazis at Venlo in the Netherlands last year. Took the Germans about two months to dismantle their networks. Awful state of affairs for them, I think.”

Thatcher wondered about trying the door handle and rolling free. How far he could run before he was captured? His hand was close to the handle. It wouldn’t take much to grab it and lever it open. He knew how to roll from a moving car thanks to a circus performer he’d known some years back who used to jump and run from trains. Probably the same principles applied.

Thatcher felt his heart thumping hard again. He tried to grin. Show his interest. “So, if not SIS—?”

“SOE,” said Hewitt. “Stands for Special Operation Executive. We were created initially to help partisans in the countries the Germans have grabbed, to organize them into some form of a coherent saboteur group. Some of our operatives parachute into these areas and get things cracking. It’s dangerous work, mind you.”

Thatcher didn’t mind danger provided he was the one who determined when he got involved in it. And the job Hewitt seemed to be hinting at seemed less like something Thatcher wanted to be involved with.

The door handle was mere inches away. Thatcher looked forward and saw a small jam of traffic. This would be it, he’d grab the handle and heave himself out. Before the beast in the front seat could do a thing, Thatcher would be blocks away.

Hewitt seemed oblivious to the machinations of Thatcher’s mind. He sat there puffing away on a pipe, filling the car with odious smoke.

They passed Grovesnor Square and Thatcher could see the source of traffic. An old woman crossing the street. Car horns blared trying to get her to move. She ambled along at her own pace.

The car slowed.

Thatcher steeled himself.

As the car stopped, Thatcher lunged for the door handle and yanked it back.

Nothing happened.

Hewitt turned ever so slowly in his seat and regarded Thatcher. “Did I forget to mention this car’s a bit different from some of the ones you’ve probably ridden in? Jeremy here thought it might make better sense to not enable the doors in back to be opened from within. You understand, don’t you? We didn’t want you doing a runner without hearing us out first.”

Thatcher slumped back into his seat with a sigh. “You’re going to parachute me into Europe?”

Hewitt smiled. “Oh heavens no. We’ve something far more special in mind for the likes of you.”

“That’s good. I rather hate airplanes.”

Hewitt looked at him. “Indeed? And how do you feel about boats?”

“I don’t know a damned thing about them.”

“Excellent.” Hewitt pointed ahead of them. “Here we are. Save your questions and I promise they’ll be answered soon enough.”

The car drew abreast of a small office building. Baker Street. Thatcher saw the number 64 on the door. “Ah, I see it now. You’re Sherlock Holmes then. Am I to be Dr. Watson?”

Hewitt’s door opened first. Before he got out, he stared at Thatcher. “Mind yourself here, Thatcher. Don’t fuck about.”

Hewitt walked around to his side and so did his bodyguard. Thatcher noticed Jeremy stayed ahead and to Hewitt’s left side.

Then Thatcher’s door opened and Hewitt’s smiling face beamed into the interior. “Let’s go.”

Thatcher let Hewitt lead the way. This time, Jeremy stayed behind them. Probably more to keep me in line than protect him, thought Thatcher. But any thoughts of running had deserted him when he noticed the telltale outline of a pistol underneath Jeremy’s overcoat.

A uniformed guard who probably had no idea what he was guarding inside the building held the door open for them. Hewitt strode inside.

Contrary to the bustling city scene outside, the inside of the building was as quiet as a library. An opaque white marble floor led up to a dark brown mahogany desk that Hewitt shouldered Thatcher up to. Behind it, an older woman sat staring at them. She might have known who Hewitt was, but she gave no indication of it. Her voice was business only.

“Gentlemen, please place your identification papers on the desk in front of me.”

Thatcher noticed one of her hands stayed out of sight. Hewitt and Jeremy both placed their papers open. The woman’s eyes looked them over. She regarded both of them and then nodded.