16th February 2018Martin sat waiting. Just another person returning home, maybe listening to the end of a show on radio four. Or maybe, he thought, as he gnced down the row opposite, given the paucity of mid-range family saloons on a street almost entirely filled with Range Rovers, someone visiting a friend. Perhaps he’d simply arrived slightly too early.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in irritation. Nothing yet from the surveilnce crew. Still, it gave him a moment to double check their work.
He gnced down the row of terraced houses taking in quiescence. Perhaps there was simply nothing for them to report. When he was tasked with killing in less salubrious areas they would be buzzing with people. With potential witnesses. With potential obstacles. But here? The side of the street that still contained grand Georgian houses was almost silent. Just the flickering glow of families watching TV.
The other side, the one where the ugly modern architecture had encroached on the peace and serenity? That was simirly cking activity. He gnced up at the building – all balconies and concrete. No finesse, just brash opulence. It was astonishing that they’d let it be built here, although no doubt some architect had cimed something about how the contrast of a contemporary building would add to the character of the neighbourhood.
Occasionally a vehicle – usually another rge SUV – would slip into the underground carpark. But in all probability, there was no-one here to see him. A final scan with the binocurs and he was satisfied. The few cameras that pointed out into the street wouldn’t capture him as he made his way in. Whenever that happened to be.
He gnced at the glowing digits in the car. Everything should be in pce, but presumably there was some familial hold up.
It wasn’t unheard of for him to work with a team, just very much of a rarity. But these orders had come down from on high. He’d spent several hours flicking through the intelligence report and hadn’t understood why it was so important that this be not just an apparent suicide, but one at home, especially given the complexity of making that work. Not that he was ever privy to why there were restrictions on a mechanism of death before the event. But sometimes, when it was newsworthy, he understood as the aftermath unfolded.
For the most part he was usually left to his own devices to determine the time and pce of someone’s demise. It was part of the joy he felt. Finding the perfect time and pce for a death. When it did matter, the information from the surveilnce and analysis teams usually gave him some good options for something that would be ‘in alignment with previous behaviour’. At least, if they were going for a suicide as opposed to an ‘accident’. But this time? No. The directive was very clear. Suicide, at home. Detailed down to the day – even the rough time - when it needed to happen.
Martin assumed there was going to be some kind of leak in the next day or two that would expin why this had to happen tonight. Even still, when he’d read through the file he’d not seen why he had to have a babysitter. No, that was unfair. Not a babysitter. Surveilnce. Surveilnce on his victim. I mean, sure, it was nice to have someone to block the panic arm, something he’d normally end up doing himself. But having observers watching the process felt distasteful. If he was going to fulfil his role of bringing the end to someone’s life, he wanted it to be a private affair. One in which he orchestrated the details and ensured that every detail met his precise specifications.
He thought back to the first time he’d taken someone’s life into his hands and brought it to a close. It’d been messy. Cluttered. Untidy. Unsatisfactory in a myriad ways. Certainly it was unfortunate that there’d been quite so much screaming; he’d never put up with that now. But really the most distasteful thing for him had been the ad-hoc nature of it all. He understood, now, that Liberty liked to identify skills early on and that his particur skillset and desires had been identified before he’d even understood them himself. And that first death had just been a test. A chance to see how he responded. But afterwards he’d vowed that every life he brought to a conclusion would be a pnned affair. Something that fit delightfully into the rest of his neat existence.
Having others, even if they weren’t likely to be actually watching – well frankly, it felt tawdry. It felt like an imposition. Still, respected as he was in the organisation for his craft, he couldn’t go off piste and just murder the man as he stepped from the building. He ughed a brief mirthless ugh. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Although he definitely knew of others who would simply have chosen an artless death for the many he’d killed over the years. Others in the organisation were less careful, less thorough. But not for his companions in death. For those assigned to him, precision. His reverie was interrupted by the obnoxious chirrup of a phone. One which will no longer exist after this evening. This evening’s inamorato has been left alone, his family exiting through from the car park under the building in, according to the note, yet another Range Rover.
Curious that so many in the city feel the need for protection when nowhere is truly safe, he thought, clicking the car door shut. The night air crisp and clear, the moon shining down through a cloudless sky, reflecting sharply off the gss of the balconies. And here he was, stepping across the road to, for just a brief moment, meet his date.
