He reached his flat in Barbican, sweating from the twenty minute jog. It was almost 10:15 - enough time to shower and change.
As he washed, a dry lump formed in his throat. Whatever arrived for him this morning would dictate the rest of the day. He supposed that was no different from how it always was, but today those instructions could be a trigger. They could force his hand.
After dressing in jeans and trainers, he waited in the sitting room. At ten-thirty exactly, a knock came to the door.
Brock grabbed his gun and slotted it in the waistband of his jeans. The cold nozzle pressed on his ass cheek.
The man at the door was roughly the same height as Brock. He wore a brown uniform and peaked cap. He held a yellow plastic parcel, soft, like a cushion. It took Brock a moment to recognize the man dressed as a DXL delivery guy. It was Carter, one of the others Brock had trained with. His face and eyes projected a blankness only years of covert people watching could produce.
He handed Brock the package.
“Put this on and come down to the van,” Carter said. “It’s in the car park. We have until midday to complete the job.”
Brock took the package and felt its weight. It was soft, but there were hard lumps within.
“What do you mean ‘we’?” he asked. “Are you my partner?”
Carter nodded once, his eyes spoke of nothing and he turned to walk back down the corridor.
Brock thought fast. “You could come in and wait,” he said. It seemed like a futile suggestion, but anyone he partnered with would usually come in and go over the plan.
“My orders are to wait in the van,” Carter said.
Brock watched him disappear to the lift. It was clear now that Mason didn’t trust him to do it alone.
After closing the door he ripped open the package. As expected it was a DXL uniform, complete with cap and boots. Brock took a slow intake of air as he looked at the garments. The plan would be told to him en-route.
He took his time changing. The uniform was a perfect fit. The trousers had no pockets but the jacket had an inside compartment that easily held his gun.
It was looking likely now that in the next half hour he would have to kill. The man waiting outside, Brock knew, was the one who liked to play everything by the book. Back in those days of training, Carter had been the most attentive in following the instructor’s commands without the slightest detour, almost robotic in his execution. Brock often remembered clocking Carter’s eyes as orders were delivered, seeing them devouring every last detail, as though storing every syllable of every word, right down to the inflexion in the commander’s voice.
Brock’s initial impression was that Carter aimed to outshine his peers, impress the trainers beyond what was expected. But on occasion, after the instructions were given, and the team relaxed into the preliminary tasks of going about the operation, Brock would note the tension behind Carter’s eyes, and the thoroughness in his approach, often checking and rechecking even the simplest of actions. Carter listened the most, and followed to the letter, because he was afraid of fucking up. Brock had never truly decided if that were the case, and Carter had never confided that it was, but in all the years they’d trained together, that opinion of Carter had always been the same.
Whatever the case, Brock knew that right now Carter might be as suspicious of having a partner as Brock was, and that would make him follow orders to an even greater precision. Trying to get the man to cut corners, or make even the slightest detour, which Drake often tried with him during those training days, would be like trying to get a river to go one way and not another.
Brock decided his best policy was to go along with him, and look for the weak points in his plan.
Before leaving the flat, he retrieved the small dispenser kit from the fridge. He took out the two remaining cylindrical cartridges: a tranquilizer, and Potassium Chloride. He slotted the tranquilizer into the dispenser and placed it in his pocket with the gun, the other he shoved into the side of his boot.
He grabbed the wad of cash that was his Friday night payment and shoved it down his socks. He doubted he’d return today, or tomorrow, or any other day. He left his clothes, laptop and mobile inside, and closed the door.
The lift took him to the basement parking. He noticed the van parked directly ahead. A cargo van, one of those medium sized vehicles used by delivery firms. It even had the DXL logo splashed down its side. Engine running.
Brock climbed in; the van took off.
The PDA device on the dashboard was standard for all delivery guys, but Brock knew this one would be a dud. A coffin sized parcel lay in the hold. The size and shape, enough for a guy with Toby’s build, sent a pinch to his heart.
“What’s in the parcel?” he asked.
Carter turned to him, one side of his mouth rose slightly. He said nothing.
Brock resisted the urge to inhale loudly. The slightest hint of unease would alert Carter.
“Where is the job?” he asked.
“You’ll see when we arrive,” Carter said. “I’m with you as back-up in case something goes wrong. You are to do the job.”
Brock gave nothing away except a single nod and continued to watch the road. The day was bright and warm, sweat dampened his armpits. He maintained perfect stillness as the van drove at a regular pace through the city streets, heading to the east end of town. The traffic was light for mid-morning, and Brock wanted each turn to reveal a jam or a broken down bus. But as Carter took side streets and avoided the busy roads, the journey continued at a consistent pace. It wasn’t long until the van pulled into the curb where Brock knew it would.
Carter stopped the engine.
“After the job we place the body in the box,” he said. “Then we take it to the pickup point.”
“Where is the pickup point?”
“We leave the van back at the block where I picked you up. The others will take care of it.”
“Who is the target?”
Carter answered with a chuckle, picked up the PDA from the dashboard, and opened the driver’s door.
“We go in with the parcel. I’ll take care of security if there’s a problem.”
Brock pulled his cap peak down and left the van.
The parcel wasn’t heavy but there was something inside, something hard like a wooden box. The hair on Brock’s neck stood on end. With one arm curled around the back end of the parcel he placed his other hand into his jacket and felt the gun and dispenser within easy reach. Carter led the way into the building.
“Hi, we have a delivery for apartment fourteen,” he said in a thick cockney accent as he placed down his end of the box. Brock lowered his side to the floor and stood behind Carter.
The concierge nodded and picked up the handset.
Will Toby answer the intercom? If he didn’t, the concierge would probably offer to receive the package. But it sounded like an all the way job, which would mean they’d have to get past the concierge.
Brock looked down at the box. He couldn’t see why Toby was so important, and he silently hoped he wouldn’t answer the concierge. And if he did, he would be suspicious and refuse delivery.
“Hello sir.” The concierge smiled. “There is a delivery from DXL in the lobby for you.”
Brock remained calm. This ‘delivery’ should make Toby cautious.
The concierge nodded and looked up.
“Who is the delivery for?” he asked.
Carter looked at his PDA.
“Mr Tyler Morgan,” he said.
Brock felt the air in his lungs ready to burst. Knowing the name of Toby’s flatmate meant their research had been as thorough as expected. As the concierge relayed this information over the handset, Brock felt trickles of sweat run down his back.
A second later, the man at the desk placed the handset down and hit a button.
“Second floor,” he said to Carter.
The word ‘shit’ passed through Brock’s mind but it didn’t quite say what he felt as he picked up his end of the parcel.
They passed through the gate and began to climb the steps. Brock felt around the gun handle in his jacket as he watched his partner ahead of him. It would be easy to drop Carter while they were isolated on the stairs.
They turned the first corner and a young woman headed down in a tight fitting blouse and skirt. Carter watched her pass - she paid no attention. His eyes followed her. Brock removed his hand from his jacket.
When the woman was out of sight Carter passed a brief smile to Brock, clearly turned on by what he’d seen. Brock knew from his eyes he was geared for the kill.
They carried on. Brock’s hand went back to his pocket.
On reaching the second floor, Brock’s fingers curled around the dispenser. The corridor was empty, and as they walked along, Carter looking at door numbers, Brock fished out the device and gripped it tight, concealing his hand beneath the box.
At apartment fourteen, Carter knocked. Brock waited at his end, away from the door.
A few seconds passed before Toby’s deep voice shouted from beyond.
“What is it?” He sounded annoyed.
“We have a delivery for Mr. Tyler Morgan,” Carter shouted in his put-on accent.
“Leave it by the door,” Toby shouted.
Brock felt relieved to hear the aggression in Toby’s voice.
“We need someone to sign for it,” Carter said with a faint tremor in his voice.
“Tyler Morgan isn’t here,” Toby shouted back. “He cannot sign.”
“That’s ok. We don’t need his signature but we need one to show it was delivered.” Carter frowned, glanced at Brock. Brock mouthed the words that they should abort the mission, but Carter shook his head.
“We need a signature otherwise we cannot leave the package,” Carter shouted back at the door.
Silence followed. Brock rubbed his palm against the dispenser. The needle slid forward.
“Take it away then, because I cannot sign for it,” Toby shouted.
Carter took a deep breath and turned to Brock with eyes that appeared to show flickers of doubt, as if he were mentally working out what the contingency plan was. Again, Brock saw that fear that he’d seen back in training and thought now was his chance to complicate matters, perhaps suggest a retreat and rethink. But Carter nodded curtly, as if reaching his own conclusion. He lowered his end of the parcel. Brock quickly lowered his.
Carter fumbled in his jacket and pulled out a small device with a spiral edged drill attached. Brock recognized it as a lock cutter. Giving a sigh, as if troubled by the effort he had to make, Carter aimed it carefully at the side of the keyhole.
Brock gripped the dispenser. With Carter focused on the lock, he stepped towards him, his eyes fixed on his neck. Before his colleague switched on the cutter, Brock curled his free arm around Carter’s head and jabbed the dispenser into the main artery leading to his brain.
Within a second Carter’s hand was on that arm. His fingers dug into Brock’s wrist as he tried to tear it from around his head. His other hand brought the lock cutter up. The drill dug into Brock’s knuckles. He knocked it away and maintained his grip, tensing his arm muscles, making them hard to withstand the deep digs of Carter’s fingers.
Carter pushed back and forced them across the corridor. Brock hit the wall. Wind blasted from his lungs.
Carter rammed him again, jerking his head like a club into Brock’s face. He managed to do this twice before his neck went limp and his head lolled to his shoulder. His arms dropped and he stumbled about the corridor like a drunken man on a rough sea trip. Brock held him up until he collapsed.
Catching his breath, Brock rolled up his sleeve and found red bruises from where Carter had gripped his wrist.
“Toby?” Brock removed his cap and looked at the spyhole. “It’s ok, it’s me; the other guy is down.”
“What’s going on?” Toby sounded wary.
“Open the door; we have to get him inside.”
“What the hell are you doing in a DXL uniform?” Toby didn’t sound convinced. “Who is that other guy?”
“Open up, I swear it’s safe. The other guy is unconscious. I drugged him.”
Silence lingered before the door unlocked.
Toby’s frowning eyes peeped around the gap. He gazed at Brock before his eyes drifted to the man on the floor. A second later the door opened fully.
“Back away.” Brock lifted Carter by the armpits and dragged him over the threshold then rushed back out for the box.
Once everything was inside, and after locking the door, Brock exhaled quickly and looked at Toby who gripped the bedroom door frame. His eyes projected a mind that had lost track of events, and he stared at the man on the floor as if he were about to get up and kill him.
“Get undressed,” Brock ordered as he crouched and began untying the laces on Carter’s boots. “We have no time.”
“What’s going on?”
Brock looked up to see Toby hadn’t moved from the door.
“We have to go,” he said. “Get undressed.”
Toby didn’t move; his eyes were fixed.
“What have you done to him?”
“He’s drugged, but he’ll be dead soon. Get undressed.”
With eyes wide, Toby pulled off his shirt.
Brock pulled Carter’s boots and trousers off. He cursed with each strain as he lifted his colleague’s heavy torso to strip him of the T-shirt.
He threw the garments at Toby and told him to put them on. Toby picked them up without question and disappeared to his room.
Brock gazed down at his unconscious colleague.
The day had come.
In the years gone by, Brock had planned for the moment he’d have to defend himself against one of his own. He and they had always known they were expendable, and that one day each one of them would be marked. But Brock didn’t like doing it either way; it wasn’t Carter’s fault.
As he stared at the man with whom he’d trained, his mind played over scenarios that Mason might accept. He could keep Carter drugged and injure him, perhaps bruise him severely. It could be possible that Toby had overpowered him, knocked him out, and escaped.
But Mason had clearly thought of that. He’d have seen pictures of Toby, judged his build, his youth, and deduced he was a two man job.
There was no covering this one up. It had started now; he had to go all the way.
Brock carefully removed the second cartridge from his boot. After ejecting the empty cartridge from the dispenser, he loaded the Potassium.
“I’m sorry Carter,” he said, and applied the injection that would stop his heart.
Deeply sedated, Carter’s body made no reaction.
Brock reached for the cap that lay on the floor beside him, and went to the bedroom, hoping to avoid any sudden convulsions from his ex-colleague. Toby had changed and was knelt on the floor lacing up the boots. He pulled them tight and stood.
Brock handed him the cap.
The cap was too small for Toby’s thick head of hair. Brock tried to help by pushing Toby’s fringe beneath the peak. It wouldn’t go, and the length at the sides and back were still visible.
“Do you have clippers?” Brock asked.
“Clippers? Why?
Brock glanced at his hair.
“Tyler has,” he said.
Brock told him to find them while he went back to check on Carter’s body.
The long package that lay beside him was easily opened. A rough cardboard lid folded out to reveal what Brock suspected. A wooden panelled box, not dissimilar to a coffin, lay inside.
After two lifts and pulls, Brock had him in the box. To be sure the potassium had done its job he checked for a pulse. There was none.
Toby returned to the hall with the clippers. Brock stood and nodded him back to the bedroom.
“I can do it for you,” Brock said as he took them.
Standing in front of the mirror, Toby was quiet as Brock clipped through his hair. Still wide eyed, Toby stared at himself but seemed not to notice the inches of thickness that disappeared from his scalp.
As the hair vanished, Brock saw a new Toby - one with a firmer jaw; bigger, alert eyes.
When the hair was gone, Toby ran his palm across the top. From his expression, it seemed to Brock that he liked it.
With the hat on and the peak down, he would pass for Carter. They were roughly the same height and build. Perhaps Carter was a touch taller, but not much.
“We should go now,” Brock said.
“What about clothes?”
“You cannot take anything. I have planned this; everything we need is taken care of. Bring any cash you have, leave your mobile here.”
Toby gazed, his eyes uncertain.
“Where are we going?”
Brock nodded back to the hall.
“We have to get rid of the body,” he said.
“How?”
Brock sighed; he could see Toby was stunned.
“I need you to help me get it downstairs to the van.”
Pacing the floor, Toby heaved as if to vomit.
“Was I supposed to be in that box?” he asked with a sharp frown.
Brock nodded but said nothing.