Lt. Winters was even more imposing in person than his military record suggested, and he was used to the area and blended in well. Mark supposed that, with a history like his, the ability to blend into any crowd was an essential skill to have, especially if life depended on it. Winters motioned to Mark, towards the empty chair facing him, and Mark gulped and nodded, watching Winters sit down heavily. There was not much in the way of conversation to begin with, silent stares and nods, before, eventually, Winters spoke.
‘You’re not from round here?’ he said in a deep, gruff voice. Mark shook his head and put down his pint.
‘No, I’m only here for the night,’ he said, hoping he was convincing. ‘Just passing through.’
Winters laughed through a few missing teeth and nodded.
‘Ahh, just passing through eh?’ Winters replied. Mark worried he was unconvinced by his cover story. Then Winters did something unexpected. He put his hand out for Mark to shake.
Mark looked stunned but went along with it, feeling the vice-like grip of Winters’ hand.
‘Name’s Jon,’ he said, shaking Mark’s hand vigorously. Mark could feel the circulation starting to wane so attempted to pull his hand away and smiled at him. ‘If you wanna know anything, just ask, I know this place like the back of my hand,’ he continued, winking at him.
‘Kemp,’ Mark said slowly. ‘Andrew Kemp. Friends call me Andy.’ Mark politely smiled and made his excuses to leave, deciding this was enough casual chat for one day. Once outside and down the road, Mark stopped to light a cigarette and breathed a huge sigh of relief. For a moment, he thought his cover had been blown.
It was getting all too close for comfort, Mark thought as he quickened up his pace, feeling a large raindrop hit his forehead and drip down his eye. He was going back to the B&B and straight to bed before he got himself killed. Winters could wait until tomorrow.
Mark slept soundly through the night, out of sheer exhaustion, and awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting in under his bedroom door from downstairs. He quickly showered and changed, before heading down the heavily carpeted, sweeping staircase to the dining room where he was confronted by a room full of small tables and chairs as couples and a few families sat and enjoyed breakfast together. He found a vacant table and set himself down and, within a few minutes, the friendly old lady tottered in with a tray of the biggest breakfast Mark had ever seen, complete with teapot, coffee pot, milk, toast and fresh orange juice, and set it down on the table in front of him. She smiled sweetly and patted him on the hand as a mother would do for their child before school. He thanked her and tucked in eagerly, not realising how hungry he was until he had eaten. It wasn’t long before the entire plate was empty and Mark was feeling full as he rose with the tray to take it into the kitchen area and convey his thanks to the landlady.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, my dear,’ a voice came from behind him. Mark turned to see he was being followed, and smiled.
‘I insist,’ he said politely, receiving a warm smile and a nod from the old lady. He placed the tray down on the kitchen sideboard and turned to leave.
‘Where are ye headed today then, presh?’ she quizzed him as he held the door for her.
Mark shrugged and hesitantly answered.
‘Not sure yet, I think I might explore that old white house a few miles across the moors,’ he explained. She looked confused as she trotted towards the big bay window that faced the road.
‘Old white house?’ she said slowly. ‘Oh, now I don’t know, which one’s that?’ Mark stood alongside her and pointed toward the house.
‘Ohh, that one!’ she said, smiling before pulling Mark towards her to whisper in his ear. ‘You don’t want to go there, deary,’ she warned in a hushed voice, ‘he don’t like visitors. He was in the army, you know?’
Mark laughed. ‘I had heard,’ he said, placing a reassuring arm around her before walking out of the dining room and into reception, then outside for a cigarette.
‘Be careful my dear,’ she shouted after him as he closed the door. Mark stopped for a second. Why would she warn him about it, he thought to himself as he sat on the wall and smoked, noticing the number of puddles littered all over the road. It must have rained hard last night but Mark hadn’t heard a thing; he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. That’s what driving all day does, he thought, smiling again at the old lady’s warning.
Back in Mark’s room, he had prepared all of his kit in his bag and was ready to make his way out towards Winters’ home. He carefully crept down the stairs and out via the front door before he could be accosted again by the old lady. She seemed to have developed a keen interest in who he was and what he was doing. He stepped down the three white stone steps that lead out onto the street and began his hike roughly toward Winters’ house, having spent a few hours adjusting his ghillie net to blend into the surrounding countryside. With a determined look on his face, he crossed the road towards the miles of fields, moorlands and rolling hills, his target at the forefront of his mind. It was roughly a three-hour hike and initially, Mark planned to drive some of the way. After some calculations, he calculated that, from the position of Winters’ house, he would see Mark coming long before Mark even knew he was there, and have time to prepare. The aim was surprise and for Winters to not see it coming. A clean kill was all Mark wanted, and that was exactly what he would get as he strode through knee high gorse, grass and rocks jutting out from the ground. Soon, the brown hue of the landscape gave way to lusher green pastures and Mark could make out the outline of ancient standing stones, long since abandoned. He stopped next to one and took out some of the food supplies he had brought with him, along with his bottle of water, and sat down to rest, estimating the wind speed and direction as he did so. It was very peaceful up here, although Mark worried his shot would be heard for quite some distance and could attract unwanted attention. He soon realised, after assessing the horizon, that there were no other houses around for miles, which made it easier to carry out his hit without being disturbed.
Reinvigorated by eating, he jumped up and picked up his kit bag, turning towards the sun and checking his compass against the satellite image of the house he had taken back in London. According to his calculations, he was another half-hour walk from his destination, and he set off due north, feeling refreshed. It wasn’t long before he climbed a small rocky outcrop on top of a small hill which overlooked a steep decline into what Mark figured was a small valley. On the other side, to the left, was a small white house which sat in the middle of a flat field of gorse and heather, a wire perimeter fence surrounding it for three hundred and sixty degrees. Mark took his small infrared binoculars out and had a closer search of the area. It looked deserted, like no one had lived there in years. His eyes met with a wooden blue gate which led to a winding path and an old oak-looking front door. The windows were dirty, torn net curtains hanging from them. There was an old coal shed attached to the side of the building and the ruins of a stable or barn further out to the back of the garden. He was sure he had the right place, and checked the satellite image again to make sure. It looked like no one lived there, but Mark knew it was places like this where hitmen could hide away and not be bothered by anyone. He was sure there was more to this building that met the eye, and approached with caution.
He skirted round the hillside, ensuring he always kept a safe enough distance to be out of range of even the most powerful of sniper rifles, and kept to the higher ground so he could see anyone coming. A wind had sprung up, and this meant that he could be downwind so adjusted his course and edged closer to the white house. He found a suitable place to stop and, pulling up gorse and heather, camouflaged his kit bag and removed his rifle. He expertly assembled it and loaded it, positioning it so it was just in range of the front of the house, and laid the ghillie net over the top of it to hide it from anyone who may accidentally wander past, although way out here, Mark expected no one to be around. Carefully, he lifted a second ghillie suit over his entire body and lay down on his stomach, his eye to the telescopic sight, and waited, watching silently for any signs of movement. One sight of anyone moving around the property, and Mark would have to be quick to take the shot; one missed shot would give away his position and he would be vulnerable to a counter attack.
After an hour of no movement, and with the darkness closing in, Mark was getting the feeling that perhaps he had been tipped off by someone. Perhaps they had put the pieces together and figured out his plan, or perhaps the slimy toe-rag of a driver had squealed on him and talked about what he was up to. Whichever way it was, Mark had to think quickly. With no vehicle, Mark could safely assume his target was not home, unless he had removed his vehicle to give that impression and was also, like Mark, lying in wait under a ghillie net, waiting for the slightest movement, and it would be the end for Mark. As it grew ever darker by the minute, Mark decided he would make a move. He left his rifle set up where it was, took his silenced Glock pistol and several rounds of ammunition, and slowly backed out from under the ghillie net, all the way up the slope behind him, until the hill provided him with suitable cover. He then jogged stealthily around the hillside until he was facing the back of the property. Carefully, he climbed down the slope until he was in the trees surrounding what looked like the back garden. The back door to the property swung in the early evening breeze and Mark believed perhaps it could be empty, so carefully examined the earth inside the perimeter fence. He recognised the familiar humps in the grass, not as mole-hills as some would think, but mines. He thought fast and decided he would follow the path up to the door instead.
He reached the back door and, weapon drawn, used it to push the door open, stepping cautiously inside. Only silence greeted him while a breeze blew through the house, causing the door to creak behind him. He crept into the kitchen and spied the empty whiskey tumbler on the table. He felt the glass to see if there was any warmth which might give away someone’s presence. There wasn’t, so Mark progressed through to the living room. He passed an old TV set and ran the back of his hand against the screen to check for static. Mark checked for static build up on the screen to reveal if it had recently been turned off. There was no shock, so it hadn’t been used in a while. He rounded a corner and faced some wooden slatted stairs. Slowly lifting one foot onto the first stair, praying there would be no creaks, Mark got within three stairs from the top before he had to pause as the wood beneath him flexed and groaned. He held his breath and waited; there was no sound, so he skipped that stair and reached the top, checking the landing as he did so, his weapon leading the way. He crept silently from room to room, without a single trace that Winters had been there for some time; either that or he lived this way all the time. However, what Mark found, tucked inside a drawer in the master bedroom, was the same freight company paperwork he had found on all the other hitmen he’d taken out. He tucked it back in the drawer and withdrew from the room. Just on the inside of the bedroom door, which he had missed before, was a little black box screwed to the wall with a red LED and a switch. Mark traced the wire along the landing, through a hole in the wall, down the exterior brickwork, and under the garden lawn. Curious about it, Mark flicked the switch and the red LED flashed. It must be the mines, Mark thought to himself as he reached for his multi-tool containing the wire clippers. He clipped the wires and the red LED faded. Satisfied the property was empty, he proceeded back downstairs again, careful not to make too much noise just in case someone was in the living room.
He was right to be cautious, as when Mark came into view half way down the stairs, he glanced into the living room and found himself face to face with two cold, hard, steel barrels of a twelve-bore farmer’s shotgun, and Winters, dressed in military combat clothing, wearing a Kevlar vest, sat in the arm chair in front of the TV. He didn’t look surprised to see Mark as the two men stared at each other for a few seconds, their guns pointed at each other, before Mark finally broke the silence.
‘Well, it looks like we have come to a stalemate here!’ he said with a half laugh. Winters stood up and Mark readied himself. Even if he was the best shot in the world, Mark knew he would end up with two massive holes in his chest if he moved too quickly.
‘I don’t like visitors,’ Winters grunted angrily, ‘especially those who come at me with a Glock 22 suppressed pistol pointed at my head!’
Mark scoffed and Winters relaxed a little, allowing Mark to take the remaining steps down the stairs so the two men stood facing each other.
‘You here to kill me, I imagine?’ said Winters, his eyes burning red. Mark glared back, equally able to bore into the man’s soul.
‘D’you kill my wife, Marie King?’ he hissed at Winters. Winters shrugged and gritted his teeth.
‘I kill a lot of people,’ he replied, not taking his eyes off Mark the entire time. Mark’s eyes darted around the room as his mind played through a scenario of disarming Winters, and he was looking for anything Winters could pick up and use as a weapon, like a secondary or hidden weapon.
‘Who are you working for? Invictus Advoca?’ Mark scorned at him, watching for any form of micro expression to tell Mark he was on the right track.
‘Ahh, so you’re that lawyer fella whose wife was shot!’ teased Winters. ‘Sorry to disappoint you my friend, but that wasn’t MY handiwork.’ Mark glared at him.
‘Lt. Winters. Pleasure,’ Mark replied, watching the smile grow on Winters’ face. ‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Mr King, you are in way over your head. You are out to sea with no sign of the shore, like a boat, drifting on a wave,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I wouldn’t have left a single trace for you to use to come seeking revenge.’
‘But you know who killed her?’ Mark spat at Winters, who seemed quite amused by the whole scenario.
‘Perhaps,’ Winters chuckled. ‘Number one rule, Mr King, do not underestimate your enemy.
Mark hissed at him scornfully, raising his pistol a little higher.
‘They can’t be underestimated if they’re dead!’
‘Seeing as I’m in a good mood today, I am going to give you to the count of five to get your sorry arse off my property before I blow you into two pieces. One…’
Mark heeded the warning but would not let Winters see his fear. He lowered his weapon and took careful steps towards the front door, his eyes not leaving Winters as he counted down. Mark reached for the handle and pulled open the door, casually striding down the path and back towards the tree line he had come from. Winters stood at the door with the gun still pointed at Mark.
‘Come back ’ere again and I’ll not be so forgiving!’ he shouted. Mark made a mock salute to him, which caused Winters to shout ‘five’ at him before firing a shot into the air, sending birds from the trees in all directions. The sound of the shot echoed around the hills as Mark disappeared over the small hill.
‘OK,’ Mark said defiantly, ‘you don’t want me to come back there, that’s fine. I can kill you from here!’