Ten years later...

 

Paris...

 

I arrived at the hotel just before nine in the evening. The flight had been delayed which cut down on my preparation time but I had the layout of the building fresh in my mind. I should be in and out quickly.

Every hotel was the same. Walk in as if you're meant to be there and no one bats an eyelid. I went straight past reception to the first stairwell. From there, I made my way up to five and then crossed the main corridor to the far stairs. I was in a standard business suit, blending in perfectly with the other guests. I needed to get up to the ninth. I made it two minutes later. My heart rate was as calm as if I was strolling along a riverside somewhere.

The room was the furthest on the left, next to the laundry closet. The carpet muffled my footsteps. I knocked on the door and stepped back, invisible to the spyhole.

"Who is it?" a voice shouted from the other side.

"Room service."

The click of the lock and then I was in. I shoved the door which hit him in the face. He staggered back, holding his nose which was already bleeding. In the time it took him to realise what was going on, I'd already scanned the room. No sound of anyone else, no one in the corners. The TV on in the bedroom. He'd been in there. No female clothes on the floor. He was alone.

"What do you want?" he asked, the fear evident in his voice. "Is it money? I've got money. Who sent you? How much did they pay you?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled the gun from my pocket and pulled the trigger. The job was done. He slumped to the ground, red blooming across his shirt.

What I'd been trained to do was to get out as fast as possible without drawing any attention to myself. I was already two steps towards the door when I stopped. Something had caught my eye.

There was a desk near the door and on it were piles of papers and forms. What had I seen?

I crossed quickly to the desk and there it was. A letter detailing off shore banking arrangements for one of the man's clients. The letter didn't interest me. The name at the bottom did.

I knew the seconds were ticking away. The door was still open. I was taking a huge risk. Anyone could walk past and then I was sunk. But I didn't move. I couldn't move. Mr Sharp. It couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be him.

At once I was back in time. Falling from the window again. My fingers slipping through hers.

It had been ten years since then. I was a different person. I was trained. I was efficient. I was a killer. So move!

I took the paper with me. There would be time to think about it later. I crossed to the door and closed it behind me. I was outside five minutes later, vanishing into the crowd.

I didn't look at the paper until I was in the air, flying back to England. There was no address but that was his name. How did he know the dead man?

If I'd found the paper first, I could have interrogated him, use the friendly technique William had shown me. So much better than torture, make them think you're their mate, that you can help them as long as they help you. But he was dead. He could tell me nothing.

I didn't know much about the dead man. I was paid by William to carry out the jobs he gave me. He was given them by someone else, someone I never met. I didn't ask too many questions. I only needed to know where I was going and who I was going after.

Ten years.

I folded the paper and put it back in my pocket, looking out of the window at the twinkling lights far below. Another minute and we'd be over the channel, heading home once more.

Ten years. I was still waiting for my shot at revenge. I'd not been given permission yet by William to go after Mr Sharp. Each time I mentioned it, he told me to be patient. Sometimes, I wondered if it would ever happen. Maybe I needed to just do it. But then another job turned up and I'd be travelling around the world to carry it out.

I was not the person I was when I signed the oath. I had become adept at turning my emotions off just like he wanted. I'd done it so well, there were times when I didn't even think about revenge. But I couldn't control my dreams. She still filled them, thoughts of her, of the past, of the one I lost.

Killing made it easier. Each victim made me colder than the last. It felt strange to think back about that first man I'd killed, laid under me in the bushes. I never even saw his face, just those blazing eyes inside the balaclava. I had felt sick with torment after that night. But now, I'd just murdered a man in his hotel room and I felt nothing.

Ten years. Such a long time and yet it had gone by in the blink of an eye. I'd gone from watching William to assisting to working my own jobs. He had done a good job of training me up. There was over one and a half million in my accounts. It was more than anyone ever needed and it was all mine. I'd worked hard for it. The money meant nothing other than ensuring I could pay my few bills. I never bought places, I always rented. I had a number of I.Ds in different names. On this flight I was Stephen Premmell. Tomorrow I would be someone else.

By the time I landed I'd made a decision. When I got to William, I told him. He didn't look surprised.

"I knew you'd want to sooner or later. Tell me why though."

I showed him the paper. "Will you do it?"

"Tell you who hires us? I suppose so but I have to warn you, John. Once you start down this path, you might not be able to come back."

"I need to know."

"So be it. His name's George Naylor and you'll find him in the cafe next to The Shambles."

"He's here in York?"

"Be polite."

I went to the cafe the next morning. There was no one sat at the tables but behind the counter a man was stood drying mugs with a stained teatowel. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm looking for George."

"That's me."

"I'm John."

His eyes narrowed momentarily before the smile returned to his face. "Sit yourself down. I'll make some tea."

I sat, watching him as he worked. He was in his late fifties, didn't look like much of anything, balding, an apron that had seen better days. But then William had taught me that the best place to hide anything was in plain sight. He brought two mugs over and took the seat opposite mine. "Sugar?"

"I'm good."

"What do you want to know?"

I passed him the piece of paper. "Who hired us for this job?"

"A businessman, same as the gentleman you visited."

"What's his name?"

"I'll give it to you on one condition. It did not come from me. You found it in the papers in the hotel, right? I don't know what you're showing me this for and I don't care. You got secrets, fine. But don't involve me."

"Deal."

"I'm only doing this as a professional courtesy to William and yourself. You've done good work for me over the years, best of anyone I've known. So you've earned this but don't go thinking it means we're friends. We're not friends, clear?"

"Clear."

"Benjamin Hartman."

"Where is he?"

"That's for you to find out. I'm not your errand boy, John."

"Thank you."

I stood up and nodded before heading out the door. Now I had a name. Time to find out what he knew about Mr Sharp.