The Killer of Killers

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book is a novel. The story is based on real events and people.

Being a novel, some of the events and persons may not be accurate or real.

However, the story is sufficiently interesting to justify its telling. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Warwick Mark Fisher was born in England. Much of his life has been spent as a Police Officer. He has also worked for various governments and private security companies. He was trained as a Government Anti-Terrorist Tactician and worked several years at London's Heathrow Airport. He took early retirement to live in Thailand, there finding time to write this story - his first book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

• Alan Beef Bevers

For being in my corner, not only in writing the book but for all life as thrown at us over the years.

• Don Parsons and his lovely wife Sareeya

For all the hours spent editing the book, and the research and application on how to get the book to the reader.

• Tom Hanson

For the direct insight into people who are completely messed up and border on the insane.

Last and not least, to all you folks out there for reading

THE KILLER OF KILLERS

Chapter 1

Tony Lema closed the door for the last time on his room, situated just off the Bayswater Road in London. Time to move on. Six months was really too long in one place for his kind of work. Lema was moving to Peckham, in the heart of London, to get lost again. The new place was much the same, lounge, bathroom, kitchenette, sparse but clean. Money didn't matter. Lema had plenty of that. It was keeping a low profile, keeping to himself that mattered. His eating norm was takeaways, not sitting in some restaurant, but always good food, chicken, salads, fruit. Lema took good care of himself. At over fifty, he could out walk, out fight, and out play with the ladies, more than most men half his age. He belonged to 3 gyms. Not wanting people to see too much of him, he wore loose clothing, normal stuff -not designer, to hide his body, for he had muscle most posers would die for.

His only toy was an old Opel Manta with gleaming black paint, slightly lowered suspension, nice wheels, and low profile tires. Under the hood was a Rover V8 with twin choke carbs. Modifications were made to the gearbox and the rear axle so this baby could fly. Lema called it Freedom. When he felt the need for a blast, he headed to the country roads. He never used it for his work. Freedom was kept in a lock up 2 blocks away and already Lema had found a new place to keep his toy in Peckham.

When he found the need for female company, he would use one of the ladies of the night. Recently, he had seen one lady, Tina, several times. She never asked anything, was a great cook and a great lay. She was of mixed blood and at forty she was in good shape. At Lema's suggestion, Tina had taken a job in the local toy factory. He was giving her some extra money in an attempt to give her a decent life and keep her off the streets. If she messed up one time, the money would stop and he would not see her again.

Lema's work was simple. He was a contract killer and had been for more than 15 years. There was no excuse, no hidden reason, no wife or kids that had been hurt. It was simply what he wanted to do. He was not sure who his father was and really did not give a shit. He did what he did to rid this earth of some of the scum that roamed on it, and in truth, he enjoyed the challenge - the thrill, the rush. He was true to the saying hard man.

In the lockup were the tools of his trade, a Glock 17, a Smith and Wesson 38, together with a Carlswell silencer, and to complete the kit, a knife you could shave with.

He was recruited over a simple cup of coffee and would never see the man again. His only contact was by the local advertisement in the Evening Standard Newspaper. He could take a job or leave it, but always took it and found that the hits were completely justified. They all deserved to die and die they did. It was felt by many, not only Lema, that the Law in England was a complete farce, as proved many times over when villains were released after a light sentence, only to break the law again, and in the case of some murderers, to kill once more. To think that the maximum sentence is twenty years for murder, and for good behavior and a bit of ass licking, one can be out in 10 to 12 years. Some sentences have even been 5 years or less. What a fucking joke! There was even the chance of being sent to a vocational home to receive what they call treatment.

Lema wondered if the do-gooders ever had one of their family members raped, tortured, or killed. Would they be so forgiving? What about some of these do-gooder women who fight for light sentences? Would they feel the same if they had their clothes torn off, while receiving a terrible beating, followed by a severely violent raping? Would they then say forgive them- they are so misguided? Bollocks to that. Then you get to the old Judge or Magistrate, half of whom are homosexual/gin drinkers, who have not the vaguest idea what the fuck is going on, or what some of these villains really do-these scum who are a nightmare for the Prosecuting Lawyers and a gift from Heaven for the Defense Lawyers.

Chapter 2

So when Lema received and read the advert in the Evening Standard, it was time to wipe out another piece of shit who could cause pain and suffering no more. The advertisement was placed 3 weeks after Lema had moved. It was worded Mum and the family thanks you for all your hard work. When you finish the drive and rear extension, suggest you take a long rest. This meant to Lema that there were two contracts-high profile and he should cool it for at least 12 months. Only once before had he been given two hits at the same time. Two contracts, plus being high profile, would mean big money, which would be in his account within 24 hours.

The way in which he received the information on the contract was always the same - a drive to Windsor Park, a beautiful place with a view to the famous castle, park in the lay-by at mid-day, have a sandwich in one hand and a drink in the other - just a man taking a break. The envelope was stuck to the rear of the rubbish bin as always. He had enjoyed the 25 miles drive and it gave Freedom a blast and he would enjoy the drive home. Lema put Freedom away and gave her a last look over, as was his routine, checked over the tools of his trade, all nicely oiled and in 100% order. He could not and would not allow for any defects, regarding what he called his mates/his team. Once settled down at home, he read the contracts in the envelope. The first target was the Minister of Trade, Dale Collingwood, who several months previous, was in the news in connection with the abduction and murder of a 15 year old girl named Helen Page. Somebody had reported Helen getting into Collingwood's Mercedes Benz and had taken the plate number. The mistake made by the Police was going into his country home with no warrant. The Minister's home was only 15 miles from the abduction point. Her body was found, abused and tortured, in a ditch along the M4 Motorway, 10 miles from London. The Police suspected she was taken to the country home and abused, then dumped. The Minister then returned to his London address.

Apart from the fuck-up regarding the warrant, other mistakes were made, thus the Minister, for a moment, was free to do what he liked, again. Only seeing his wife at social functions, she had her own life. Regarding his life, the public was kept in the dark. The routine for Collingwood was the same each week - leave London Friday afternoon and arrive at his country home early evening. The home was a converted barn that he called The Barn. Set in four acres, it was truly a beautiful home, in the heart of Surrey.

Lema was already in place by 14:30 hours, hidden by the trees and bushes. He settled down, ready for the arrival of the Minister. Lema had checked out the place last week and purchased an old Toyota pickup with faded red paint and many dents, but the engine was sound. On the doors were signs which read Turner Brothers Landscape Gardeners which Lema had made. It was parked 1 mile down the lane. As he had learned in the forces - plan, blend in, look ordinary. True to form, at around 18:00 hours, Lema spotted Collingwood's Merc about to enter the drive. Collingwood parked the Merc by the side of the barn in a newly constructed lean-to and already had the house keys ready. As soon as the key entered the lock, the Minister felt a great force around his neck. He was hit on the side of his head and thrown inside to the floor. When his vision returned, he looked up and before him stood Lema, dressed in an old water-proof coat, ordinary pants, and heavy hiking boots. In his hand was a 38 revolver with attached silencer. The Minister had known fear, but this was terror. Who are you? he asked. I am the seeker of truth and justice, replied Lema. I have come to help you with D and A. Your days are already few. The Police will find a way to take you, and for sure you will die a terrible death in prison. Inmates hate people that kill children. I want the truth from you. What happened to Helen Page?

I have money in the safe, offered the Minister. Around £40,000. We can get it together. No sense in turning down money, Lema thought. Also, it will help lead the Police into thinking this was a break-in. The safe was in the kitchen, behind one of the units. Leave it open and get on the floor, shouted Lema. Now, tell me the story. The Minister began, I stopped to buy supplies and she was outside the store - a flirty thing, cheeky but pretty. I asked if she would like a ride and she was eager to come. When we got to the Barn, we kissed and I took off her clothes. She was OK at first, but when I tried to enter her, she laughed and said she was a virgin and did not want to have sex. She said she wanted some money and called me a