The Last Hit

CHAPTER ONE

He was dying, of that he was certain. He sat on the South Bankcel with his back against the retaining wall of the River Thames; the pain in his abdomen was excruciating. Two of the wounds were pumping blood, a sure sign arteries were likely to be severed; the third and larger wound, just oozed. What internal damage there was to his intestines he tried to block from his thoughts.

He held a hand over his wounds, feeling his stomach fill with blood. It confirmed his worst fear; he was suffering major internal bleeding. His other hand still held onto the mobile phone he used to call the ambulance, which was now slipping from his weakening grasp.

‘Ambulance, Embankment, London Eye. Hurry, I’m dying,’ was all he managed to tell the operator. His murderer watched impassively as his strength and life began to ebb away. He looked up, still not believing it had come to this, even after listening to the lengthy explanation. His eyes asked the question; why? His murderer gave a shake of the head, turned, walked away and never looked back. He watched until his vision blurred and the footsteps faded to silence.

The mobile phone slipped from his grasp and clattered to the concrete at his side. He was vaguely aware of the operator shouting instructions to him, as if she could coerce him into staying alive. He was no stranger to death, he had seen it many times, and knew if the ambulance failed to arrive within the next ten minutes he would slowly bleed out and die.

Strangely, death was not something that frightened him. He was trained to accept it and deal with it. It had served him well in his chosen career, in which he was responsible for the deaths of so many people. Unlike his own death, theirs were swift and clinical with no suffering; the difference between a trained killer and an amateur or in this instance, a sadist. Not that it mattered now; the end result would be the same.

Whereas many of the people he killed were given funerals attended by hundreds, if not thousands of mourners, his would likely be attended by just him and the funeral staff. Friends in his profession were few and far between, and those he had, would not want to be seen at his funeral.

He coughed, causing blood to pulse harder from his wounds and fresh waves of pain to torment him. He looked down at his blood-soaked shirt, alarmed at the extent of blood loss. The blood that once pumped from his wounds was now just a slow ooze; time was running out.

He always feared he would meet with an untimely end, which was why this was to be his last job before retiring and starting a new life of anonymity in a warmer climate. Something he no longer had to worry himself with. He had no future.

He felt cold and tried to pull his legs towards his body but the pain in his abdomen became too intense. If he had the energy, he would scream. Instead, he moaned and let his legs slide down to the concrete.

He could hear the faint sound of a siren and prayed it was one coming to him and not some other unfortunate bastard. His vision was slowly darkening and his eyes began to close. The siren was getting nearer but for him, perhaps, too late. As his eyes finally closed he wondered how it had come to this…

CHAPTER TWO

Stone thought about the places he had worked. Many were glamourous, such as Monaco; that was fun. Dubai, a beautiful city but far too hot, which made his work very difficult. There was also Paris, New York, Dubrovnik and so many other places around the globe. Too many to remember and so many he wanted to forget. Surely, Harlow, a new town just north of London, in Essex, rated as one of the least glamourous locations he had worked in.

He recalled many years ago, taking a job in Finchampstead, a small but extremely affluent town in Berkshire. Many residents living near to the town would claim they actually lived in Finchampstead to bolster their social standing in their peer group. Harlow, he noted, was the opposite, with many people claiming they lived in the adjacent village of Nazeing to avoid the social stigma they felt was associated with living in Harlow. Stone didn’t get it; it looked like a perfectly ordinary town to him, if not a little too modern for his liking. Some people were so shallow.

Today, from his vantage point, he looked over the expansive garden belonging to Bernard Edwin Vaughn, a former member of parliament for Harlow, who was for a number of years, the deputy Foreign Secretary. He retired early amid a small scandal and was now a respectable businessman. In Stone’s mind, anyone who was ever an MP could never be respectable. In his view, all politicians were corrupt. How could anyone on a politician’s wage, end up accruing so much wealth? Not that Stone cared. He was no angel himself. Who was he to judge?

Mr. Vaughn was due to give evidence in a forthcoming illegal arms dealing case. His evidence was critical and was likely to cause some embarrassment to a number of current and past, senior political figures. It would also bring about his own fall from grace, but Stone assumed a deal was struck to ensure any custodial sentence would be suitably lenient.

His solicitor arranged for police protection, aware there was a possibility of his client being eliminated prior to the trial to avoid the inevitable scandal. Vaughn was advised to keep a low profile and his movements to a minimum for safety reasons. He spent his days at his large home on the outskirts of Harlow; or Nazeing as he preferred to call it.

In reality, his evidence was unlikely to result in any of the political figures receiving sentences. The government would see to that. They did not want to deal with yet another scandal; there had been too many of those during their latest term in office. It was Stone’s job to make sure that didn’t happen.

He was contacted a week ago and recalled the vague conversation.

‘Mr. Smith?’ the well-spoken voice enquired. He never said anything when he pressed the ‘accept call’ button on his phone, a force of habit.

‘Speaking.’

‘I have a business proposition I want you to take.’

To Stone, it sounded more like an order than a proposition.

‘And you are?’ Stone asked.

‘Who I am is unimportant but to keep it simple, shall we say that I represent the government.’

‘Why do you people never use your own agencies?’

‘Mr. Smith, we prefer outside agencies and we have used your services in the past. You come highly recommended and have a proven track record. You are also the best in your chosen profession.’

‘Thanks for the compliment. Sounds like you’ve been speaking to my mother.’ Stone replied in a dry tone.

‘Well, we both know that isn’t possible, as you don’t have a mother. Certainly not one you or I know of. We do our homework, Mr. Stone,’ he said, using his real name. ‘It is also not a compliment; it is a fact. We use people like you because it’s easier to deny, should things go awry. If they do go wrong that’s when we bring in our own people, to eliminate you.’

‘It’s always such a pleasure doing business with you guys,’ Stone replied, unable to hide his sarcasm. ‘You know my rates. Tell me who, why and when.’

‘His name is Bernard Edwin Vaughn, former government minister and now a businessman. We need him eliminated before he goes on trial at the end of the month. I assume three weeks is sufficient notice period for you?’ Stone said it was. ‘Good in that case I will assume you have accepted the job. I will send you photographs and as much detail as I deem relevant to your mailing address. Good day to you, Mr Stone. Please don’t fuck up. It would be rather inconvenient and MI5 are rather busy.’

And that was why he was now heavily camouflaged, perched halfway up a tree in woodland, looking down on Bernard Edwin Vaughn’s property, on a hot summer afternoon. His surveillance was at an end. He had seen all he needed to see. Vaughn’s routine was the same each day. Each morning he would work in his study until around lunchtime. His wife would prepare sandwiches and they ate those on the patio area outside the lounge. That appeared to be the extent of his working day. His afternoon was generally spent in the garden reading his newspapers and sipping on chilled white wine. Not a bad life, Stone thought.

Two armed, uniformed policemen were stationed at the front of the house, twenty-four hours a day. They took it in turns to check the perimeter of the property, once an hour. Every six hours they were relieved by two new officers. It was a pattern that repeated itself each day, like clockwork. Patterns like that made Stone’s job so much easier.

Stone decided he knew enough and would come back tomorrow to finish the job and get back to what passed as normality between assignments.

CHAPTER THREE

Stone shifted his position in the big oak tree he chose for his surveillance and elimination of Bernard Edwin Vaughn. He was early. The sun had yet to crawl over the horizon but that suited him. It would give him more time and opportunities to finish the job. It also meant arriving before any dog walkers who would become suspicious of anyone walking in the woods without a dog of their own. Field craft was his speciality and from the ground he would be invisible so well was he camouflaged. He watched and waited, alert to his surroundings.

A light came on in the kitchen. Only his eyes moved to watch Vaughn’s wife start preparing breakfast. Stone shifted his rifle and gazed at her through the powerful scope, lining up the crosshairs on the back of her head. At only 500 metres, it was an easy shot for someone like Stone; he was the best of the best.

He joined the army at only seventeen years of age, soon after completing his mandatory schooling. Further education was not an option. Not because he was academically inept, far from it, in maths and science he always attained good grades. His problem was his lack of respect for authority and problems interacting and socialising with his peers. This made him unpopular with teachers and pupils alike. In his last year at school, he got as many detentions as he did fights, both during and after school. His careers officer recommended he should join the armed forces as it was unlikely a further two years in the sixth-form would be beneficial to him or his classmates.

It was no fault of Stone’s. Life had not been kind to him. Left on the steps of a police station in the early hours of the morning, only three days old, was not the best of starts in life. His parents could not be traced and he was named after the two policemen who found him; John Dale and Dave Stone.

John Stone spent his entire childhood in a succession of foster homes, where he was bullied by his older siblings and physically and mentally abused by his foster parents. Stone considered himself fortunate he was not subjected to any sexual abuse, unlike other foster children he knew.

Stone was never a good swimmer so dismissed the Royal Navy straight away. Also being confined on a ship or submarine, he felt would not be good for his mental state; he was well aware of his social inadequacies. Equally, the Royal Air Force, held little appeal; aircraft had never appealed to him and after speaking to the recruiter, it seemed like a very boring life. At seventeen he became Private John Stone of the Royal Anglican Regiment.

Discipline was something he learnt the hard way during his training. By the end of his basic training he knew both respect and fear. He resented being treated like a kid but soon realised it was the army way to keep discipline and ensure everyone followed orders. It was just a game and, as much as he hated it, he towed the line. The beatings and extra duties were a good deterrent. There were a few bar brawls and fights with local lads who disliked squaddies having a drink in their pub and chatting up their girlfriends. Other than that Private Stone became a model recruit and even came to like the harsh discipline, realising it was what he needed in his life to keep him out of trouble.

Stone was expert in both armed and unarmed combat but it was with a rifle he really excelled and was naturally gifted. Time on the firing range was always a pleasure and he was head and shoulders above his peers. At any distance, his groupings were outstanding, even his instructor said he seldom met anyone with his abilities. His proficiency with a rifle dramatically changed his career and on his first active tour of duty he was deployed as a sniper aged just nineteen.

He thought he would be too scared to pull the trigger. It was all very well firing at wooden targets on a range but firing and killing another human being was a different matter. Being used as a sniper was, however, an advantage. Pulling the trigger at over 800 metres away was impersonal, and he found something of a challenge. He got a real buzz from hitting his targets at such distances and challenged himself to take on more and more difficult kills with incredible results. At the end of his first Balkans tour, he had earned a formidable reputation and a promotion to corporal. Stone was proud of his achievements, considering his auspicious start to life, and finally felt like he belonged.

Everything changed on what turned out to be his final tour in the Balkans a number of years later. His half company were tasked with clearing a small village suspected of housing Serb separatists. Once again, Stone was deployed as a sniper but his services were not required and he was called in via the radio he carried. He arrived at the village to find his company had rounded up the village occupants and held them at gunpoint. The interpreter they were assigned was firing questions at them, following the captain’s orders. The villagers, mainly women, children and a few old men were terrified.

The captain clearly suspected the villagers of lying and flew into a rage and shot one of the old men as a warning. Pandemonium ensued as the villagers panicked. That was when the captain gave the order to the rest of the unit to open fire. Stone watched on, hardly believing what he was seeing. The company froze, unsure about following an order that contravened the Geneva Convention. The captain took aim and began firing at random, screaming at his troops to do the same. A few joined in as the villagers screamed and scattered.

Stone never liked Captain Arnott. He was young and privileged, hence his high rank, but was weak and unfit to command, in his opinion. Stone acted on instinct. From his position of around a hundred metres away, took aim and shot the captain in the side of the head. His head exploded when the high velocity round entered his cheek and exited his temple on the other side of his head, sending a spray of blood in a wide arc.

The shooting stopped. Stone dropped and hid behind the wall he fired from, not really knowing what to do next. He could hear the villagers’ screams as he crawled away from his firing point, knowing his comrades would be advancing to eliminate what they assumed was enemy fire.

He scrambled two blocks and stopped to get his breath and assess his situation, knowing if he went too far from his allocated snipers position, his appearance would be suspicious. A young boy and girl appeared to his left. They stopped dead in their tracks as he instinctively raised his rifle, his finger poised over the trigger.

The girl looked about to scream. He took a step closer and put a finger to his lips, letting her know he wanted silence. One look at her tear-soaked face, assured him he need not worry about that. He tried to smile, but the uncertainty he felt did little to reassure the young girl she was in no danger. She looked terrified but there was no disguising the hate in her dark eyes. He could understand how she felt, having just witnessed the atrocity himself. As far as she was concerned, he was one of them. He felt awful and wondered what to do.

The boy appeared to be a couple of years older, early-teens, Stone guessed. He, too, looked at him with contempt. He wished he could communicate with them to let them know he was one of the good guys and stopped what would have been a massacre, which he was sure would have happened had he not shot his captain.

‘I will not harm you,’ he said slowly and clearly, lowering his weapon and giving what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The girl looked back blankly. The boy looked back unable to disguise his hatred.

His could hear footsteps approaching and whispered voices speaking in English. He was unsure about the mood of his comrades. Some appeared willing to follow orders and to shoot the villagers without remorse. Others had held back, their conscience torn between following orders and going against the Geneva Convention and the repercussion of their actions. However, as they assumed the captain was shot by an insurgent, everyone in his company was likely to be unpredictable.

‘You need to go. Hide. I will protect you as much as I can. Please just go!’ he implored.

He made a decision to walk back to the rest of his company just as if nothing happened and steer them away from the two young villagers. He motioned to the young girl to hide, shooing her away with his arms in the direction of a doorway of a derelict building. She gave him a final look of contempt, spat on the floor and fled with the boy. Stone turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Two of his company rounded the corner. All three lowered their weapons simultaneously as they recognised their colleagues and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I got called back,’ Stone said. ‘Next thing I know, I can hear shots and took evasive action. What the fuck’s going down?’

‘There’s an insurgent in the village. They shot the captain.’ Corporal Trent told him.

‘Fuck. That’s bad,’ Stone replied with as much gravity as he could. ‘Let’s get the bastard. This way,’ he said pointing in the opposite direction to where the children were hiding. ‘I checked those buildings and they’re clear.’

His comrades nodded. The three spread out and began to look for a non-existent quarry.

There was an inquest into the death of Captain Arnott but under strict instruction from the battalion officers, nothing was mentioned about the events leading up to his death. The army wanted to avoid any scandal, much like the government with Bernard Edwin Vaughn, Stone thought. The inquest put Arnott’s death down as killed in action. It was closed and Arnott was given a full military funeral with honours, which irked Stone; Arnott was a disgrace to his uniform. If Stone was under suspicion it was not mentioned. If questioned, he would have given a full account of what he witnessed but that was not an issue. Worried about what he had done, and his respect for authority diminished, he decided getting out of the army was the best course of action. He handed in a written request, which was accepted, no questions asked.

After a few years as a mercenary, mainly fighting wars that meant nothing to him, in Africa and South America, he became battle weary and needed a change. During his time in Bolivia, working for a drug cartel, he was tasked with taking out a rival drug baron. His boss was willing to pay handsomely to have his nearest competition taken out, and Stone willingly volunteered. His target owned a huge hacienda at the foot of the Andes Mountains, with equally expansive grounds and landscaped gardens. The property was impenetrable due to the high level of security, as expected for someone of Gomez’s position.

Gomez was known for his lavish parties and it was during one of these that Stone set up position in the foothills of the Andes, overlooking Gomez’s estate. He had to wait a long time for a clear opportunity to arise but he learnt patience during his time in the army. He knew there would be no second chance on this assignment. One shot would be all he would get. Cool as ever under pressure, he took Gomez out with an audacious 1,200 metre shot right through the target’s heart. And thus began his new career as a hitman.

Not every job was as easy. He experienced some close calls but so far managed to keep himself alive and out of the clutches of the law. In his early days his planning was slack. He was young and overconfident, believing himself invincible. Now his planning was painstakingly detailed; he left nothing to chance and that kept him one step ahead of the police.

A movement in the house he was watching brought him back to reality. He cursed himself for allowing his mind to wander and drag up his past. It was unlike him and it worried him. He was getting complacent and it could lead to a mistake. Perhaps this would be his last job. His finances were in good shape and he had more money than he ever dreamed of. He mentally berated himself for taking his mind off the job in hand once more.

So far, it had been a tedious morning but finally after three boring hours, the Vaughn household was coming to life. Vaughn’s wife washed up the breakfast plates, which he assumed they ate in bed as there was no sign of Mr. Vaughn. It was now just after ten o’clock and his target, dressed in shorts and a linen shirt, was preparing to mow the grass. Through his scope, Stone noted it was a petrol mower, which was to his advantage as it would go some way to cover the noise of his rifle. He used a top of the range suppressor to reduce the sound of the rifle shot, but the sound of the lawnmower was likely to confuse the police as to the direction of the shot, and give him a few more precious seconds to make his getaway.

Stone began his preparations. There was no wind so no adjustments required to compensate for that. Depending on when he took the shot, it would be no more than 700 metres, well within his capabilities. Money for old rope, he said to himself as he checked his equipment. The bullet was already in the chamber. He checked his sights a final time and began to watch Vaughn as he pushed his mower to the end of his substantial garden. He would shoot him as he came back towards the house, right through the heart, just like he had done so many other times.

Vaughn made the turn at the end of the lawn and trundled the mower towards the patio area, oblivious to his impending death. Stone settled the crosshairs over Vaughn’s heart, inhaled and took up the slack on the trigger. The grass below him rustled and a dog urinated against the base of the tree. It sniffed the air and barked once. The owner, some distance away, called the animal, which began barking incessantly. If Stone wasn’t a dog lover, he would have changed positions and put a bullet in the dog’s brain. He stole a look down and saw the dog, a chocolate Labrador, looking up the tree, barking.

‘George,’ the owner called in a high-pitched voice. ‘George.’

Who the hell called their dog, George? Stone thought, as the dog continued to bark and circle the tree. Stone’s heart pounded.

The owner finally came to retrieve her dog. She looked directly up the tree. Surely at that distance she would see him, despite his camouflage. Stone braced himself but she put George’s lead on and pulled him away from the tree, berating him softly about chasing squirrels.

Stone took his finger off the trigger and waited. He needed the dog owner out of the woods before he could take the shot. Firstly, she would hear the shot and, if he was seen leaving the woods, it would create problems for him. Fortunately, Vaughn’s wife came out and handed her husband a cordless telephone. He stopped mowing and sat down in one of the patio chairs to take the call.

The woman with the dog was long gone by the time Vaughn finished his call and walked back to his mower. Stone settled himself once more and took up the slack on the trigger. As Vaughn got closer, Stone took a deep breath. When his quarry was as the shortest distance, Stone exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger. He watched the bullet enter his chest and explode from his back in a spray of blood, internal organ and bone. Vaughn fell backwards, the mower sputtering to a halt. Stone knew instantly his target was dead. He picked up the shell, placed it in his pocket and glanced towards the front of the house. The two policemen were looking at each other unsure of what they heard and what to do next.

A scream from Vaughn’s wife galvanised the two officers. One began knocking frantically at the front door, calling for Mrs. Vaughn and the other was on his radio. Stone was already on his way, having taken his rifle apart and placed it in his rucksack with his few other items. Within a few minutes he was walking back to his hotel via the back roads, located a short distance from Harlow train station.

He arrived at the hotel at a little after eleven and after collecting his luggage, checked out. He ate a fry-up at the carvery adjacent to