The assassin strolled down a country lane where a new built house towered over a moss-engulfed cottage
The next day
The red old – fashion rang in a traditional British style.
“Blane!” The deep voice of the man on the end of the line yelled.
“Yeah.” He answered.
“You just don’t know how bad things are?”
“What d’u mean.” Blane replied
“Horsefield village is swarming with police and forensic teams. The residents of a cottage saw everything.”
Before Blane could reply he was interrupted.
“Keep a low profile.” He sharply responded and hung up.
Two weeks later
Blane pulled up in front of a 12ft iron gate in a black BMW wit tinted windows. He rolled down his window and punched in a four-digit code. Like magic the gates opened to the countryside manor. The car sped away to the front of the mansion.
Once inside, a sharply dressed man approached him. As he spoke Blane recognize the voice.
“The man who wanted to hire an assassin pacifically asked for you.”
“When is it?” Blane asked.
“Friday.” He replied.
Confirming the request, Blane said. “You’ve got a deal, Fax me details.”
Friday afternoon
“Room 218 sir.” The receptionist said.
“Thanks.” Blane replied.
Blane entered the pokey room shutting the door behind him, then swiped open the curtains. The view was of a small park with a walkway through it and a pancake stall alongside. He slammed his bag down on the wooden floor. He poked his head around the corner; then nodded his head in satisfaction. He unzipped the bag and pulled out a tripod. After that he dragged out a long briefcase with coded locks. Blane rolled three numbered wheels suddenly the locks flicked open a one-meter sniper rifle appeared. He shut the curtains and shut off the ceiling light and rested in an armchair. In the dim light of an old lamp you could make out smoke rising from a vintage Cuban cigar. Soon after he snubbed out the cigar and rolled his head back and didn’t move a muscle.
Dusk began to fall over the park and argon street lamps lit the city streets. The fax startled Blane, as he read it his face screwed up with rage and worry. He went straight to the phone.
“You set me up! I ain’t going to kill a friend.” He shouted.
“Oh you will or your brown bread. Look opposite ninth floor I’m watching you.”
Before Blane could reply in an angry tone the man with he deep voice said.
“Get it done!”
It was minutes away. You could smell the tension in the smoke filled room. His long nail finger lay on the trigger as the target approached the park. Vanloads of police arrived in the side streets. He fled the room and dashed up the staircase in an instant. He burst through the fire door and onto the roof. His long coat blew in the wind. The metal ladder which lead to the fire escape was heaved off. He rested it on the two buildings to cross the side street.
“Mr Yanson please.” Blane said in a negative tone to the receptionist She answered
“Room 218 sir.”
Out side the room he drew his pistil. He fearlessly booted open the door to 218. He was meet by three bodyguards. Who were in suits and armed. Out stepped
The man with the deep voice AKA Mr Yanson. It’s time you went from my origination. You could blow our cover. He walked through the wall of guards and out the room shutting it behind him.
