Monday 24th October 2014 – London, EnglandGMT 15:38
The man moved hastily down the busy corridor, glancing backwards every so often
to check he wasn’t being followed. His oafish girth impeded any great speed and it
was with some awkwardness that he squeezed past junior aides and ministers
heading in the opposite direction, trying not to be too forceful when pushing
through but eager to complete his task as soon as he could. Finally he managed to
fight his way into a private chamber, bolting the door behind him as he fumbled his
mobile phone free with a sweaty hand. Dialling a number from memory, he sat
heavily in a plush armchair, wheezing from his efforts. His call was answered
almost instantly.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s been decided, you’re not getting what you want. He’s going in
completely the opposite direction; the old bastard actually thinks the public will forget all about the last ten years and allow him some glory if he gives them an
election. I guess he’s just too old and tired to keep oppressing them.’
‘When is he going to announce the decision?’
‘Next Monday. He is going to inform the ministers and then go straight to a
press conference outside Number 10.’
‘You’ve done well. Your money will be in the usual place.’
‘Thank you. But what about the announcement? I thought that-’
‘You’re not paid to think, so don’t. And don’t worry either. There will be no
announcement.’ Wednesday 26th October 2014 – Manchester, England
GMT 05:28
The dark room was quiet and devoid of character, gleaning with the surgical
cleanliness and emptiness that can only be achieved through a concerted, obsessive
effort. A car drove slowly past the window and illuminated the sterile scene, its
headlights easily penetrating the thin net curtains and highlighting the entire
contents of the sparse room for the briefest moment. The glow of the headlights
faded as the car passed by, the change in the light conditions causing the powerful
figure sleeping beneath a simple sheet to stir uneasily. A second later his eyes
snapped open, the transition from slumber to full consciousness almost
instantaneous as he glanced around the room, checking everything was as he left it,
his amazing and unique eyes easily piercing the gloom.
A man of routine, he checked his watch before rising and padding across to
a small coffee table, picking up a pack of cards and shuffling them, slowly to begin
with but gradually picking up speed until the cards were flying between his fingers, little more than a blur. He tracked them intently with his eyes as they moved, able
to pick out the individual cards as they appeared, disappeared and resurfaced,
carrying on in this manner for nearly half an hour as he did every day, using the
exercise to increase the dexterity in his hands and train his eyes to be better at
detecting movement. He found it hypnotic and very calming, and was extremely
attached to the routine because of the relaxation it afforded his troubled mind.
Setting the cards down on the table he picked the top one from the pile and turned it
over, revealing the eight of diamonds. Dropping to the floor he performed eighty
push-ups rapidly, enjoying the feeling of the blood flowing to his triceps and
shoulders. Once finished he pulled another card from the top of the pack and turned
over the three of spades before performing thirty squats, his thick legs moving like
iron pistons.
Next card, another exercise; by assigning a particular exercise to each suit
and multiplying the face value by ten to dictate the number of repetitions he would
perform, he was able to generate a randomised work-out every morning, for
although his mind and spirit craved routine, his body adapted rapidly to any
physical challenges he threw at it. Some mornings he would work through the
entire deck six or seven times; exercise was the purest form of pleasure he had and he thrived on pushing his astonishing body to its limits. Day after day he would
drift away when working out, distancing himself from the physical discomfort he
was inflicting, focusing instead on the emotional pain he carried wherever he went,
reflecting on the troubles of his past. Pushing himself harder and harder, he would
collapse in a river of sweat and vomit, often passing out. As a result of his
masochistic efforts he had obtained almost superhuman levels of fitness and
amazing physical strength. As a consequence of his self-inflicted torture, he had
lost a significant proportion of his humanity, a fact of which he was largely
unaware, so gradual had been the change. A hollow shell of a man he was almost
machine-like in his qualities; strong, single minded and calculating, but lacking in
real emotion. Pity, remorse, excitement, happiness, love, all were distant memories
for him, memories he avoided at all cost, memories he had shut off and killed over
the past few years. On some days he would remember a face, a place, a particularly
gruesome death, but he always pushed the away and it was only when he slept that
they consumed him so overwhelmingly that he would wake in a pool of sweat and
tears. Last night had been one of his better nights, perhaps because today spelled a
change in his daily routine, giving him something else to worry about; this morning
he planned to only work through the pack of cards four times and use the rowing machine for an hour and a half, as he had other preparatory work to do. Today was
to be a busy day for Thomas Evans.
Later that evening Evans pulled his stolen, non-descript car up in a residential area
of the city and parked across the street from the two-storey home currently
occupied by his latest objective. He knew the target’s face, name, and what he did
for a living; he did not know why his client was paying him to kidnap the man, who
was a politician’s aide, and he did not know who he was delivering him to or the
fate that awaited him. Evans did not care. Exiting the vehicle he ran across the road
and past the house, cutting into the back garden, little more than a shadow in his jet
black operational gear. Using a detached rifle scope equipped with night vision, he
located the back door and inspected it, defeating it with his lock pick in seconds
and opening the door gingerly, silently easing it back as he snaked his way into the
house
Moving quickly, he entered through the dark kitchen into a cluttered and
colourful lounge absolutely littered with children’s toys and playthings. Soothing
music played softly from another room, but he could hear no sounds of movement
from the house. Proceeding with caution, he picked his way past a myriad of action figures and a jumbo-sized yellow dump truck filled to the brim with plastic
soldiers, slipping silently into a well-lit hallway decorated with a multitude of
family pictures in solid wooden frames; he could see his target in most of them,
progressing in age from an awkward looking teenager to the rather portly husband
and father of two that he had now become. Evans could not be sure that there would
be any pictures of this man as a grandfather, as a retiree, but that was not his
concern.
Nothing but his objective occupied his conscious mind as he checked
through the downstairs rooms one-by-one before heading upstairs, sneaking up a
narrow flight of stairs, his immense concentration focused on the world a few feet
in front of him. At moments like this he felt strangely at ease, enjoying the
transformation of his complex and tormented existence into a simple goal
orientated situation where the only paths open to him were success or failure.
Moving as smoothly as a viper he entered the first bedroom, careful not to wake the
two young boys asleep in their beds. Without hesitation he approached them,
removing one of the chloroform soaked pads from his backpack, preparing to
strike. He attacked, holding the rag over the nose and mouth of the first boy, his
muted struggles eliciting no sympathy from his tormentor. Satisfied he was unconscious Evans repeated his attack on the second child, incapacitating him with
the same cold efficiency. Keeping the pad close to had he drew his pistol and
attached a silencer before creeping back toward the hallway where he could hear soft laughter from the bedroom at the end of the hall.