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3rd March 2014
He was sitting outside Costa’s at the corner of Old Hall Street and Tithebarn. Chewing the last of his almond slice, he sipped the remains of his caramel Latte and tapped his foot in rhythm to the music in his earphones.
The surveillance team interrupted: “Subject approaching Fazakerley Street. Fifty metres.”
He stood up; with the strap over his left shoulder the messenger bag lay on his right hip. Across the pavement into Old Hall, he walked casually away from the city then stopped outside a sandwich bar, took out his spare phone and pretended to make a call as he took in the surroundings.
Within seconds he’d identified his target: White male, 40s, muscular build, shaven head, casual sports jacket, merino jumper, jeans and shades. He named him ‘Sunglasses’.
“Subject crossing Old Hall ...entering Fazakerley Street ... now.”
A voice: “Yes, yes.”
It was narrow, one car’s width, a thin footpath on either side. A hundred metres long, it connected Rumford Place to Old Hall carrying one-way traffic towards the latter. Stepping into it he said quietly: “Elvis has entered the building,” and activated the CCTV disruption device he carried in his pocket. Sunglasses was ahead of him. Nobody else was in sight. It was all down to him now. The voice: “Yes, yes.”
He took out the smartphone, clicked music, playlist, then ‘Fly With Vampires’ play all and put it back in his pocket. Immediately the opening chords of ‘Puppet Master’ resounded through his head.
With twenty metres between them, he knew Sunglasses was heading for his car in the little side street at the far end, to his right. He knew exactly how it was parked. He’d seen it earlier. The cul-de-sac had once been bounded on three sides by buildings, but the left and far-end boundaries had long been demolished. The BMW sat about fifty feet from the junction.
Sunglasses was in a happy place. His recent meeting had gone well. The problem of his ex-mistress would soon be resolved, permanently, leaving him to concentrate fully on his current business interests and plans for early retirement. He looked back and saw only a businessman talking on his phone. That reminded him, he needed to speak to Tommy, his main enforcer and close friend. They needed to sort out that weasel Kehoe before he caused them any further problems. Then he needed to sort out Tommy. He was getting too cocky, assuming too many things. Sunglasses felt uneasy. He felt possible change in the air. He took out his mobile and turned the corner.
Quickening his pace as Sunglasses disappeared; he narrowed the gap between them back to fifteen metres. It gave him accuracy yet distanced him from the result and provided an adequate space between him and the target in which to react. He crossed over to the left-hand pavement opening up his view. Sunglasses was walking towards the driver’s side of the car, keys in his right hand, phone to his left ear. The vehicle’s indicators flashed.
He registered both the scene and his peripheral vision. No immediate threats; three workmen off to his left across the wasteland and adjoining road, one stood in a hole, the other two standing idly by. A white van drew up alongside them, obscuring him from view.
Briskly now, he crossed back over the narrow roadway, stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket and took the suppressed Sig 226 from the messenger bag. Taking two paces from the junction into the cul-de-sac, hidden from anyone looking up the ‘alley’ from Old Hall Street, he brought the weapon up in a weaver stance, paused momentarily then gently squeezed the trigger.
Tommy wasn’t picking up. Sunglasses placed his hand on the car door handle glancing back along the street at the businessman who was pointing at him. No. He wasn’t pointing. It was the last thought he had. His phone bounced off the cobblestoned roadway and into the gutter.
Walking unhurriedly towards the city centre, the weapon replaced in the messenger bag, left hand to his lapel, he whispered: “Elvis is leaving the building.” He didn’t look back. The white van drove past him, heading in the same direction.
On the opposite pavement, he dropped the messenger bag into a street cleaner’s cart and continued without pause or acknowledgement. Turning right at the junction, he passed the ‘Pig and Whistle’ pub and walked calmly into a side street, softly announcing: “Elvis has left the building.”
Thirty metres later, he stopped and selected another playlist, nonchalantly checking the street behind him before continuing.
The street cleaner closed the lid to his cart and trundled it off. Occasionally stopping to brush something up, he reached a quiet side street less than half a mile away. Within 30 seconds, both he and the cart had been loaded into the rear of a white van and driven away.