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In the library, Bramwell Peterson calmly smoked his cigar. Taking a long draw he blew out the smoke slowly before picking up the brandy glass and gently swirling its contents. Inhaling the aroma, in two distinct mouthfuls, he savoured its progress across his tongue and into his soul.
In the next room, through the French windows, a figure quietly entered and murmured into a concealed microphone. The glass panelled doors dividing the two rooms glided silently open and the figure slowly raised his arm.
Three vehicles waited on the drive. Two saloons, between them a 4x4. Although there’d been no intelligence of any specific threat, the doors were open, engines running, CP team standing; watchful, shades on, ready.
“Mr Peterson.” The minder looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
Opening the front door, two protection officers preceded Peterson down the steps, two behind. Bramwell smiled and his head popped open like a ripe melon hit by a sledgehammer, collapsing him straight down into a heap on the steps. Spattered in blood, bone and brain, the two rear officers sought immediate cover, weapons drawn, instinctively knowing their ‘principal’ was a lost cause. The other two, shielded by the 4x4, dragged him down the few remaining steps, leaving a pink trail of brain tissue behind him.
Degsy, watching from the observation van, simply said: “Oh!! ... Fuck!!”
900 metres away, atop one of the towers that made up the ‘Dennings Towers Residential Complex’ known locally as ‘Dennings bollocks’ two workmen folded the stock and tripod of an AWM sniper rifle, removed the suppressor, placed it all in a kitbag and calmly began descending the service stairs.