He watched, rubbing his upper lip with his forefinger. Was the mouse going to walk or drive? Considering what the man was carrying, one would think he’d be more apt to a quicker disposal. He grinned; either way was fine. He just needed to get the man in an out of the way place to take it. So, he continued to watch. His patience was rewarded when the man got into a mini and pulled out. He turned his engine over and followed along at a discreet distance.

He truly detested this part of the job. In the first place, he’d had to eschew his favorite mode of transportation. Granted, a nondescript piece of junk was the perfect car – something that would blend in, completely unrecognizable from any other tiny little car. Just enough tint to the windows to keep anyone from describing him completely. They would talk about a tall man, maybe thin or maybe sturdy, but no real features to relate. But he ached for his Jaguar. He ached, literally ached, to be driving something that would run the mouse to ground in a heartbeat. 

But a job was a job and the work had to be done. The faster he got it done, the sooner he could be back on his estate and reveling in the comfort that money could provide. The wine, the horses, the comfort – it all suited him well. Which reminded him, as he made the discreet turn behind the mini, he had an appointment with his tailor this week. He dropped back a little to avoid being seen; it wouldn’t do for the mouse to see him just yet. It didn’t really matter; if he lost the visual on the mini, he’d added a GPS device on the boot. He’d track it. 

Another turn and he realized that the mouse was following standard surveillance procedures, what to do when being – as the Yanks called it – tailed. But he’d chosen the transportation wisely and had managed to keep the respectful distance back, thanks to the GPS. He might just pull over and wait a few minutes. Let the mouse feel secure and then, let him see the cheese. Yes, that would be best. So, he did. He pulled the mini over to the curb, in front of a row of flats, and waited. 

After watching the GPS for a few minutes, he pulled out and made a straight line down the road. The mouse was in route to the turnaround only a few blocks away and catching up would take one and a half minutes precisely. Catching his prey was easy and he decided that now would be the time to put the first fright into the little sod. This was going exactly as planned.

He made it into the turnaround at the same time as his prey and he sidled up to the other’s car. He caught a glimpse of the mouse’s eyes in the rearview mirror and took such great delight in showing a rather shark-like grin. He also pulled up right onto mousie’s boot and gloried in the wide-eyed look of fear he got in return. As the great Shakespeare had noted in Henry V, the game was, most definitely, afoot. Let little sod sweat a little before he clapped the trap around its throat.

The mini took off at a pace, leaving him behind rather easily. Agency types. Always thought speed was their saving grace. Never thought of tracking devices or GPS or satellites. Welcome to the twenty-first century, he thought to himself with a certain cynicism. Leaving MI5 had been the best thing to happen to him, not that he’d had a choice. They’d given him the sack and told him to peddle his papers elsewhere. And for a time, he’d been shattered. Angry. And then the opportunity had come upon him.

He had thought that having his employment terminated would have left him open to every rival he’d ever flummoxed, but it turned out to be the opposite. Within the month, he’d been approached by an enemy in the field who told him about wonderful opportunities that came with a very hefty paycheck included. One of those opportunities was the ability to stay one step ahead of MI5 and MI6 and embarrass them no end. That was the crowning glory in all of this. After that, he had more work than he knew what to do with, more money than he could ever spend in a lifetime, and his every whim catered to and fulfilled. 

He found the agent again, quite easily and maintained his discreet distance. He followed the car into the alley, in one of the worst parts of London that any field agent could possibly go to and carry out a mission. He shook his head; again, how predictable. It had to be an alley. A dirty, smelly alley with all the feces and garbage that one of those disgusting places could hold. I would have picked some place public, you moron. You’re making this far too easy. Are you brand new in the field?

He stepped out of his trashy car and wiped it down, inside and out, to get rid of the fingerprints. He’d made sure not to have a traceable name on the registration or anything else to do with this monstrosity. He would take mousie’s mini to drive away – providing he could fit in the seat, bloody things had absolutely no leg or head room to speak of. He made his way down the alley, not even trying to hide. Where was the fun in that?

True to the game, the agent saw his pursuer and his face blanched in fear. Ah, so little mousie was a neophyte. That would make this so much more fun. The agent looked up and down the alley, looking for someone? Something? Whatever he was trying to find, it wasn’t there, and the agent took off running. 

He chased the agent just enough to give that sense of fear and false hope. First to think that mousie’s days were truly numbered, down to a handful of minutes. Then to think that mousie might get away. That he’d lost the vile man following him. That he would get in touch with his handler and change the rendezvous point, that he was in trouble. The agent might even make that cell call and be given some sense of reassuring instructions to get him out and back into the bosom of safety. He stopped chasing and went back to where the agent had originally been standing. He would return there. So predictable.

Like a homing pigeon, the agent did return. And he was there to catch the little shite and slam him against the bricks.

“Where is it?” he asked, his voice cold and less human than he truly felt.

The agent was barely more than a boy. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

“You know why. Now, where is it? I want that drive.” He pressed a forearm against the agent’s neck, not completely cutting off his air but close. The agent was gasping and gagging. “Where…is…it?”

“I don’t…know what you’re talking about. I…I….”

He eased off the pressure and the agent breathed in a gulp of air. “Now, you’ll tell me what I want to know or I can make this very unpleasant for you.”

The agent nodded. “I don’t have it. I was supposed to meet my contact here to tell him where it is. He…he isn’t here.”

“Then tell me.”

“And you’ll let me go?”

“Who is your contact?”

“No! No! I can’t do that,” the agent sputtered, sweating now. He was trying to think of how he could get out of this. It was telegraphed in his eyes as they darted up and down, side to side. Again. And accepting the fate that life was about to hand him. 

He pulled the small but very sharp blade out of his boot and made a great show out of slicing open the agent’s hoodie and tee shirt. He always loved the screams – such sweet music to his ears – as he made shallow cuts over the agent’s chest, nipples, and belly.

“I… I… Manning, his name is Manning.”

“Good.” For a moment, it was within him to let this mousie go. Inexperienced and immature as a field agent, the shame would be far worse in knowing that he caved too quickly and having to report that to his superiors. “Good.”

But he couldn’t. He smashed the agent’s skull against the brick and a quick wrench of the agent’s head neatly severed the spine at the base of it. Mousie was dead within a second or two and dropped to the filthy stones of the alley’s floor. The predators would come, attracted to the blood, and obfuscate the evidence. Again, exactly as planned and accounted for. 

He knew the body was not going to have what he wanted, what he came for, but he still gave it a thorough pat down and examination. The mouse hadn’t been lying; he didn’t have the drive. But he now knew who the agent had been planning on meeting, another agent but this one had a little more experience under his belt. He remembered Manning, bit of a numpty and easy to take care of. He’d give Manning a bit of a head start and take the drive from him quite easily.

He took the agent’s keys from the front pants pocket and walked to the mini. He could ditch this in another city, perhaps Cambridge, and take transport back home. It wasn’t a complete loss. He’d have that drive soon enough. He drove off and gave the body no more thought.

By Jess Austen

Book Excerpt — Chapter One