Brixton Bound

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"Where the fuck are you?"

"In London," I replied, looking down at my phone incredulously.

"In London where?" The man on the other end of the line yelled.

"At the airport."

"And just where are you on the way to you jackass?"

"Eventually, I'll be headed down to baggage claim and then to the taxi and rideshare stand. Is there anything I can help you with Spooner?"

"Mr... Spooner. Don't forget who is paying you, Diamante. I want a little more respect out of you from this point forward. A lot more actually, got it?"

"It's Diam, Spooner. Again, what may I help you with?"

"Diamante!!! Do not make me regret hiring you. What the fuck are you doing at the airport? You are under contract to be here. The package is here. Here! You know what I'm sending a car to pick you up. Stay right there until you hear from me again, that is a direct order! You will remain at Heathrow until the car arrives. Do not move!"

"Got it," I pressed [end] on the call.

"Wife," asked the older American businessman seated beside me at the gate.

"No. Just a customer that thinks he's my employer. False sense of control. He's sending a car to Heathrow to pick me up."

"Wait, well that's a hell of a problem there isn't it? We're at Gatwick," the man replied with a surprised grin.

"False, sense of control," I replied. Excusing myself to head to the loo.

On the flight to London, I reviewed one of two carefully crafted dossiers, four times. An old guard, cinema producer from the States long since retired, had been blackmailing actresses left and right to keep them quiet. Entanglements and indiscretions to the 99th power. 

This file made it clear, however, that the wrong person's name had finally been included in his nefarious dealings of late. Arnold Stephenson was set to die by my hand in two days' time while on holiday in London. Now this impromptu trip to Brixton, about twenty minutes outside of the city, was another story. 

Frederick Spooner was a financier of shady business dealings in the United Kingdom, primarily in London, Southampton, Coventry, and Leicester. Of late, Wales, Isle of Man, and Belgium were new locations where he had begun to plant roots, however, there was one obstacle slowing his expansion. Harry Sylvester, the founding partner at Sylvester, Wiggins & Co. Sylvester had been the head of the general crime offering for the most powerful criminal defense firm in the UK for the past thirty years.

The air that Harry breathed, kept Spooner's competition on the wrong side of a jail cell.

After changing clothes I walked past the gate where I had been seated for the past hour plus, making arrangements. The American businessman never blinked in my direction.

Gone was the dark denim and pink & blue plaid collared shirt I wore on the flight. In its place I now wore a lighter washed pair of jeans, with a hard-pressed decorative wrinkle pattern in the crotch area. The fit was tighter, more restrictive than preferred, but necessary. Above the waist, I wore a thin black hoodie over top of a green fatigued tee with 1981 in black graffiti lettering across the chest. A black, red, and green beaded necklace held together with graphene piano wire hung around my neck, and there was a pair of black Nike hi-tops with steel toe inserts in the instep.

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