Kill Order

Part 1, Chapter 2: The Partner Assignment

Tristan Reeves woke before the alarm. The pale sweep of dawn pressed against the blinds, turning the edges of the flat into muted silver. He lay still for a moment, listening to the building settle and the distant rumble of a bus on the high street. Then his eyes opened, clear and alert, and the day began.

He showered, shaved, and dressed with the same efficient rhythm that guided every part of his life. Black T shirt, dark jeans, trainers with barely a mark on them. In the kitchen he switched on the kettle, filled a mug with strong tea, and stood at the worktop while the steam curled into the air. No sugar, no milk. He drank half in a single swallow, then set the mug down.

The phone on the counter vibrated. An encrypted message flashed once before erasing itself. A time, an address, a single word: Briefing.

Tristan finished the tea, rinsed the mug, and slipped the phone into his pocket. He locked the flat behind him and took the stairs three at a time, boots quiet on the worn wood. Outside, the sky was streaked with washed out apricot, the streets still half asleep. He walked to the end of the road, caught a number thirty eight bus, and sat near the back, eyes on the window, thoughts on nothing.

The address turned out to be an anonymous office building in Holborn, six floors of glass that reflected the weak London sun. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed over beige carpet and cheap MDF desks. It looked like any small accountancy firm, which was the point. Tristan took the lift to the top floor and stepped into a plain corridor that smelt faintly of coffee grounds and printer ink.

A door opened ahead. Marcus Kerr, his handler, emerged with a clipboard tucked under one arm. Kerr wore the same charcoal suit he always wore, the fabric slightly shiny from age, the knot of his tie perfect. His eyes flicked over Tristan.

"Good, you are early," Kerr said. "Come in."

The briefing room held a single table, two chairs, and a metal filing cabinet. A slim woman already sat at the table. She looked up as Tristan entered. Mid twenties maybe, athletic build, hair pulled back into a tight plait. Her eyes were grey, cool, assessing.

"Tristan Reeves," Kerr said, gesturing briskly. "This is Agent Evelyn Shaw. She was selected by the Agency Director as a hitman, like you. You will work together temporarily."

Tristan inclined his head once. "Morning."

Shaw gave him a quick nod. "Morning."

Kerr handed each of them a thin folder. Inside lay surveillance photographs and a floor plan of a warehouse on the Thames. Fast moving smuggling ring, weapons and forged passports. Their target was a financier named Victor Havel, ex military, now black market broker. Rendezvous tonight, 21:00. Neutralise Havel, retrieve a ledger, exit clean.

Kerr tapped his clipboard. "Extract that ledger. Do not alert anyone. I don't want this operation to make the headlines."

"Yes," Tristan said.

Shaw echoed the response. Kerr left the room without farewell.

Shaw stood, sliding the folder into a rucksack. "I have transport sorted and a kit drop en route. Meet me downstairs at 6:00."

Tristan met her gaze, unreadable. "Fine."

At 6:00 on the dot he stepped onto the pavement outside the Holborn building. Shaw waited beside a plain white Transit van, typing a final note on her phone. She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a loose black jacket that hid the body armour beneath. The back doors of the van were open, revealing a tidy array of weapons cases, medical packs, and a drone controller.

She tossed him an earpiece. "Channel three. Check two way."

He fitted the earpiece, gave a single click on the mic. She clicked back. No unnecessary words.

They drove south through evening traffic, headlights shimmering on damp tarmac. Shaw kept one hand on the wheel, the other steady on the gear stick. Tristan studied the warehouse plans on a tablet, mapping entry routes, calculating lines of sight. Shaw broke the silence only once.

"Wind off the river will carry sound east. Good for our exfil."

Tristan nodded. "Noted."

The warehouse sat in a cluster of derelict buildings near Woolwich Dockyard. Sodium lamps cast sickly amber pools across cracked concrete. A single guard smoked by the loading bay, breath misting in the cold air.

Shaw deployed a small quad drone, its rotors whisper quiet as it climbed to roof height. On the tablet screen thermal outlines bloomed. Five heat signatures inside, plus the guard outside.

"Guard first," Tristan murmured.

She nodded. He slipped round a stacked heap of pallets, moved in behind the guard, and locked an arm round the man's neck. One precise squeeze, no sound. He eased the body to the ground, dragging it into shadow.

Inside, they advanced with the ruthless calm of people who had rehearsed this a hundred times. Shaw kept watch on the drone feed, Tristan cleared corners with a compact carbine raised. They found Havel in an upstairs office, bent over a ledger, phone at his ear.

Shaw tossed a flash device through the doorway. White light washed the room. By the time it faded Tristan had his pistol trained on Havel's heart.

"Do not move," Shaw said.

Havel's mouth opened, but no sound came. Tristan fired once. Havel hit the floor, ledger still clutched in one hand.

Shaw stepped forward, retrieved the ledger, and tucked it into a waterproof pouch. "Clear."

They exited by the river door, slipped along the embankment, and disappeared into the London night while police sirens began their slow approach somewhere far behind them.

The Transit van rolled back into the underground car park beneath the Holborn offices just before midnight. Shaw killed the engine and locked the ledger in a steel evidence box.

"Next briefing tomorrow," she said.

Tristan nodded once, climbed out, and shut the door. The concrete cavern echoed with the distant hum of generators. Fluorescent strips flickered overhead as he crossed to the lift.

Up on the fifth floor a narrow corridor led to a plain door marked Logistics. Inside, a small office waited, with just a small window, desk, filing cabinet, single steel framed bed along the wall. A locker stood beside a compact shower cubicle.

Tristan stripped off his gear, stowed weapons and clothing in the locker, and stepped under the shower. The water ran hot, steam filling the tiny space. He let it wash away the grit and residue of cordite, the metallic tang of the night's work. Five minutes, no more.

He dried quickly, pulled on plain grey joggers, and sat on the edge of the bed. The phone buzzed once on the desk. He ignored it. Reaching over, he switched off the single lamp, lay back, and stared into the dark.

The mattress was thin, the pillow flat, yet he drifted to sleep without effort, the silence of the building wrapping round him like armour.

Tomorrow would bring another job, another ledger entry. Feelings could wait. For now, Tristan Reeves slept.