Ethan Justice: Origins

7: Saturday 24th September, 15:30

I AM FIFTY yards behind the black Mercedes on a narrow road parallel to Chiswick High Street. Most of the old buildings here have been converted to flats. Rents must be high, and even the less fortunate on this street are wealthier than most. I am parked on double yellow lines. It is impossible to park here unless you are an agent who has no need to be concerned with traffic violations. I don't want a record of being here and so watch all sides as well as the Mercedes. What are the fools waiting here for? I light a cigarette.

My attention is focussed as I watch Wilson, the short and broad shouldered one, leave the car. He must be two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. I can take him. Stealth is everything, but they haven't got the weapon yet and he is too close to his partner. He appears to be stretching his legs. Someone taps at my window. Shit. I have no disguise and do not turn as I lower the window and speak.

"Yes?" I say, my peripheral vision recognising the large frame of an elderly man. I reach to my ankle and pull on the handle of my stiletto blade.

"This is residents only parking. You'll have to move on," he says, much louder than I care for. The agents must not be alerted.

I keep my eyes ahead and take my voice down to a whisper. "I'll only be here a little while and I'm on double yellows so I'm not taking anyone's space."

The man's voice rises. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

I have no choice. I put out my Marlboro Red in the ashtray and turn to the man. He is bigger than I first expected. In one motion, I pull free my knife and thrust the four inch narrow blade through the man's throat. I get in three lightning stabs before he has time to raise his hands. He looks at me wide eyed as he clutches his throat and begins to stagger. I look him up and down and smile at him. Once upon a time he might have been a tough guy. His vocal chords and airways are damaged beyond repair, and his screams are barely audible gurgles that won't betray my position. I open the car door and help the man down to the ground behind my van. He will die quietly. Illegal kill number two is less fun than number one. I return to my post.

Twenty minutes pass before the Mercedes pulls away. Why are they crawling along? They must be following someone on foot. Eventually we reach Stamford Brook tube underground, and Wilson jumps out. I have to make a decision. Johnson is the man in charge and I stay on his tail. It feels like progress. I may get to call Sasha before the day is out. An exquisite shudder runs right through me.

*

Johnson's phone vibrated. He answered.

"Where are they, Wilson?"

"We're at Shepherd's Bush underground station. Do you want me to take them out?"

The tall agent stared at his phone like it was an alien artefact. Everything he said to Wilson had fallen on deaf ears.

"No, keep on them, and I'll be with you soon."

Johnson ended the call and pulled away. He tapped a few buttons on the steering wheel, and 'Ave Maria' erupted from the impressive sound system. It was his favourite stress reliever. It was the first time he'd listened to it in five years.

*

At four o'clock Savannah and John exited Shepherd's Bush Market underground station, turning right along the Uxbridge Road.

Traffic was bumper to bumper and pedestrians jostled to get in and out of the market opposite. Savannah had once worked in the well-known market, and she would have enjoyed saying hello to a few of her friends who still worked inside the thronging centre, but she needed Christos off her back more than she needed to catch up with old pals. Other than Wales, Shepherd's Bush was where she had spent most of her life. She had never liked it enough to consider it home though, even when her mother had been alive.