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By David Durbin
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00001.jpg00002.jpg00003.jpg00004.jpg00005.jpg00006.jpg00007.jpgMonday 24th October 2014 – London, England

 

GMT 15:38

 

The man moved hastily down the busy corridor, glancing backwards every so often

 

to check he wasn’t being followed. His oafish girth impeded any great speed and it

 

was with some awkwardness that he squeezed past junior aides and ministers

 

heading in the opposite direction, trying not to be too forceful when pushing

 

through but eager to complete his task as soon as he could. Finally he managed to

 

fight his way into a private chamber, bolting the door behind him as he fumbled his

 

mobile phone free with a sweaty hand. Dialling a number from memory, he sat

 

heavily in a plush armchair, wheezing from his efforts. His call was answered

 

almost instantly.

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘It’s been decided, you’re not getting what you want. He’s going in

 

completely the opposite direction; the old bastard actually thinks the public will forget all about the last ten years and allow him some glory if he gives them an

 

election. I guess he’s just too old and tired to keep oppressing them.’

 

‘When is he going to announce the decision?’

 

‘Next Monday. He is going to inform the ministers and then go straight to a

 

press conference outside Number 10.’

 

‘You’ve done well. Your money will be in the usual place.’

 

‘Thank you. But what about the announcement? I thought that-’

 

‘You’re not paid to think, so don’t. And don’t worry either. There will be no

 

announcement.’ Wednesday 26th October 2014 – Manchester, England

 

GMT 05:28

 

The dark room was quiet and devoid of character, gleaning with the surgical

 

cleanliness and emptiness that can only be achieved through a concerted, obsessive

 

effort. A car drove slowly past the window and illuminated the sterile scene, its

 

headlights easily penetrating the thin net curtains and highlighting the entire

 

contents of the sparse room for the briefest moment. The glow of the headlights

 

faded as the car passed by, the change in the light conditions causing the powerful

 

figure sleeping beneath a simple sheet to stir uneasily. A second later his eyes

 

snapped open, the transition from slumber to full consciousness almost

 

instantaneous as he glanced around the room, checking everything was as he left it,

 

his amazing and unique eyes easily piercing the gloom.

 

A man of routine, he checked his watch before rising and padding across to

 

a small coffee table, picking up a pack of cards and shuffling them, slowly to begin

 

with but gradually picking up speed until the cards were flying between his fingers, little more than a blur. He tracked them intently with his eyes as they moved, able

 

to pick out the individual cards as they appeared, disappeared and resurfaced,

 

carrying on in this manner for nearly half an hour as he did every day, using the

 

exercise to increase the dexterity in his hands and train his eyes to be better at

 

detecting movement. He found it hypnotic and very calming, and was extremely

 

attached to the routine because of the relaxation it afforded his troubled mind.

 

Setting the cards down on the table he picked the top one from the pile and turned it

 

over, revealing the eight of diamonds. Dropping to the floor he performed eighty

 

push-ups rapidly, enjoying the feeling of the blood flowing to his triceps and

 

shoulders. Once finished he pulled another card from the top of the pack and turned

 

over the three of spades before performing thirty squats, his thick legs moving like

 

iron pistons.

 

Next card, another exercise; by assigning a particular exercise to each suit

 

and multiplying the face value by ten to dictate the number of repetitions he would

 

perform, he was able to generate a randomised work-out every morning, for

 

although his mind and spirit craved routine, his body adapted rapidly to any

 

physical challenges he threw at it. Some mornings he would work through the

 

entire deck six or seven times; exercise was the purest form of pleasure he had and he thrived on pushing his astonishing body to its limits. Day after day he would

 

drift away when working out, distancing himself from the physical discomfort he

 

was inflicting, focusing instead on the emotional pain he carried wherever he went,

 

reflecting on the troubles of his past. Pushing himself harder and harder, he would

 

collapse in a river of sweat and vomit, often passing out. As a result of his

 

masochistic efforts he had obtained almost superhuman levels of fitness and

 

amazing physical strength. As a consequence of his self-inflicted torture, he had

 

lost a significant proportion of his humanity, a fact of which he was largely

 

unaware, so gradual had been the change. A hollow shell of a man he was almost

 

machine-like in his qualities; strong, single minded and calculating, but lacking in

 

real emotion. Pity, remorse, excitement, happiness, love, all were distant memories

 

for him, memories he avoided at all cost, memories he had shut off and killed over

 

the past few years. On some days he would remember a face, a place, a particularly

 

gruesome death, but he always pushed the away and it was only when he slept that

 

they consumed him so overwhelmingly that he would wake in a pool of sweat and

 

tears. Last night had been one of his better nights, perhaps because today spelled a

 

change in his daily routine, giving him something else to worry about; this morning

 

he planned to only work through the pack of cards four times and use the rowing machine for an hour and a half, as he had other preparatory work to do. Today was

 

to be a busy day for Thomas Evans.

 

Later that evening Evans pulled his stolen, non-descript car up in a residential area

 

of the city and parked across the street from the two-storey home currently

 

occupied by his latest objective. He knew the target’s face, name, and what he did

 

for a living; he did not know why his client was paying him to kidnap the man, who

 

was a politician’s aide, and he did not know who he was delivering him to or the

 

fate that awaited him. Evans did not care. Exiting the vehicle he ran across the road

 

and past the house, cutting into the back garden, little more than a shadow in his jet

 

black operational gear. Using a detached rifle scope equipped with night vision, he

 

located the back door and inspected it, defeating it with his lock pick in seconds

 

and opening the door gingerly, silently easing it back as he snaked his way into the

 

house

 

Moving quickly, he entered through the dark kitchen into a cluttered and

 

colourful lounge absolutely littered with children’s toys and playthings. Soothing

 

music played softly from another room, but he could hear no sounds of movement

 

from the house. Proceeding with caution, he picked his way past a myriad of action figures and a jumbo-sized yellow dump truck filled to the brim with plastic

 

soldiers, slipping silently into a well-lit hallway decorated with a multitude of

 

family pictures in solid wooden frames; he could see his target in most of them,

 

progressing in age from an awkward looking teenager to the rather portly husband

 

and father of two that he had now become. Evans could not be sure that there would

 

be any pictures of this man as a grandfather, as a retiree, but that was not his

 

concern.

 

Nothing but his objective occupied his conscious mind as he checked

 

through the downstairs rooms one-by-one before heading upstairs, sneaking up a

 

narrow flight of stairs, his immense concentration focused on the world a few feet

 

in front of him. At moments like this he felt strangely at ease, enjoying the

 

transformation of his complex and tormented existence into a simple goal

 

orientated situation where the only paths open to him were success or failure.

 

Moving as smoothly as a viper he entered the first bedroom, careful not to wake the

 

two young boys asleep in their beds. Without hesitation he approached them,

 

removing one of the chloroform soaked pads from his backpack, preparing to

 

strike. He attacked, holding the rag over the nose and mouth of the first boy, his

 

muted struggles eliciting no sympathy from his tormentor. Satisfied he was unconscious Evans repeated his attack on the second child, incapacitating him with

 

the same cold efficiency. Keeping the pad close to had he drew his pistol and

 

attached a silencer before creeping back toward the hallway where he could hear soft laughter from the bedroom at the end of the hall.