Kim & The Hitman, Sandie Baldry [red novels txt] 📗

Kim & The Hitman

By Sandie Baldry

Copyright © 2021 Sandra Baldry

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN:B08XLLF53J

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places used are fictitious. Names, characters, and places are products of the author's imagination.

Front cover image by Recbeca of Fiverr The book designed by Sandra Baldry by Amazon. www.sandienovellas.com  email: sandie@sandienovellas.com

sandiebaldry@outlook.com

 Kim & The Hitman

Dedication

To my sister Sonia and daughter Dominie

To all my beta readers

Kim & The Hitman

1

Vincent waited in his Vauxhall, switching on the wipers to clean the dust off the windscreen. He needed a clear view of the apartment block on the opposite side. Already difficult with For sale signs vying for prominence at the car park exit. He would be lucky to catch sight of the target’s car when he left.  Venturing closer wasn’t an option, having spotted the security cameras.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with a glance to the time, he waited for the target to emerge—Michael Winthorpe, a local councillor who had made some powerful enemies. Vincent paid to eliminate him. He didn’t know who had generated the hit and didn’t care. This one had come through the agency, where the work was regular. They took a ten percent cut, irritating when all they did was allocate the job to someone like him. The only advantage was he remained anonymous to the person or organisation generating the job. Ordered to make this one look like the hit it was, guessing it was to set an example. He had the skill set to make that happen. Riskier, but he liked a challenge.

Vincent had followed his target for two weeks and was familiar with his routine. He left for his office at eight-thirty. Worked until three. Nice hours if you could get them. Then would stop off on a Monday at his golf club. He never took his clubs with him, so Vincent guessed he would be propping up the bar to meet with other wankers. On a Tuesday, he came to the apartment Vincent watched to visit his mistress. A glance at the car clock, not much longer, and the target would be on the move again to return to his country home. It was between here and his house Vincent would strike. He had a plan; he always had a plan. Then home, to Maggie, his Rottweiler, the love of his life. No complications. Her only desire was food, exercise, and to get a fuss. No sex, then he could buy that on any street corner in town at a certain time of night. Again, no complications. Married twice, the first wife took him for everything he had. He didn’t give the second a chance. Nope, he would not go down that road again, just him and Maggie.

Vincent spotted Michael Winthorpe’s BMW waiting at the exit for a gap in the traffic. Firing up his engine, Vincent indicated and pulled in behind him as he drove off. He would follow him to the country road, complete the hit.

Vincent’s hands squeezed the steering wheel. He wasn’t taking the same route home. He was going in the opposite direction, towards the town. Shit. He could do without this complication.

Following the target, keeping two car lengths back, he resigned himself to the detour where the traffic would be: stop, start, a pedestrian crossing every few metres. And the glare hitting his windscreen from the bright sun was giving him a headache. At this rate, he would not get home for another hour. While he waited, he checked his glove compartment. A packet of paracetamol laid there. His fingers reached in as the lights turned green. He moved on; his target was pulling off the road into the post office entrance, giving Vincent no choice but to linger in the space for taxi drivers. Only one taxi waited, and Vincent, glancing to his rear-view mirror, noted the driver was reading a paper. He didn’t underestimate how possessive taxi drivers were over their spot, and the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

The target jumped out and strolled into the entrance while checking his phone.

Vincent considered taking him out when he got back into the car. Then chastised himself. That would be messy. This needed to be a clean kill and under no circumstances involve bystanders. That would do his reputation no good, and he survived on his reputation. He followed the training he had as a mercenary, keep collateral damage to a minimum, keep it clean.

The target, carrying a parcel, got back into his car and pulled away. Vincent went to follow, distracted by a tap on the car’s passenger side window. An elderly woman carrying two shopping bags peered at him with a frown.

‘Are you working or not?’ she snapped, trying the locked door and setting Vincent’s hackles up. Ignoring her, he indicated to the traffic behind and pulled out. The target car was somewhere ahead. This time he hoped to go towards Boddington. Usually, fewer vehicles would be on the quiet country road. A glance at the clock, five-thirty rush hour, every man and his car would be on the road trying to get home. Vincent’s jaw clenched, seeing the whole plan going tits up.

It was another fifteen minutes before they reached the Boddington road. His worst fears confirmed—a steady stream of traffic using it as a shortcut from Bury to Ipswich. He continued to follow the target’s progress as he gave way to oncoming traffic, Vincent doing likewise.

The BMW then turned off towards the target’s country