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

Kimberly West. Please get the police at the building. Only twenty-five minutes left. Again, a deep breath.

‘Kimberly West,’ he said, looking at the sheet-like he had all day to study my handwriting.

I nodded.

‘I’ll see if Detective Inspector Hampton has time to interview you.’ He checked the clock behind him and had the look of a man thinking, sucking in his lips with a frown.

The man was an idiot. Panic bounced around my chest like a pinball, and my eyes danced between the police officer and the door. I ran out with the clock ticking. I couldn’t trust the police to get there in time. The building was ten minutes away. I would warn the girl myself, and with hope, the police would follow.

It was 3.00 o'clock when I arrived outside the insurance company, and my shoes were killing me. Flattening my hair with my hands, I walked into the reception area, doing my best to look in control, when all I wanted to do was scream. The receptionist looked up at me, her eyes wandering down my body. Funny how a snotty receptionist could make you feel self-conscious. The heat, despite my efforts to control it, crept up my neck.

I motioned to my throat and mouthed, ’Can’t speak.’ Getting very monotonous. I decided not to waste time again asking for something to write on and got my mobile to text a message. Then showed it to her.

‘Do you have a lady working here called Jenna?

I decided not to mention the whole assassin thing after what happened at the police station.

‘Sorry, do you know which department she works in? Surname?’

‘She has a car with eyelashes, I typed out.

 A burly security man escorted me out then waited at the entrance, watching until he was happy I was limping away. I could feel the liquid on my heels where a blister had burst, trying not to think of it as I looked for the insurance building’s car park entrance.

 5

Finding the entrance, I made my way towards the elevator. I knew I wouldn’t want to walk far in this dark, damp, poorly lit place if I worked there. My breath pierced the cold basement air—the only lighting, flickering fluorescent tubes. I hobbled around the vehicles until I spotted one fitting the description, bits of rubber on the headlights. I knew what he meant. And there it was, close to the elevator, a white mini, with the headlight fitted with lashes, a cool feature. I took up my position and waited.

I could see why the hitman chose this place, a lonely basement car park. Half the bays were empty. Others towards the dark corners looked like homes for abandoned vehicles. The newer cars parked where the light was brighter or closer to the elevator.

The office block above was mostly empty, as the signal in this area was poor. I found that out while checking my phone. Even if I had a voice, there was no way I could make a call for help. So, the car park was an ideal location for a murder. Who would hear a scream? A cry for help?

My throat burned; I needed more lozenges. And I wished I’d put on my fur-lined hoody this morning instead of the white Allsaints jacket and matching shoes. But then, when I woke up this morning, I didn’t know I’d be hiding behind a cold concrete pillar waiting to save the day.

It was 3.15, and my heart was hammering. I was beginning to feel sick; even my legs were shaking. My eyes flickered to the lift, watching the numbered lights above counting down the floors, headed this way. Then a glance to the fire escape. Would he come in that way? Or the exit? Or was he already there, waiting in a car? I could not make out if anyone was sitting in a vehicle in the poorly lit area, not without giving myself away. I stayed behind the pillar shivering in the cold.

The lift doors opened, and two men in suits marched out in silence. The taller and elder-looking of the two gave the other a curt nod before parting to their respective cars and drove off.

Gazing at Jenna’s mini, my legs still shaking, and now I was there; I didn’t know what the hell I would do. My sore throat wouldn’t allow me to scream a warning, but a plan was forming in my head. Pick the poshest car and bounce on it to set off the alarm. My hope, it would frighten the hitman away. It was a stupid idea, but my brain wouldn’t work. And there was no time left to figure it out. A storm was erupting in my chest as my eyes searched for a fire alarm button, nothing.

I had no idea what I was going to do. If I didn’t know what was to happen and heard it on the news in the morning, I wouldn’t have given it a thought. But there I was, even if it got me killed. Which led me to imagine what my ex-Paul and friends might say at my funeral. She was a hero, stupid but brave. Dad would have me cremated; cheaper. I contemplated options for my coffin, thinking wicker, but then a bit of a waste if burned, or did you think they slipped you out and saved the box for the next corpse?

While distracted with thoughts of my funeral, the lift doors opened, and a tall blonde woman emerged, guessing in the dim light, in her mid-thirties. She walked while struggling with a mobile held to her ear with a hunched shoulder as she searched her bag, I guessed for the keys to her car. In the car park’s hollow concrete walls, I could hear her talking to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

‘I don’t give a fuck what your problem is.