mobile phone and with the inbuilt camera took a photo of the photo.
He was concentrating on this task and never heard the soft-footed approach from behind.
As he pressed âsendâ on his phone, he felt the muzzle of the handgun at the bottom of his skull, the point where his cranium rested on his spine.
He would never know it, but the barrel of the gun was angled slightly upwards so the trajectory would take the rounds up through his head, through his brain, and the hollow-pointed bullets would exit somewhere around his hairline. Which they did.
Tope had no time to react because, in the world of professional killers, conversations are rarely entered into. They are given a job. Sometimes they know the background of the target, sometimes not.
As it happened, the man who had sneaked up silently behind him did know the provenance of the contract, but even so it was not his job to chat about it.
His job was to kill efficiently, to exact revenge.
He fired two very quick shots into the back of Topeâs head, both of which exited through his forehead, ripping away the top half of his face.
Tope slumped across the railings.
The killer had hoped he would somersault over them, but that wasnât to be. People being shot rarely respond spectacularly, and Tope simply fell limp across the railings, then slithered to the ground.
The killer kicked him over into the murky, infected water of the dock. His body slapped into it with a muted splash.
The photograph Tope had been holding had flapped to the ground. The killer picked it up, gave a short laugh and dropped it into the water, where Topeâs body had already splayed out face down on the surface.
The photograph, purely by accident, floated down and rested on Topeâs back like a leaf falling on an autumn day.
Very quickly the killer leaned over and took a few shots with his mobile phone, then was gone.
The sound of a message landing on his phone roused Flynn. He stirred and groaned. The Black Russians, the lovemaking and the excitement of the previous evening, which had initially made him unable to sleep, were now having the opposite effect and he was in a stupor as he fumbled for the phone and looked through bleary eyes at the message. It was just a photograph â no accompanying text â from Jerry Tope.
Flynn sat up, his head throbbing, and looked at the image.
He gave a short laugh and thought, âMemories.â
At the same moment, a series of photographs and a short video landed on another phone.
A message underneath one of the photographs read, âSecond instructions complied with. Continue?â
The man thumbed his response.
âContinue.â
SIX
F lynnâs response to Topeâs photograph was to take and send a photograph of his own on his ageing Nokia, a view from the back of his boat, capturing the twinkling lights of the resort. He then tossed his phone down on to the sofa heâd been sleeping on.
He stood, stretched and yawned, rolling his neck muscles in an effort to eliminate the headache.
Everything seemed to have worked against him getting a half-decent nightâs rest and already there was more than a hint of dawn in the eastern sky. He knew it was pointless trying to sleep now.
He pulled on his ragged basketball vest and then his equally ragged trainers, took a long swig of water from a bottle, then with another, smaller, water bottle in hand crossed to the jetty and began a slow jog. He had it in mind to head along the coastal path in a north-easterly direction up to Es Canar, the resort where the famous weekly hippy market took place, and then back, a distance of about eight miles over variable terrain.
He knew it was the only way to get his blood pulsing, to clear his head for the coming dayâs work. By the end of it he knew he would be exhausted, but at least on the far side of it, and this time he should get a good nightâs sleep.
Moments later he was cutting past the Punta de
He was concentrating on this task and never heard the soft-footed approach from behind.
As he pressed âsendâ on his phone, he felt the muzzle of the handgun at the bottom of his skull, the point where his cranium rested on his spine.
He would never know it, but the barrel of the gun was angled slightly upwards so the trajectory would take the rounds up through his head, through his brain, and the hollow-pointed bullets would exit somewhere around his hairline. Which they did.
Tope had no time to react because, in the world of professional killers, conversations are rarely entered into. They are given a job. Sometimes they know the background of the target, sometimes not.
As it happened, the man who had sneaked up silently behind him did know the provenance of the contract, but even so it was not his job to chat about it.
His job was to kill efficiently, to exact revenge.
He fired two very quick shots into the back of Topeâs head, both of which exited through his forehead, ripping away the top half of his face.
Tope slumped across the railings.
The killer had hoped he would somersault over them, but that wasnât to be. People being shot rarely respond spectacularly, and Tope simply fell limp across the railings, then slithered to the ground.
The killer kicked him over into the murky, infected water of the dock. His body slapped into it with a muted splash.
The photograph Tope had been holding had flapped to the ground. The killer picked it up, gave a short laugh and dropped it into the water, where Topeâs body had already splayed out face down on the surface.
The photograph, purely by accident, floated down and rested on Topeâs back like a leaf falling on an autumn day.
Very quickly the killer leaned over and took a few shots with his mobile phone, then was gone.
The sound of a message landing on his phone roused Flynn. He stirred and groaned. The Black Russians, the lovemaking and the excitement of the previous evening, which had initially made him unable to sleep, were now having the opposite effect and he was in a stupor as he fumbled for the phone and looked through bleary eyes at the message. It was just a photograph â no accompanying text â from Jerry Tope.
Flynn sat up, his head throbbing, and looked at the image.
He gave a short laugh and thought, âMemories.â
At the same moment, a series of photographs and a short video landed on another phone.
A message underneath one of the photographs read, âSecond instructions complied with. Continue?â
The man thumbed his response.
âContinue.â
SIX
F lynnâs response to Topeâs photograph was to take and send a photograph of his own on his ageing Nokia, a view from the back of his boat, capturing the twinkling lights of the resort. He then tossed his phone down on to the sofa heâd been sleeping on.
He stood, stretched and yawned, rolling his neck muscles in an effort to eliminate the headache.
Everything seemed to have worked against him getting a half-decent nightâs rest and already there was more than a hint of dawn in the eastern sky. He knew it was pointless trying to sleep now.
He pulled on his ragged basketball vest and then his equally ragged trainers, took a long swig of water from a bottle, then with another, smaller, water bottle in hand crossed to the jetty and began a slow jog. He had it in mind to head along the coastal path in a north-easterly direction up to Es Canar, the resort where the famous weekly hippy market took place, and then back, a distance of about eight miles over variable terrain.
He knew it was the only way to get his blood pulsing, to clear his head for the coming dayâs work. By the end of it he knew he would be exhausted, but at least on the far side of it, and this time he should get a good nightâs sleep.
Moments later he was cutting past the Punta de
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