The Legacy

Title Page

THE LEGACY

Craig Lawrence

Publisher Information

FireStep Publishing

Gemini House

136–140 Old Shoreham Road

Brighton

BN3 7BD

www.firesteppublishing.com

First published by Firestep Press, an imprint

of Firestep Publishing in 2015

A Unicorn Publishing Group company

www.unicornpress.org

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2015 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © Craig Lawrence 2015

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available in the British Library.

Cover by Ryan Gearing

Chapter 1

The assassin moved slowly through the undergrowth. Flat on his stomach and with so little moon, it was unlikely that anyone would see him even if they came within a few feet. He reached the edge of the woods and stopped, slowing his breathing and listening. He could hear nothing other than the nocturnal sounds of woodland animals. He inched forwards, slowly parting the long grass that grew on the edge of the track. He thought of all the times he had done this before. Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, he had served everywhere the British Army had been deployed over the last twenty years. A paratrooper by profession and master sniper by trade, he had ended lives on behalf of the British Government for over two decades. And he was very good indeed at his trade. So good that it had been easy to find a job when he left the Army. But this job was particularly important. It was, he hoped, one of his last. If it went well he would soon be able to retire to his native Scotland with enough money in various bank accounts to ensure that he never had to work again.

The villa had been built in the early twenties. White, sprawling and very private, it sat in nearly half an acre of prime real estate on the southern slopes of Montgo, the mountain that dominates the small fishing town of Javea on Spain's east coast. Its owner, Diego Velasquez, had chosen it deliberately. He had been a drug dealer on the Costa del Sol for many years and whilst this had made him rich, it had also made him a fair number of enemies. He believed that the low profile seclusion his villa provided kept him safe and, so far, it had. As the assassin watched, the perimeter gates slid quietly closed behind a big, black Mercedes saloon. The car sat low on its suspension; it was clearly armoured. It came to a standstill in front of the floodlit villa and Velasquez started to get out unsteadily.

‘Open the door,' he shouted as he lurched towards the front step. ‘Come on, open it, I need another drink.'

The assassin recognised Velasquez immediately. He'd been following him for over a week, discretely watching his every move, probing for a weakness that he could exploit. He'd found it a few days ago. He'd particularly enjoyed the build up to this kill. He'd seen enough of Velasquez over the last seven days to know that the world would be a better place without him. But there was still an element of risk. Velasquez's men were highly professional. They took few chances and, if the assassin made a mistake, he knew he would most likely pay for it. The trick with any kill was to minimise the risk by hitting the target when he least expected it. The element of surprise was crucial. But achieving surprise was difficult, not least because the people providing the protection had usually done the same training as the people trying to kill the target. They knew how to spot vulnerable points and they knew the importance of avoiding routine. But sooner or later, everyone makes a mistake. It's just a question of being patient. The assassin knew that every Friday evening Velasquez had supper with his brother in a neighbouring town. The time he arrived home varied from week to week and his driver always selected the route at random. But sooner or later, Velasquez always came home and the villa was always well illuminated when he did. The bright lights and cameras would deter the gangs of armed burglars that worked the Costas in the summer months and they would also make it difficult for anyone to place an explosive charge near the villa. But they were a godsend for a night-time shoot.

Conscious that his boss was at his most exposed as he left the car, Velasquez's long time driver and bodyguard came round to the rear passenger door. ‘Boss, wait, get back in the car until I've got the door open and then I'll get you a drink.'

Ramon turned away from his boss and ran up the steps to unlock the front door of the villa as quickly as he could. Velasquez started to follow him up the steps, lurching slightly from side to side.

The assassin watched Velasquez leave the safety of the car and move towards his bodyguard. He shifted the rifle slightly until Velasquez's head filled the optical sight. He slowed his breathing, expelling the last of his air as the cross hairs lined up just to the right of Velasquez's right temple. He pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked back in his shoulder but he held his position.

Ramon heard a sharp crack and then his boss fell at his feet. He reached down ‘Come on boss, get up, we're nearly in,' but as he looked at his boss he could see that Velasquez wasn't going anywhere. Half of his head had disappeared. The left side of his face was a bloody pulp. Ramon, who had handled his fair share of silenced weapons in his time, noticed the entry wound just below the right temple and realised what had happened. He pulled out his pistol, dived behind one of the pillars flanking the door and started to scan the darkness beyond the villa's garden in the hope of seeing someone to shoot at.

In the wood line, the assassin slid slowly back on his stomach. When he was a good twenty metres inside the woods, he sat up and started to check that his equipment was all there. He didn't want to leave anything behind that could lead anyone to him, although he doubted that his fire position would ever be found. He was nearly a kilometre from the villa. It had been a superb shot. The ground fell away and there was a slight wind, adding to the difficulty. He felt no regret at having killed Velasquez, just a quiet satisfaction at a job well done. He finished checking his equipment, confirmed that he had put the expended case in his pocket and did a final sweep of the area. He then leant against a large tree stump, opened his mouth and turned his head on its side to give his ears and eyes the best chance of detecting any human sounds in the woods around him. He stood perfectly still, slowing his breathing and straining to hear anything unusual. After five minutes, he stooped into a crouch and jogged the two hundred metres to the kitbag he had hidden behind a fallen tree. Quickly, he changed out of his black combats and into jeans, check shirt and loafers. He stuffed his combat kit into an old rucksack, put on his baseball hat and started to walk towards the rental car that he had parked at the side of the main road. His rifle was hidden inside a long bag with fishing rods sticking out at the end. Should he be questioned, he intended to claim that he was looking for the Cap de Verde lighthouse as he had fancied a bit of night fishing. An hour later, he was sat at the bar of the Club Nautico in Denia drinking San Miguel beer, flirting drunkenly with the barmaid - just another middle-aged foreigner enjoying his holiday.

Things had livened up at the villa. Alerted by Ramon's frantic shouting, Velasquez's men had come running out of the house and, having eventually doused the floodlights, were frantically scanning the hillside around the villa. Ramon was on his mobile talking to Velasquez's brother. ‘I don't know who the fuck killed him. One minute he was telling me to get him a drink, the next he was dead. Must have been a silenced rifle. I didn't hear a thing. Yes I am sure he's dead. No I didn't give him mouth to mouth. Why? Because he doesn't have a fucking mouth left.'

The brother told Ramon to stay put, he was on his way. Ramon wasn't worried. He'd known Tony since they were both kids. But he was sad. Whilst he wouldn't say that he and Velasquez had become friends, he'd been with him for nearly ten years and he had enjoyed the job. The money was good and, whatever Velasquez's faults, he treated those loyal to him with respect. He was also a bit worried about the future; the demand for bodyguards who let their bosses get killed wasn't strong.

Chapter 2

Charles Highworth looked what he was: a formidably successful merchant banker. At forty-six years old, he was now at the height of his power. Tall and immaculately groomed, his slight paunch was well disguised by the cut of his beautifully tailored suit. His thick, lightly greying hair was swept back from his tanned face, revealing a slight scar on his forehead and clear green eyes. He was still ruggedly handsome but years of corporate lunches and a love of fine wine were slowly beginning to take their toll. His jaw was becoming less well defined and his once heavily muscled shoulders were now less impressive than they had been when he'd played rugby for Oxford. But he was still a big man and what he'd lost in physical size, he'd gained in the presence that comes from being hugely wealthy and successful. Utterly ruthless, he'd made millions over the last twenty years, accumulating vast amounts of money for the select clients that invested in his hedge fund, International Valiant. This last year had been particularly profitable. At a time when most were urging caution, he had invested heavily in the emerging markets of China and India, achieving an average increase of thirty-five percent in the value of his very significant investments.

As he sat in his office on the top floor of his company's Canary Warf office building, he started to smile. The headlines on the wide screen TV opposite him announced the best possible news: ‘Tokifora's new processor set to end Intel dominance.' He knew this news would cause Tokifora's shares to skyrocket in value, and this was particularly gratifying as it would push his annual return way beyond thirty-five percent. Over the last eight months, his fund had gradually become the single biggest owner of Tokifora shares to the extent that he now had a forty-eight percent stake in the company. He had taken a risk investing such significant amounts in a single company but it had been a calculated risk. He had used his wide network of contacts and a fair amount of money to help Tokifora assemble a winning team of experts over the last two years. Not everyone he approached had been keen to join the team and there were occasions when he'd had to resort to what he called ‘robust measures' to achieve his desired outcome. These measures involved coercion, bribery, blackmail and, on two particular occasions, murder. The illegality of these actions didn't bother him in the least - the end always justified the means, particularly if the end in question was him getting richer.

His PA, an attractive and highly efficient woman in her early thirties, came into the office and carefully put a cup of black coffee on his desk. ‘Get Richards for me,' he snapped at her.

‘Yes Sir,' she replied, leaving the room as quietly as she'd entered it.

His phone rang. ‘Mr Richards is on the line,' she told him before connecting the call.

‘Richards, I need to see you this evening. I'll meet you at the usual place, at the same time as last time.'

Highworth was a cautious man. He worked on the assumption that his phone was bugged and that his e-mail would probably be read by other people. He wasn't worried about any of the Government's covert agencies trying to keep tabs on him - why would they? - but he knew that other banks and newspapers would try. His success was so striking that he knew people wanted to find out how he managed to achieve such startling results given the current state of the global economy. And he had no doubt that despite the
News of the World'
s demise, newspapers would still resort to illegal means to obtain information if they felt the benefits outweighed the risks.

He thought about Richards. He didn't really like him but he had a healthy respect for his talents. An ex-Special Forces soldier who'd been forced to resign for reasons which he kept to himself, he had demonstrated his ability to fix even the most delicate of problems over the years. He was discrete, effective, absolutely reliable and comfortable operating on the wrong side of the law. Highworth was confident that he'd be able to resolve the issue that had been worrying him for the last week or so.

Having spoken to Richards, Highworth phoned his wife, Caroline. She was at home, a magnificent Queen Anne house on the edge of a small and very smart Surrey town called Farnham. She had married her husband ten years ago at the age of thirty-five when, recognising that she wasn't getting any younger, she set out to find and then seduce the most eligible of her brother's acquaintances. Eligible in her book meant rich, handsome and respected - love was of secondary importance. She knew her husband for what he was when she married him but she was equally tough. In many ways they were a perfect match and the marriage soon settled into a comfortable routine based on mutual respect and a shared desire to enjoy the lifestyle that significant wealth brings. With no children and with plenty of time and money to enjoy herself, she had a wide circle of friends and an active social life, both with and without her husband. Her own father, now long dead, had also been an accomplished banker, knighted for his services to charity towards the end of his life, and she now delighted in organising the same kind of charity balls and dinners that she had so enjoyed as she grew up.

‘Darling it's me, I'm afraid I'm going to be late this evening,' said Highworth when his wife answered the phone. ‘I need to meet someone to sort something out but I should be back before midnight.'

‘Don't worry,' his wife replied easily, ‘I promised mother I'd go round and help her plan the changes she's making to her garden. I'll stay a bit longer and persuade her to let me stay for supper.'

Highworth put the phone down and smiled. His wife was his chief ally and he recognised what a good team they made. Although she was now in her mid forties, she was still striking. Slim, elegant and always beautifully dressed, she never failed to turn heads. Although she looked like the typically well bred trophy wife of a rich banker, she was bright, perceptive and extremely well connected. She could read people with remarkable accuracy, something her husband had found extremely useful when considering whether to invest in particular companies. She was also good fun, completely loyal to her husband and, for someone of her background and position, wickedly mischievous in bed. She didn't know all of the underhand methods her husband employed to maintain his edge but, even if she did, he suspected she wouldn't mind, squaring any moral misgivings she might have by considering how many charities benefited from the wealth his activities created.