To Kill Or Be Killed (26 page)

As Clarky
pulled up in the Ardrossan town railway station car park he turned
to his friend.

“Here we are.
The marina is up that way.” Clarky pointed up Prince’s Street.

The moment was
pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Neither man wanted to impose his
thoughts on the other, but both sensed the other’s fears.

They had
trained together and served in the First Foreign Cavalry Regiment
and seen action in the first Gulf war. After their short, but
intensive Legion training he and Clarky had found themselves in the
Persian Gulf in September of 1990. Both had left the Legion around
the same time; Clarky had made senior corporal and yet of the two
only Stanton had seen the carnage of Rwanda, in his case a special
transfer.

Having left the
Land Rover both men stood looking at each other.

“Is this
mission sacred?” Clarky volunteered echoing the Legionnaires’
code.

“No not really.
No honour and no fidelity I’m afraid.”

Clarky suddenly
stepped forward and embraced Stanton. Stanton somewhat unwillingly
embraced his old comrade.

“We are still
family you and I. We are still brothers.” Clarky said. “Take the
boat, but whatever the prize at the end of this ‘mission’ is you
must consider sailing away.”

“I’ll think
about it, take care of your self my friend." Stanton replied and
then he watched Clarky get into the dark blue light armoured
vehicle and drive away with the lowering sun on its back
window.

This moment
defined him; always alone. As an orphan his only family had been
the Legion and after that there had been no-one. He shrugged off
the thoughts and claimed new ones, those of stealing a boat.

It was half
five as Stanton headed for the station café; in a bag Clarky had
given him were his weapon, still in the plastic bag, tools and a
map of the area. He ordered coffee from the half hearted woman
behind the till and sat in the dim light on a high stool in the
corner of the small empty room.

The map showed
him the marina and its sea ward entrance. He knew that he couldn’t
simply take a boat. He would be spotted, even after dark. Looking
at the landscape he saw a better plan. To the north of the marina
was Mariner’s View which had a path towards the end of which was
the northern half of the narrow marina entrance. Stanton felt sure
that if he could wait on a boat leaving, in the dark, he could drop
into the water and steal aboard the boat from that point, as it
passed. He sipped his coffee and wondered on the likelihood of a
boat going out at night from the Marina into the uncertain waters
of the Firth of Clyde. His plan B was to swim the marina from that
point and climb aboard a boat after dark, circumventing the
watchman and the locked jetties. There was no ‘gate’ to the sea and
though sailing out under motor power was noisy he felt sure he
could get away with the night to cover him and the loss of the boat
wouldn’t be noticed until morning.

His coffee
finished Stanton walked up Prince’s Street and up to the marina.
There was little activity. He looked at the usual security systems,
metal spiked gates and punch code entry systems. There was a marina
office with a watch man and CCTV pointing only towards the boats,
sitting like white sardines tied to floating wooden jetties.
Stanton noted the CCTV angles with DIC in mind. He thought of
Spencer.

He looked
across the harbour to Mariners Walk scoping for witnesses. There
were four cars parked there, but no-one walking the path.

Ten minutes
later he found himself on the spit of land along Marina’s walk as
the sun began to set slowly. To his surprise and annoyance, as it
was still light, he saw a boat pulling away from the jetty furthest
south, a man at the back had just cast off and was heading for the
wheel house. It was a long white and blue ocean going cruiser.
Stanton looked around, scanning the cars parked behind him and
looking for people nearby. An elderly couple had left their car
parked and had walked past him, intent on the sunset, two minutes
before he got there. They were standing at the seaward edge with
their backs to him.

The boat slowly
rippled its way to the entrance. Stanton knew it was his only
chance for plan A. He looked down into the Marina waters by the
wall below him. The sunset cast shadow into the dog leg of the wall
and entrance spit. He looked around one more time and thinking of
the buffer buoys on the side of the nearing boat he dropped into
the water feet first with a well practised lack of splash and
barely surfacing his head, submerged from the nose down he hugged
the shadowy corner ready to spring.

On the harbour
wall the old man looked around wondering if he had just seen
something or not. His wife’s warm mitten gripping his cold bare
hand took his mind away from the thought and back to the
sunset.

In the wheel
house of the boat Kevan Dean, the boat’s owner, was momentarily
distracted by his passenger, a buyer for the boat whom he was
unhappily taking for an impromptu trip. The man had called earlier
in the after noon and had arranged to take a short sail around
four, but the man, a banker named Griffith, who’d travelled from
Inverness that day, had been very late. Dean needed to sell the
boat and Griffith clearly had the money to buy it. Happy or not
Dean agreed to take him for a half hour trip. Luck was on Stanton’s
side as Dean was in such a hurry that he hadn’t pulled in the bump
buoys, such was his keenness to get out and come back quickly.
Griffith had asked about the controls and looking briefly away from
the harbour entrance Dean missed Stanton’s drop and, too busy
focussing on his exit point, he gave no thought to the now empty
harbour wall, though the missing figure, noted a moment before,
jarred his reality before priority thinking glossed it over.

The engine
sound loud in his ears and the wash of the boat against his stroke
Stanton struck out from the wall and fast crawled the four metres
between himself and the passing boat. Two powerful kicks of his
feet and an upper body thrust gave him the momentum to rise out of
the water and grab the rope threading the bump buoys to the side of
the boat. He twisted his wrist around the rope and he hung by the
boat’s side an arms length down allowing his body to be hidden by
the water as he was dragged away into the Firth of Clyde.

The water was
cold, but he wanted to clear the Marina before getting on board. To
the old couple watching the boat leave he was just extra surf
thrown up as the boat speeded up on exit.

“This Landguard
Nelson 33 is a rare find and I know it’s pricey, but you get a lot
for the hundred and thirty thousand. Built to take the seas rough
or smooth, she’ll cruise at 15 knots, but you can push her to
twenty one. You’ve seen the four berths and there’s even a shower.
It’s a real peach. When we get into open water I’ll let you steer
her, she handles really well.” Dean spoke with his eyes fixed on
the water ahead.

It was fair to
easy going. There was only a slight swell and Dean was right that
the boat was built to take the sea. Outside as the boat picked up
to ten knots Stanton was struggling. From his view of the boat he
couldn’t climb directly up the side as he’d be in full view of the
wheel house. Spray filling his mouth and his grip slipping he went
hand over hand down the side of the boat. Luckily he was on the
passenger seat side and so Griffith, an inexperienced sailor didn’t
notice the random knocks of Stanton’s body against the hull.

Stanton, wet
and exhausted hauled himself onto the back platform deck of the
boat. The canvas cover was folded back and the door to the cabin
was closed. He gathered himself, drew his pistol from the plastic
bag. He checked the action carefully and on his knees peeked
through the door window. Both men were seated left and right in the
wheel house. Opening the door would alert them and there was no way
to keep both under the barrel of the gun. He measured strides to
the wheel seats and pulled the door open. He passed through the
cabin pistol ahead of him and when Griffith’s head was centre of
the sight he squeezed.

There was a
shocking explosion of blood against the inside of the wind shield,
Dean froze in his seat, gagging at the slumped body of his buyer, a
man he’d met less than an hour ago. The body twitched. Dean turned
with an agony of fear in his stomach and so much of it showing in
his eyes to look down the barrel of the PSS.

Dean was
stunned that the pistol had made no sound. There had been no bang
and no flash. The silence of the death, as if by some evil magic
shocked him greatly. It had been as if Griffith’s head had
spontaneously exploded.

“Don’t move.
Have you got an auto pilot?”

Dean nodded
dumb fear tying his tongue.

“Set course for
Aberystwith and put it on. No sudden moves.”

Dean did as he
was told under Stanton’s evil gaze.

“Show me the
controls then we’ll get the charts and have a chat.”

Dean showed
Stanton over the controls with the occasional glance at Griffith’s
corpse, oozing blood over the wheel house. When Stanton was
satisfied he sat with Dean in the lounge cabin, the two men sitting
opposite each other. Stanton ran his eye over the sea between
Ardrossan and the Welsh coast.

“What’s this
all about?” Dean asked.

“A boat theft.”
Stanton said coldly not looking up.

“That’s it? Why
kill a man?” Dean’s voice was high pitched and betrayed his fear
and shock.

“I don’t leave
witnesses.”

“What kind of
thief are you?” Dean asked.

“I’m not just a
thief.” Stanton raised his eyes from the chart and looked Dean in
the eyes. “I’m mostly an assassin. I needed a boat.”

“Oh.” Dean’s
face fell. Then suddenly with fear and triumph he said “You’re the
man who escaped from Perth aren’t you.” Stanton nodded and Dean
fell silent.

His planned
route in mind and how to follow it clear Stanton readied himself
for the next unsavoury task.

“Get me some
sheets from the cabins.”

They went below
and collected sheets. Stanton drove Dean at gunpoint back to the
wheelhouse.

“Wrap the body
in the sheets and drag it to the back of the boat.”

“His name was
Mr Griffiths, Tom Griffiths.” Dean gagged as he pulled the body
onto the sheets and wrapped the dead man. “I don’t suppose that
matters to you?”

Stanton didn’t
answer. He knew what was coming he’d been there before, twice. Two
times he’d had to listen to the victim’s of his assassinations
before he was ready to kill them.

“My name is
Dean, Kevan Dean.”

“Just wrap the
body and drag it out.” Stanton’s voice was like the scraping of
metal on an iceberg.

“I have a
family… a wife and children… my son is nine and my daughter is only
two… I haven’t done anything….” Dean’s voice was desperate almost a
sob.

“Just do as
you’re told.”

“Whatever
you’re doing… I could offer money… everything I own…” Dean looked
into Stanton’s face and saw a little hope in the assassin’s raised
eye brow.

“I’d need a
million cash?” Stanton barked out harshly knowing that even if Dean
had the money and gave it to him he’d still have to kill him.

Dean’s face
fell.

“I’m worth
that, but not in cash.” He said quietly.

“Too bad.”
Stanton shrugged the death sentence.

Dean carried on
and dragged the body out of the narrow door and out onto the back
of the boat under the evil eye of the pistol. Stanton looked and
saw that the coasts were hazy lines a good distance away; they’d
just passed the southern tip of Arran. They both stood at the back
of the boat, Dean standing over the mummified body of the
banker.

“Throw it
over.”

“Can I say a
prayer?” Dean asked, part stalling and part feeling the need to
pray.

“If you think
anyone will listen.”

Dean bowed his
head, trying hard from memories of church in childhood to get the
words right. He crossed himself, wishing that he’d led a more godly
life, been less concerned with his business, spent more time with
his son. He began to cry, lifting the body he said the Lord’s
Prayer out loud. Griffith’s body made a dull smack as it hit the
water.

Stanton was
expecting tears and begging, it had been the way before, but Dean
mustered some pride. He turned and faced Stanton self consciously
wiping the tears from his face.

“Do you think
anyone will pray for you when your time comes?” He asked Stanton a
note of anger rising in his voice.

“Does it
matter? Drop to your knees and ask whatever God you believe in to
save you or welcome you it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’ll say my
prayers standing. I won’t die on my knees.”

“Then stand on
the edge, facing out.”

“No you look me
in the eye when you kill me you cold blooded son of a bitch!”

Stanton smiled.
“You’re brave. Okay Kevan Dean, as you wish.”

“If and when
they find my body I want my son to know that I faced my
killer.”

“Touching.”
Stanton said aimed the pistol at Dean’s head and pulled the
trigger.

Dean knew what
was coming and knew he had his chance. He knew the pistol was
silent and so focused all his attention on Stanton’s trigger
finger, no easy task as the boat rose and fell, but the will to
survive can make people momentarily superhuman, sometimes.

Very suddenly
he threw his hands to his face covering it, cried out and dropped
back as he saw Stanton’s finger tighten. Stanton had fired. Dean
fell backwards, unhurt, into the Irish Sea. The boat was doing
twelve knots and the bump and ride of its passage made Stanton’s
vision unclear. He felt sure he’d shot him dead centre of the head,
but he watched the body for a moment and assured that it wasn’t
moving went to clean the wheel house. Stanton knew he rarely
missed.