Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set Page 7

  Luke closed his eyes as he lay stretched out on his bed in the back room at his parents’ place. He’d hoped to have moved out by now; a twenty-five-year-old shouldn’t still be living at home, never mind paying room and board. He should be making his own way in the world, living in a nice little flat somewhere, with a girlfriend maybe, a steady job to go to every Monday morning. He had none of that. And now it looked like he’d be sleeping in the tiny room for a while longer.

  “Get a job,” his father had said. “Stop with the romantic notion of running a big company. Knuckle down and do some proper work.”

  His father’s ideas of a proper job were something physical – and join the union while you’re at it. Like he had. It certainly hadn’t done him any harm, had it? Yeah, until miners weren’t needed anymore, foundries were closed down and dock workers were taken over by steel containers and hoists. No thanks. In Luke’s mind, running his own business wasn’t a romantic notion: it was a very real opportunity and he wanted in. Owning a mobile food van and selling well-cooked, wholesome organic food was what he wanted to do, knew he could do, if only they could find the funds to get up and running. Then they’d franchise the idea and take it nationwide and beyond. They had everything lined up – suppliers, menu ideas, locations even – but without funds, there was no way of getting it started.

  Hit.

  The word nagged at him again. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. There was no harm in doing the research, was there? He grabbed his laptop from the bedside cabinet and opened Google. His hand hesitated over the keyboard. Would the search term send a flag up somewhere? Would cookies then track him on his computer? There was only one way to find out. He typed in the search box.

  Hit man for hire.

  And pressed enter.

  “No going back now. I hope I don’t need to have an explanation ready for the cybercrime division when they come knocking.”

  To Luke’s astonishment, Google returned more than three million results. So, like everyone else, he started at the top of the first page and looked at what was on offer. There were the usual Quora and Wikipedia pages, but about halfway down, a web address caught his attention. He read the small piece of text, his finger hovering over the keyboard as he wondered whether to click the actual link or not. Curiosity got the better of him and he hit it. Half of him expected an actual alarm to go off like a police siren; half of him thought, “It’s just a website. Don’t be so silly.”

  The website came to life, and a page with “Hit Man for Hire” emblazoned across it filled his screen. But a quick glance told him it wasn’t a shop front; rather, it was an old news story about a company that had been hired to build a website for such services and had quickly been shut down. Luke took a couple of deep breaths in and relaxed a little, taking comfort in the fact that something so illegal wasn’t as easily available as he’d first assumed. He hit the back button, went back to the search results and scrolled further down. The other results were stories about hits taking place on the dark web, websites that had sprung up there, guns for hire of all kinds and in all parts of the world. It seemed no matter what you wanted done – bones broken, beatings or a straightforward hit – it all could be found in a much darker place than Google.

  Luke closed his laptop lid, leaving the Google search page open, and rested his head back against the wall in thought. The dark web – that’s where he needed to do his research, find out more, maybe join a group or two and see what people were looking for and how they were getting their requirements filled. He had to admit, though, that the thought of doing a hit repulsed him: beatings to order sounded too personal, too brutal, and not something he’d be able to do even if he wanted to. He wasn’t built that way, in mind or in body. Stabbing someone was in the same “too personal” box, as he knew from watching far too many movies. It was a close-up act of violence, and it took a certain kind of person to take a life that way. And again, he didn’t have the physical build to overcome someone, never mind the mess factor.

  But shooting someone? That could be a different matter. He’d often thought, when road rage had overtaken his senses, that he could pull a trigger as easy as changing gear, wipe slow-moving traffic out of the way in an instant, clear the way for himself to get through. Blow away someone who had stolen the last parking space or cut him off on the motorway. He’d feel nothing but the smooth trigger with his finger, squeezing it gently. Powerful, almost hypnotic even. Yes, he could easily do that under any of those circumstances.

  It wouldn’t be personal at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After dinner, which consisted of a simple bowl of tomato soup and several slices of buttered toast, Luke took a quick walk in the drizzly evening air to blow some metaphorical cobwebs off. His hair had since dried, and his now tight curls looked a lot like a brown poodle’s coat though without the damp dog smell. Now he settled down to work in his room, laptop balancing on his thighs as he typed.

  Expanding on his earlier realization that he could easily fire a gun at someone, it seemed the sensible (if that was the correct word) thing to do some more research. From the little he’d found out already on the regular surface web and trusty Google, prices ranged from around £5000 to £30,000, depending on the quality of the kill and what was required.

  Quality? Sounds like big game hunting rather than a hit. Aren’t all shootings equal?

  If an experienced ex-Forces officer or similar was required, that was where the heftier price tag came in, whereas a dodgy backstreet pub dweller would do his best for a measly £5000 – balls over brains, he supposed. Luke figured that as an inexperienced but intelligent beginner, he’d sit someplace in the middle. He had the brains, he was clever, and he had common sense, something many people didn’t have – common sense wasn’t that common. But did he have the balls? Time would tell if he got that far.

  Luke began thinking out loud, a lifelong habit that had always helped him organize his thoughts.

  “I’m going to need a gun, and some training on how to use it,” he mumbled, “but which gun? I’m thinking with a silencer, so that means a pistol probably. Still too noisy, though. Maybe I’ll still need to use a pillow. Either way, first job, see if I can get the right gun.” He mentally filed the thought and went on to the next problem to solve – getting a customer.

  “I’d be out of place in a seedy pub, so how will I get a client? And how much should I charge? Hmm, I’m thinking a nice round ten thousand, so I only have to do a couple maybe, and I don’t want to price myself out of the market.” He added those thoughts to the other already in his mental filing cabinet. There was so much to organize, so much to think about. On the surface so far, though, it all seemed rather simple: get a weapon, get a client, decide on the situation and squeeze. Ten grand, thank you very much. Please call again. The thought amused him: “Please call again, and tell your friends!” He laughed.

  If he planned it out rigorously, nothing would go wrong. One thing he wasn’t planning on, not yet anyway, was telling Clinton, not until he was sure of how it would all work. Luke hit the Tor browser icon on the Mac’s dock and launched the dark web search page.

  “Here goes. Let’s see if I can pull this off.”

  Luke was no stranger to the dark web. He’d spent time there on and off over the years, mostly in chat rooms where he’d purchased a few odd small packets of hash. They’d arrive wrapped in plastic film, all folded up nicely and stuck to a fake gym invoice for cover. Not that he had any money to buy any at the moment, of course, but he knew his way around the place. He’d also seen more than his share of stuff he rather wished he hadn’t clicked on during his travels. Still, seedy stuff existed everywhere, he knew, whether it was on an actual physical street corner or a virtual one.

  But buying a weapon was a bit different than buying a gram of weed for personal use. He typed ‘buy pistol and silencer’ into the search box and hit enter. He then spent the next hour clicking links to various ‘stores’ and making notes of availab
ility and pricing until he knew roughly what he was looking at cost-wise and what he’d get for his money. Some vendors were a little more security-conscious than others; some only accepted payment in Bitcoin. But all of them could offer a pistol with silencer with the serial number filed off for a fee, a fee he’d yet have to think about how he’d raise.

  He sat back, staring at the screen and tapping his fingers in thought, and suddenly it came to him. Maybe he could get his client first and use the advance to purchase the necessary tools? That way, if there were no enquiries about his service, he wouldn’t be out of pocket and left with an unregistered gun that probably came with a nasty history.

  It sounded the bright thing to do. He searched on, this time with a different set of keywords, to see what the competition were up to and how they preferred to run things. Scrolling through the results, he chose one and clicked the link. A basic website filled his screen. The heading at the top made no bones about what their service was: a hit for hire. He scrolled to the contact page and hovered his mouse, debating whether to click or not. If he was going to set himself up in a similar fashion, he had to know how the competition allowed clients to make contact. Surely it wouldn’t be by a regular email or text message; that would be way too stupid and easily traced.

  “Here goes,” he said out loud. “Let’s see how this all works.” He clicked the link, which took him through to a message board where he registered and asked his question. There was no request to confirm an email address, because that would take away the anonymous advantage of using the Tor browser. So it was all done via messages on a private board, he said to himself. Nobody knew who else was there, nor could they see them. On the one hand, if the cops were looking, you couldn’t see them. But if other criminals were looking, you couldn’t see them either – nobody could see anybody else. And that was why the dark net experience was so successful – it was virtually impossible for anyone, even the cleverest person, to monitor, unless they knew exactly where to look.

  He typed, “Looking for a hit on my husband. South London area. How much and when?”

  He stared at the words on the screen, his chest thumping with each heartbeat. Telling himself this was only research and not the real deal, he reconciled it in his head and clicked send. A whoosh of air left his chest. How long would a reply take? How much would it cost? What would the timeframe be? What other information would the outfit need from him? He felt panic start to rise.

  “Holy hell! I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this,” he muttered.

  The reply was almost instant.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Luke sat on the bed and stared at the screen like it had morphed into something from a Jack Reacher movie. Did this shit really happen?

  Yep, it did.

  The words stared at him, begging to be answered. He knew there was a person on the other end of them expecting a response. Would they understand his nervousness and give him time to think? And, perhaps more to the point, was this what it would be like for his prospective customer when it came time to place an enquiry, talk about the needs, the finer details? Probably so.

  He sat back in his chair again, considering. Should he be cagey or direct with his requirements? What was the etiquette, assuming there was one? He sat forward again and typed his reply: “Looking for price and availability. Suggest quick shot. What else do you need?” Send.

  Wow, that felt funny, he thought. He waited. Had he been too direct? There was no mistaking what he was asking – but how you ask for a hit without actually saying the exact words? A pow-wow? A water pistol? A cap gun?

  He needn’t have worried. The reply came back quickly. He read it out loud to himself, slowly moving over the few words to make sure he understood the message.

  “£15,000, half up front, half on completion. I’ll tell you when and where later. What will the location be? Need a picture. Bitcoin or cash – you choose.”

  Luke couldn’t believe that he was actually conversing with a killer on the other side of his screen, someone happy to take fifteen grand and snuff out a life to order.

  Isn’t that what you’re thinking of doing, Luke?

  He began to type his reply – all in the name of research, of course.

  “Thanks. Need to figure that kind of money. I’ll come back then.” He pressed send and closed the site down before he said anything more. The person on the other side would put him down to being a tyre kicker, a time waster, which is exactly what he was to them while he researched. But he’d gained valuable knowledge from the brief encounter.

  He wondered how the cash option would work; obviously they wouldn’t be giving him account details for their local building society or high street bank – more likely a nearby rubbish bin and a brown paper bag. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty in closing the page down. Clearly, he needed to find out the answer.

  “One more,” he said, as he re-entered the search term and chose another site. This one listed various other services, beatings and the like as well as straightforward hits. Luke got the impression the site operated out of eastern Europe, though he couldn’t say why and had no way of finding out; it was just a sense. Maybe it was the way the text read; it had a sort of accent, if it was possible for the written word to have an accent.

  He registered and composed another message, this time feeling a little calmer and more in control.

  “Looking for a hit on husband. South London. How much and what do you need?” Send.

  The cursor blinked while he waited for a reply. After five full minutes, he was about to close up and give up for the night when the answer landed.

  “No problem. £12,000, half up front. Accident or shooting? How big is he?”

  “Shooting probably. Rougher part of town. How do I get cash to you?” Send.

  He waited, and this time the reply was quicker.

  “Can be organized. Cash is OK, drop-off place TBC. Need photo and location. Rest on completion. Interested?”

  Shit, he was pushy. He assumed it was a man. Pushy or weeding fakes out, one or the other. How should he respond? What else did he need to know? What would someone who really wanted their husband gone want to know?

  “Sounds good. How long until complete? Don’t want him to suffer either.” Send.

  Luke waited, willing the guy to respond quickly so he could get the hell out of the site. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. He needn’t have worried; once again, the reply was almost instant. It seemed the person was keen for another quick payday.

  “This week if needed. Quick and easy. Depends on you getting what I need.”

  Luke wanted to end the conversation – he had what he needed – but one more question needed answering.

  “How do I contact you? Through here?”

  “Yes. I’ll send a mobile number on delivery for final payment.”

  Good to know. I’ll need a burner phone or two, Luke mused. He had the surreal feeling that he was in a bad cop movie. He told them he’d be back and disconnected from the site. Closing the lid to his laptop, he took a couple of deep breaths and rolled the cricks from his neck. Feeling the need for some air, he gathered his jacket off a nearby chair and headed down the stairs and out the front door into the cold night. His breath was visible in short, misty bursts as he walked, the amber glow of street lamps lighting his way. The air was damp as usual, though thankfully it had stopped raining. He pulled his collar up against the cold and rammed his hands deeper into his pockets, head bent slightly as he walked. He spent the time sorting through what he’d learned so far. On the surface, it all seemed simple enough. But could he do it? Could he take someone’s life when it came to it? Or was this whole thing too much of a wacky idea? Maybe he should forget it completely, he told himself uneasily. He’d fantasized about shooting someone in a road rage – hell, most people he knew fantasized about that, when it came to it – but sneaking up on someone who hadn’t pissed him off directly and snuffing them out, well, that was different. That was cold-blooded murd
er.

  But £12,000 in cash was awfully tempting. It was more than enough funds to get his business going. And if he did it two or three times . . . Luke quickened his pace as the pieces fell into place. The more he turned it over in his head, the easier it sounded. Now he just needed to talk to Clinton about it.

  And get a weapon.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I thought you were joking!” Clinton was incredulous. “You’ve got to be dreaming! Kill someone? For money? Are you out of your mind?”

  Luke had cemented his plan in his head as he’d walked round to Clinton’s place.

  “I’ve worked most of it out, and it’s pretty simple,” he said calmly. He counted on his fingers as he spoke. “One, I know how much to charge. Two, I know how the contact is made. Three, I know how to build a basic website. Four, I can probably get a weapon on the web. And five, we only have to do a couple of hits. Where else are we going to get the money? Because we’ve worked too hard to chuck this dream away. This will give us the start we need. Think about it, Clinton.”

  “I don’t need to think about it! It’s nuts! And what if we get caught, eh? That’s prison for the rest of our lives, or at least a good twenty years of it. And I don’t fancy being someone’s bitch, either. Trust you to be the one to come up with the harebrained idea.” Clinton rubbed his face with his hands.

  “And trust you to be the one that pooh-poohs it,” Luke said crossly. “I don’t see much coming from you in the way of money-earning ideas. You’re supposed to be the accountant brain of the two of us. I’m the creative one, remember.”

  “Well, I can’t say your idea isn’t creative, now can I? It’s about as creative as it gets, actually, so top marks for that,” Clinton spat back. His face had gone beet red.