Trust Me (Trust Me, Find Me 1)

A notch on the bedpost.

Like all the other girls he went with after.

“They were my letters, Jac! You sent them to me.”

I start loading the plates noisily with the chicken casserole and rice.

“After ten years of you not being arsed to read them, it was only right that they got returned to sender.”

I turn to face him full on, a plate of food in my hand.

“Not being arsed?” I thunder.

He has no right to talk to me like that.

“That wasn’t how it was.”

He glowers back at me and I refuse to look away.

“How was it, then? Exactly?”

“You broke my heart.”

“So… you decided to break mine too.”

I look away.

I did step over the line taking the letter… and I’ve nothing else to say except…

I mutter the words moodily; finally relenting.

“I’m sorry.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. He knows only too well how hard it is for me to ever back down.

He takes the plate of food from me, sets it on the table and hugs me.

His arms wrap around me, enveloping me. My head is buried in his chest as he holds onto me tightly, the tension between us melting away.

“Wanna start over?”

Neither of us let go. Until I remember the food.

“Dinner’ll be getting cold.”

We pull ourselves apart.

“Is this plate for Maureen?”

He takes it through to the darkened lounge where Mam is watching a soap.

She’s coughing as we go in.

I catch my breath. In the pale light of the television, her face is drawn.

“You still got that tickle?”

“I can’t seem to shift it.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

I come back with the glass and Jac moves the side table for her.

“You sure, you don’t want to join us?”

“No, cariad, talking all afternoon’s done me in, it has.”

There's no other choice, but to have dinner with him, alone. Sitting across the kitchen table from him feels strange. A little too formal, especially after our fight.

He watches my fork playing with the rice in the casserole juice.

"You alright?"

“Bit sad, that’s all. I wish we’d have kept in touch.”

“Me too.”

He’s suddenly studying his plate too.

“I’m sorry that you went into battle and I never wrote back. If anything had happened, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

Jac cuts across.

“It didn’t Annie, so don’t beat yourself up.”

I brood on it for a bit.

“It’s not just that. Callista came to see me in New York. You could’ve come over too. It would’ve been a laugh.”

“You could’ve come to Belize. Swam in the coral, seen the turtles.”

We talk about these places for a while.

I clear the plates and we look at the drawings he’s brought with him. Finely drawn pen and ink etchings of tropical fish and turtles.

Emboldened by the wine, it slips out.

“So… you waited for me. For how long?”

He shakes his head.

“Too long. Idiot that I was.”

“And how did that rule work out for you, after? Were you the complete tart you said you’d be in the letter?”

He’s amused to see me fishing.

“I was twenty when I wrote that. Put it this way, it’d been a very long, dry spell. There’ve been plenty of women in my life, Annie, don’t you worry. Just as you’ve men had in yours.”

I take another sip of wine.

Had Callista been blabbing to him too?

Suddenly, I don’t want to dredge up the ghosts of lovers past either.

“You’re right. Let’s leave it be. Old friends. Fresh starts, what d’you say?”

I take a sip of wine.

With a quirky look on his face, he drinks too.

“Yeah. The future.”

CHAPTER 9

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He’d been hidden from their view every day and evening for a week; spotting the characteristics of the men, learning their habits. Sion had lain flat for hours. Watching. Hidden from view in the dense shrubbery, fighting the creeping cold that moved through his muscles into his bones. Staying silent and still, blending in with the vegetation around him.

He’d spotted Prifti easily. He was a smoker. Sion had studied him closely as he stood by the back door enjoying his cigarette. And he was a creature of habit.

The gang members were all armed, from what he could see. Each carried at least a handgun. And they were brazen about it too, wearing their holsters in plain sight. It wasn't something he’d seen before in the UK. No wonder the security services wanted these bad boys gone.

As the MI5 agent had said, his main challenge would be getting out of there quickly, before the fireworks went off. With the weight of the sniper gun on his back, there was a real possibility of a pot shot from one of Prifti’s heavies. If he went for a smaller rifle, his range and accuracy would be compromised. And that could also cost him his life.

So, he practised his escape over the fence each night. And a week of practice later, he was confident that he could move fast out of there when he came under pressure and fire.

He’d been in touch with Irish, his Scouser contact, and they’d agreed on a price for the job. It’d be wired to his offshore account.

Earlier that day, he’d texted him the coded confirmation.

‘I’ve taken a look at the holiday you recommended and will make the booking later today. I’ll be in touch when the payment goes through.’

Now it was all up to him.

He had no choice but to do it.

It was Monday afternoon; the best time for his mark to be there, with only a few of his homies hanging around.

He was dressed in black, his face obscured by a balaclava. The gun was set up on its bipod, camouflaged in a dense laurel bush. He had a clear view of the patio where the men smoked, and he was as close as possible to the perimeter for his escape. The silencer was on.

Prifti had been having a smoke on the patio each day at around three. In the week that Sion had watched him, Prifti’s nicotine cravings had shown surprising regularity.

The February gloom suited his purpose well, as he sat and waited patiently. He could see the men clearly in the lit-up conservatory. They were playing pool. He considered venturing a shot

through the window, but the angles weren’t ideal. Best stick to the plan and wait for Prifti to appear. He hoped he’d be alone.

Keeping patient, he practised his breathing as he looked down the sight, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

When that trigger was pulled, all manner of shit was going to be flying from the fan. And he didn’t want any of it hitting him.

He’d go back to Jac’s place, his safe haven where no one would ever find him. And then, there was Claire from The Cross Keys. She was the other reason why he stayed with Jac. Claire was unfinished business. Not even started. But, chatting to her every evening was fast becoming the best part of his day.

He couldn’t get her out of his head. She was exotic; different to the other girls around there. Almond-shaped eyes. Long, dark, wavy hair. She was slender but with curves in all the right places. And behind her chatty banter, he could tell she was shy, reserved even. And she had that edge to her. You can’t kid a kidder. She hadn’t been dealt an easy hand in life, either.

He snapped to attention.

There was a movement at the back door.

Positioning himself, with his eye focussing through the telescopic sight, he fixed on the face of the man who emerged onto the patio.

Prifti.

He was alone. There was no holster or belt to be seen about his black jeans. He looked relaxed, a little tired even.

Sion’s luck was in. He studied him intently through the crosshairs as Prifti took a cigarette out of the packet he was holding, moving his hand to his back trouser pocket to retrieve his lighter.

He took a long satisfying first drag.

His last, Sion thought glibly.

Prifti suddenly tilted his head back towards the house.

Was someone else coming outside to join him? Or, was he being called back inside?

Sion froze statue-still, hunched intently over the sight.

Exhaling steadily to regulate his breathing, he had a clear shot. The time had to be now. Now.

Sion coolly pulsed the trigger.

To the trained ear, a faint whistle could be heard as the bullet sliced through the air. And, with one swift, fluid move, Sion had already half disassembled the gun as Leon Prifti keeled backwards.

A dull thud.