:: Life in the Lost Lane ::

Life in the Lost Lane
A collective of English Gentlemen

Tuesday, March 9

KILL SWITCH

Paris, France – October 29th – 2001.

The shrill electronic cry of the phone pierced the dark silence of the night. It rang several times before she woke to answer it. The large green numbers on the bedside clock read 02:52. Lifting the receiver she spoke softly, her eyes still closed.
“Oui?” Her voice expressed surprise at such an unexpected call. The thick French accent of a man responded.
“Josephine?”
“Oui.”
“It is time.” Those three words sparked movement. Her eyes flicked open. They held a glazed look unassociated with the early morning wake up call.
Replacing the phone in its cradle Josephine moved without hesitation, out of bed and across the room. Crouching down in front of an open closet she parted the hanging clothes to reveal a secret compartment at the back. Working by the light of the moon that shone through the window, she swiftly and quietly removed a case and placed it on the bed. Acting on autopilot her fingers turned the dials of the combination lock, within a second or two it was open. A black outfit lay neatly folded before her. Underneath, a sniper rifle and silencer, disassembled. After dressing and assembling the weapon, she shot a glance at the clock 02:58. She slid her window open.
Outside it was clear and crisp. Using gloved hands Josephine climbed the drainpipe. The rifle, now strapped to her back, bounced around behind her as she made her way to the roof. Once there, she scurried from rooftop to rooftop until she reached the last building in the street. Crouching down in the north-east corner Josephine positioned the gun to face east. Below, the traffic lights at the crossroads showed red in every direction. For a moment all that could be heard was the whine of the wind in-between the tall buildings. Then, in the distance, the rumble of an engine. Josephine cocked her head to one side to try and catch the sounds that echoed though the empty city. Two engines. Close together. She tightened her grip and extended her index finger to wrap gently around the trigger. Lowering herself slightly, she brought her right eye to the scope and positioned the sight.
The two cars rolled into view and came to a stop at the intersection. They were identical vehicles; black, Mercedes, tinted windows. Important looking. Suddenly the second car tilted to one side, the rear left hand tyre deflated quickly. In the blink of an eye the front left tyre followed suit, pieces of rubber vacating the place where the bullet entered. Car one leapt into action, the screech of rubber on the road echoing in the cold night. Josephine adjusted her aim. With the precision of an expert she took out the driver first. Firing at the windscreen, she scored a direct hit. A second later she pumped two rounds into the passenger side. Below her, the sound of breaking glass and hissing tyres filled the street. A gap between the vehicles appeared as car one veered forward and to the left, smashing head on into a lamppost. She turned her attentions back to car two, which, despite its two wheel handicap, was attempting to escape. Following the same pattern she fired three rounds, one for the driver, two for the passenger. It came to a juddering stop. On the roof Josephine had found her pace. The snick of the rifle as the bullets left the barrel had become rhythmical. She paused to reload, taking a moment to glance at the scene below.
Without warning the rear right hand door of car two flew open and a short, overweight, bald man jumped out. He had a silver case handcuffed to his right wrist. He was clearly in a state of panic, tripping as he tried to run away. He fell to his hands and knees outside the car and began shouting and cursing in Spanish. Josephine put a bullet through the window of the open door, a warning shot. The man, who had begun to run away, seemed to get the message and stopped. He raised his arms in the air and stood totally still. The case dangled on a chain from his wrist, weighing his arm down a little. For a moment nothing happened. The whimpering of the Spanish man was just audible over the idling motors. Snick! A round sliced through the chain, causing the case to hit the street. The mans' arm jerked up due to the sudden loss of weight. Flinching violently, he jumped back in surprise. He looked around nervously, scanning the windows and rooftops. He seemed unsure of where the threat was coming from. Raising his hands above his head and waving them, he began to turn around in circles.
“Por favour!” He shouted. He was checking all the rooftops as he turned. At the moment he had his back to Josephine, but soon he would spot her. She was standing now, the butt of the rifle tucked into her shoulder, the sight aimed precisely at the Spanish gentleman’s head.
“Por favour! Tengo esposa y hijos!” The fear in his voice caused it to shake as he shouted his pleas at the Parisian rooftops.
“Please!” He shouted in English now. “I have a wife an..”
Josephine pulled the trigger.
One mile away in an unmarked grey van, two men sat in front of a bank of monitors. Surrounded by surveillance equipment and computers, the men gazed intently at four screens. Each one held a different view of the crossroads where the carnage had taken place. The two men, who sat side by side, shared a look before the man on the left reached into his pocket and produced a mobile phone. The man on the right lit a cigarette, the smoke clung to his yellowing moustache.
“Make the call.” He said blowing smoke from his nostrils. His American drawl indicated he was from one of the southern states, and his voice carried enough authority to suggest he was in charge here. The other man pushed a button on the handset and pressed the phone to his ear. Running his free hand over his thinning hairline, he seemed relieved that it was finished. Someone answered and he stiffened in his chair.
“It’s done.” His deep French accent made him sound like he detested speaking any other language. He paused as he was asked a question.
“Yes.” Another pause.
“Send them in.” He put the phone away and turned to his moustached colleague.
“The clean up crew are on their way.” He ran a hand over his hairline again and puffed out his cheeks in a tired manner.
“I’ll drive.” He said, knowing that he didn’t really have a choice.
The American man just nodded. The movement of his head disturbing the smoke that hung in the air. He checked his watch. 03:10.
Not bad. He thought. Not bad at all.

posted by B @ 1:35 PM

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