How To Kill Friends And Implicate People Read Online Free

them think it’ll never happen.
    ‘Hang on, wait,’ he says. He puts both hands out toward me, palms out, and the towel falls to the floor. ‘I’m not worth it.’
    ‘Probably not.’
    I raise the gun.
    He does something I don’t expect. He gets angry. Indignant. He balls his hands into fists and puts them to his hips, looking like a child having a tantrum.
    ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he says.
    ‘Of course I do, ya fud. Joe Pepper sends his regards.’
    I fire twice. The gun sounds like a metal bolt slamming home on a heavy door, and my hand recoils between each, but I’m used to it. The first shot cuts through his throat. Insurance that his body doesn’t let out a yell before noticing that his brain has stopped talking. The second puts a small red dot on his forehead, and a larger red dot on the mirror behind him.
    I wait while he hits the deck. Sometimes I’m paid to make a hit look like something else. For a little extra, I’ll even frame a specific person. But for this one the client wants it to look like a hit. He’s sending a message.
    I walk back out into the hallway, and hear movement in the bedroom.
    Shit.
    There’s someone else in the flat.
    How did I miss that?
    I stride into the bedroom. There’s a blind spot. Behind the door, a whole side of the room that I didn’t check out. Basic fucking stuff. A real schoolboy error. I must be losing my edge. In that blind spot, slumped in a chair facing the bed, is a fat guy wearing nothing but a dog collar, and I don’t mean he’s a priest.
    He’s got a mobile phone in his hand, and I can hear it dialling out. Whoever he’s calling, they’ll pick up any second now, and then this whole thing will be out of control.
    The fat guy is staring up at me. He’s drugged up to his eyeballs, and his reactions are slow, but he’s seen me and his brain is trying to figure out what facial expression is appropriate. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. And right now, that doesn’t matter. He’s a witness. I don’t like killing people if I don’t have to. Usually, if there are bystanders nearby, I walk away from a job and try again later, or figure out a way to do it without being seen.
    But I’ve fucked up on this one.
    Like I said, you’re only as good as your most recent kill, and my record is getting fucking embarrassing.
    I pull the phone from his drugged-up hands. He puts one up to ward off what’s coming. I fire the same one-two pattern I used on Martin. Shut him up vocally, followed by permanently. I look down at the number on the phone.
    It’s not 999.
    Someone picks up at the other end. A female voice. Maybe a slight accent. I break the connection and pocket the phone. I’ll dump it in the Clyde on the way to my next appointment.
    His clothes are on the floor by the chair. I go through the suit trousers and find a wallet. Credit cards. Photo IDs. Dominic Porter.
    Shit.
    I know the name. I can place him now. My local councillor in the East End. He’s a member of a different party to Marxist Martin. They’re pretty much rivals. I think I even voted for the daft cunt at the last election. You’d think he had better things to be doing at twenty-past three in the afternoon. Like, say, running a city?
    Killing a city councillor was not part of the plan.
    Time to get out. Draw a line under this one. The target is dead, and the collateral damage can’t be helped.
    I’m a professional, though. Even if my current record doesn’t make it look that way. I was hired to do a job, and, though I’ve done it, there were some complications. I need to tell my client. In this game, you’re always thinking about the next job, always maintaining good working relationships.
    I call my client from my current burner. When he doesn’t answer, I leave a voicemail, in a code that I hope he can figure out.
    ‘Joe. It’s me. Dropped your passenger off, but there was a problem. Someone else was along for the ride, had to make an extra drop. Call