The Killer by Jack Elgos Page A

and silently thanked Rosa for her forethought when she had over-provisioned him for the journey. The coffee was gone, but he still had food. What he needed most, though, was sleep. The long drive had taken its toll. He pulled up his collar and reclined the driver’s seat, settling down for the night.
    He slept sporadically in bursts of half an hour or so and felt anything but rested when the airport came to life the following morning. He climbed out of the car and stood yawning and stretching before collecting his overnight bag and heading towards the terminal and the men’s toilet. A long wash in ice-cold water brought him round and he went in search of flight information. Finding that the next arrival from Ireland would be in four hours he still had time to kill. It was a beautiful morning and the sun here had more strength than he had become used to. A grassy area in front of the terminal looked a welcoming place to rest and ease out his aching limbs, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one with that idea as he joined six others already stretched out in various stages of relaxation. Using his overnight bag for a pillow Darren lay back and yawned. In just a few hours he’d have to be alert, but for now he could afford a little more sleep.
    Alpha-Six-One watched the Irishman approaching, recognising his target through slitted eyes. ‘McCann for sure.’ Rolling into the foetal position, he feigned sleep and gave a long, low snore. A few minutes later his target was snoring too. Alpha-Six-One stood, stretched and yawned then, after wiping the freshly mown grass from his jeans, he walked lazily to the terminal. Halting at the door he glanced behind and, seeing no movement from his target, dived into the passenger seat of the old Ford waiting for him. ‘It’s McCann all right,’ he told his partner. Their orders were simply to watch, wait and report.
    Awake again following a more restful sleep, Darren strolled back towards the car park. After fishing around in his pocket for a moment he found the ignition key and started the little Honda, taking it to the small waiting area for arrivals. Around thirty minutes later a familiar figure slowly emerged from the building. ‘Thomas, you bog Irish git, what the fuck have you got there?’ he laughed to himself at the sight of his friend, red-faced and sweating, with one small bag hanging from his shoulder and a huge suitcase trailing behind. He pulled the car alongside him, wound down the window and offered, ‘Taxi?’
    Thomas faced him with one of his famous “looks”. ‘Just give me a hand with this fucker instead of acting the cunt will yer Butch,’ he snapped.
    ‘Jesus, what you got in the bag, a fucking piano?’ asked Darren, as he struggled to get it into the back seat.
    Thomas said nothing; instead he climbed into the passenger’s side and tutted irritably. Darren thought it best to allow him to regain his breath as he headed the car to the exit.
    Eventually, the flush fading from his face, Thomas looked at his friend’s suntanned features. ‘Fuck me, you’ve gone native. You look just like a Fuzzy Wuzzy. All you need is one of those fez hats they all wear over here.’
    ‘Spaniards don’t wear fezzes Thomas - that’s the Morroc... Oh fuck it, man, what’s in the fucking bag?’
    ‘My gear, but mostly cash,’ Thomas informed him. ‘Head for a town called Sitges; it’s just south of us.’
    ‘What’s in Sitges?’ asked Darren. ‘Why are we going there?’
    ‘Want the long story - or the short one?’ sighed a disgruntled Thomas who obviously was not very keen on the Spanish heat.
    ‘Short one’ll do.’
    ‘To kill someone.’
    ‘Ah.’
    Driving along Darren lit a cigarette and waited. Silence. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out and waited some more. Still silence. Eventually he could take it no longer. ‘OK then, fuck it - give me the long story.’
    Thomas wound down his window and fanned his face with his hat. ‘Did you hear about that