The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller (8 page)

“Let’s go and get your stuff back.”

“Okay Batman.”

Nick put the car back in gear and pulled away.

“Thirty-two. Man whore…” I muttered. He shook his head and laughed.I smiled at him. 

What of course I wouldn’t tell him was that I was secretly slightly impressed by his naughty conquests. He clearly had some skills and he was bound to have learnt many naughty tricks on the way. Since Johnny was such a boring and useless lover I was looking forward to seeing what kind of bedroom gymnastics Nicky boy had up his sleeves,or more accurately - in his pants. Being in my mid-thirties I had a insatiable lust probably propagated by the ticking time bomb of my body clock reminding me to have children. Only battery powered discretionary lady products from
Ann Summers
had been able to make up for Johnny’s lack of bedroom abilities. Nick would clearly be more of a suitable entertainment sexual-tour-de-force than four inches of made in taiwan buzzing plastic. The difference between Nick and Johnny was probably down to the fact Nick hadn’t spent several years buggering his fag in the shower blocks at a public school.

We arrived at the warehouse on the industrial estate in Battersea where my chattels were being held captive. Nick drove straight through the warehouse doors into the large loading bay. He took out my pistol opened the glove-box and swapped it back for his own Beretta.

“Come with me, bring the clipboard,” he said getting out.

I got out the car with Bertie’s paperwork and followed him round to the back of the Range Rover. He opened the boot and handed me a bullet vest with POLICE written on it. 

“Put this on.”

“Will I need it?”

“I hope not,” he replied and took his jacket off and put his own vest on.

“It’s not really this seasons colour,” I complained.

“If you don’t wear it and get shot you won’t live long enough for the Autumn-Winter collection,” he said. 

He had a good point so I put it on. It wasn’t that comfortable and pushed my boobs flat, which wasn’t great because I’m a D cup. It’s probably just as well Page Three girls don’t join the armed police. Nick pulled up the cover on the boot to reveal a large gun-safe with a digital coded lock. He tapped in a code and opened the safe to reveal a arsenal of death. MP5’s, a large sniper rifle with scope and pistols as well as an assortment of smoke and stun grenades.

“Bloody hell!” I said. “You planning to go to Baghdad or Bond Street?”

“Anti-terrorism.”

“Contradiction. There’s enough death in there to terrorise anyone,” I said. Nick took out a MP5 and handed it to me. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Improvise.”

He took out another MP5 and closed the cabinet and walked over to the portakabin style office in the vast warehouse. He knocked on the door. A burly looking man came out.

“What do you want?” said the fat bloke.

Nick took out a police warrant card - which was a surprise since he wasn’t in the police but I guess they gave them one of everything at
Spooks R Us
.

“Anti-terrorism. We believe you may have articles in your possession that are connected with our inquiries,” Nick told him.

“You got a warrant?” fat bloke asked in a deep
sarf
London accent.

“Yes,” replied Nick and cocked the MP5.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” snorted fat bloke.

“No, it’s supposed to kill you. It’s a gun. That’s what guns do,” replied Nick.

Fat bloke looked at us both.

“Paperwork?” he asked me. I gave him the form with my inventory on it.Fat bloke looked at me suspiciously. “She’s a bit overdressed for this sort of thing…” he said suspiciously.

“I’m undercover,” I told him. Improvising.

“Undercover where? Selfridges ladies fashion department?” he said as he looked at the paperwork again. “There’s something very funny about all this…” he said and nodded at our MP5’s. “Are they even real? They look like they came from a toyshop.”

Nick pointed the gun at the glass windows of the office and squeezed the trigger. It erupted into deafening automatic fire and smashed all the glass.

“For Fucks Sake! You can bloody pay for that you maniac! What kind of bloody copper are you! I’ll have your badge for this sunshine!” fat bloke said in surprise at Nick’s sudden assault on his scruffy business establishment.

“No you won’t,” replied Nick. “Now tell us where the shit is fat boy or things will get unfortunate,” he said pointing his MP5 at him.

Fat bloke didn’t seem that phased given Nick had just fired his gun at him. He looked like what someone of a lesser education might refer to as being ‘
a right dodgy geezer
’.

“I want to speak to your boss,” said fat bloke.

Nick became impatient.

“Maybe I just set fire to your warehouse with you in it?” Nick replied.

Fat bloke shook his head.

“You aren’t kosher sunshine.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Where?”

“At the back. Right hand side last row. But I’ve got a fella coming for that lot at seven so I want compensating,” fat bloke said reluctantly.

“You’ve been very co-operative,” Nick replied.

Nick took my arm and led me to the back of the warehouse. 

“I want receipts!” he yelled after us.

“I don’t like him,” I said to Nick. “He had an ill-favoured look.”

“Let’s just get your stuff and get out of here,” said Nick.

“We won’t fit it all in the car,” I replied.

“We’ll get your clothes and anything sentimental. We’ll have to come back for the rest.”

We headed to the back of the warehouse and searched for my belongings, eventually we found a number of large packing crates with the reference code for my address on alongside where all my furniture had been stacked up. I helped Nick pull them out and opened them. I was quite annoyed that they had just shoved everything into boxes regardless. My expensive designer wardrobe was a crumpled heap.

“Go and get the car,” Nick said handing me the keys. 

I left my machine gun with him and walked back to the car. As I got in and was about to start the engine fat bloke tapped on the glass with the sawn-off barrel of a large pump action shotgun.

“Alright sweetheart. Out the car.”

“Bugger,” I said.

I reluctantly got out. Three scruffy cohorts dressed in blue boiler suits armed with shotguns had now joined fat bloke.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” fat bloke asked. I declined to answer.

“Give him a shout or you won’t be so pretty by the time he comes back.”

Reluctantly I leaned into the car and honked the horn three times.

“Nicky!” I yelled. “He’s got a gun!” I added. 

“Drop your gun and come out with your hands up or your bird here is going to get it!” yelled fat bloke. 

He put the shotgun in my back and led me to stand in front of the car. I was quite surprised they were taking the recovery of my belongings so badly. I can only presume it was a front for some criminal outfit that burgled stately homes and raped the housekeepers. 

Whatever they were up to things were not exactly going to plan. There was no sign of Nick. The armed thugs became uneasy.

“I’m going to count to three. Then I’m going to decorate your missus all over your Chelsea tractor son. This is your last warning,” said fat bloke.

“Maybe he’s got lost,” I suggested unhelpfully.

“One…Two…”

“Three…” said Nick from behind us. 

There was four gunshots followed by four thumps as bodies hit the ground then silence. I turned around to see all four of the thugs dead on the floor executed with single shots to the head and Nick pointing his still smoking MP5 at them.

“That was your plan?” I asked him.

“There was no plan,” he replied.

“Well next time have a plan!”

“Bring the car,” he told me. “And be quick.”

I got back in the car and drove it to the top of the warehouse.

“We don’t have a lot of time so be to selective.”

“Why did you shoot them?”

“They were going to shoot you.”

“I know that but it seems excessive force given the situation.”

“You wanted your shoes back didn’t you?”

“You shot them so I could get my loubi’s back?”

“Well, yes.”

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing!” I kissed and hugged him.

“We don’t have time for all that.”

“We always have time for all that,” I corrected him and helped load my stuff into the Range Rover. 

I took mostly my clothes, shoes and personal sentimental items but the furniture would have to stay where it was. Nick checked his watch aware even on a noisy industrial estate the gunshots probably had raised an alarm which made me realise Nick was acting on personal rather than state business in helping me with my problems.

After we finished loading my stuff we got back in the car and Nick reversed out having to stop due to the four dead bodies blocking the exit.

“Drive over them,” I suggested. “It’s a four by four.”

“There isn’t a
traverse dead bodies
setting on the transmission,” he told me getting out.

I figured I would have to help him since it was mostly my fault. We dragged the bodies over to the office. 

“What about the guns?” I asked.

“Leave them. The police will think it was a gangland hit.” Nick walked over and picked the four shell casings from his MP5 and put them in his pocket. “Now is a good time to leave.”

“So where to?” I asked him.

Given my lack of furniture suggesting we went back to my place seemed a bit pointless.

“Well, since you are technically homeless back to my place I guess,” he replied.

 “I hope you have bubble bath,” I replied getting in the car.

We got back in the car and made a swift departure.

Chapter 7

NICK LIVED
in a rather smart bijoux apartment overlooking Tower Bridge in Butlers Wharf. We dropped the car at the nearby parking garage and made the short walk through the quaint streets of Shad Thames to his apartment building. It was just getting dark and had a nice cozy atmosphere. It was a welcome relief from my Hackney misadventure.

“Wow. Didn’t expect you to live here,” I told him looking up at the grand Victorian warehouse building. Nick entered the key-code and we went through the lobby into the smart entrance hall and waited for the lift.

“Where did you expect I would live?” he asked surprised.

Unlike the rappers shabby council building the well-kept portered block smelt beautiful and was impeccably decorated.

“I didn’t think you guys got paid that well.”

“We don’t, I bought it years ago before the property market went up.”

“Must be worth a lot now.”

“Probably.”

We went up to the fourth floor and into Nick’s apartment. It was small but had a reasonable sized living room with a warehouse window and large French doors onto a balcony overlooking the river, a dining kitchen, smart wet-room and bedroom off the hallway. It had a lovely original feature brick wall and American walnut wood floors and was tastefully furnished with a mixture of modern Scandinavian contemporary furnishings. I smiled at Nick in approval of his good taste in interior design. 

“You have good taste. Only one bedroom?” I inquired.

“There’s a sofa-bed,” he replied.

“Well,” I smiled. “We won’t be needing that.” He smiled back awkwardly. “Might as well start as we mean to go on.” I told him.

“There’s plenty of hot water, clean towels on the rail.”

“Perfect.”

I helped Nick take my belongings that I had brought from the car to the bedroom and opened his large wardrobe, cleared a space and hung my clothes up before opening his draws and moving everything to the right then filling the left side with my underwear and other items.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Nick told me, perhaps a little unsure about this sudden female intrusion into his bachelor pad.

“Don’t take too long. I want a back rub,” I winked at him. I headed into the neat bathroom and cleared a space for my armoury of cosmetics. Within less than ten minutes I had transformed Nick’s capsule of masculinity into a more appropriate female habitation. I checked the toilet. It was impeccably clean and suitably equipped with triple velvet quilted toilet paper. Based on my brief investigations of his domestic arrangements I determined Nick was suitable marriage material.  The bathroom was fitted in a mix of white
Villeroy&Boch
fittings with a double walk in shower and a large bath.

I ran the hot water and selected some suitably scented bubble bath. Having spent so long in the filthy police station I wanted to cleanse myself of the experience and burn all my clothes.

Sinking into the hot soapy water was about one of the best experiences of my life and after five minutes soaking clean in the warm water I felt human and feminine again.

“Room service!” I called. Shortly after there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Don’t be shy,” I told him. Nick came in with Champagne. “What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“Who needs a reason?”

“A man after my heart,” I told him. It was only
Veuve
but given the ordeal I wasn’t being choosy. We toasted glasses. 

A cool glass of
Veuve
and a hot bath was the perfect end to a horrible day.

“So about my back rub…” I said suggestively. 

“Enjoy your bath,” he replied and departed.

“Spoilsport!” I called after him with a sulking pout. Despite the lack of on call masseuse a relaxing soak in the bath was still heaven.

Feeling suitably cleansed to normality I applied some moisturiser and a light dab of
Gucci for Her
, found a fluffy bathrobe on the back of the door and headed into the kitchen in search of a Champagne refill.

“Bathroom’s free,” I told him.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he replied removing his jacket and holster before taking his gun and putting it in a safe he had concealed behind a painting.

“Make sure you wash behind your ears,” I told him with a coy smile.

“Yes mum,” he replied sarcastically and departed for the bathroom.