Okay, honest opinion people. Does this prologue grip you? Do you become intrigued? Or do you want to tear the book up and force feed it to me page by page?
Apologies for the length
PROLOGUE: THE TRIGGER
Town Centre, Chelmsford
06: 37, ??.11.2003
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel depressed. Then again, he was far from feeling happy. Instead, he felt empty. He felt without purpose. Now that this nightmare was over, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He certainly couldn’t go back to his normal life; the police would prevent that. He couldn’t go back to his business, since no one would trust him now.
He hadn’t slept all night. How could he? As daylight approached, he decided to give up hiding, and get some air. As he stood, he looked around the empty house. It was strange seeing the room this bare. All the equipment had been moved out in an impressively short time. You could see the depressions in the carpet where each desk had been, and he could identify who each mark belonged to. He walked towards the door, now unguarded, and walked down the stairs slowly.
At the foot of the stairs was the door to the street, also unguarded, and he emerged from the safe house…no, former safe house…by the river. He refused to look up, to see the building that held too many reminders of his ordeal. It was strange to think that he had been there less than eight hours ago, when the previous fortnight’s events had come to a climax. He walked towards the bridge, staring at the black, murky river. Having lived in this town since he was a child, he’d become used to the depressing colour of the two rivers that ran through the town, but this morning it seemed to make him more miserable.
He didn’t know why he felt so bad. At least it was all over now. At least he didn’t have to worry about them anymore. He still had to worry about the police, but right now, he didn’t care. He was, of course, rather frustrated that the people who had promised to help him had rather conveniently disappeared. All he had left to remind him of their assistance was the empty former safe house and his pistol, still holstered below his left shoulder.
He decided to follow the river, walking alongside the doors to Cater House, the building he was trying to avoid. As the tallest building in town, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to avoid it while he stayed here. He moved on along the path and spotted his favourite bench down by the river. There was another man on it, but he didn’t care. He really shouldn’t be out in public, but he didn’t care. The man was reading the paper, and ignored him as he sat down on the bench. He didn’t recognise the man, because the paper was in the way of his face, but he was dressed respectfully, wearing a black Fedora, black leather gloves and a thick, body length black coat, presumably as protection from this cold November morning.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, but opened them as the man folded up his newspaper and coughed to get his attention.
“The problem with you, Mr Hawkes,” the man said, in a familiar Scottish accent, “is you’re too damn predictable.”
Ben didn’t smile. He didn’t have the energy.
“Isn’t it a bit dangerous for you to be out in public?” the Scotsman asked.
“Isn’t it a bit dangerous for you to be out in public?” he retorted.
The Scotsman chuckled, waving the newspaper at him.
“Nobody’s looking for me.”
“Aren’t you the lucky one?”
“I understand why you’re upset,” the Scotsman sighed.
“You said you were going to sort this out,” Ben snapped, snatching the paper and waving it at the Scotsman angrily.
“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands…”
“You’re in charge, aren’t you?!”
“It’s against protocol…”
“Bollocks to you’re fucking protocol!” he bellowed, throwing the paper to the floor, and glaring at it, taking deep breaths in order to calm down.
Now Ben saw the headlines. “Ben Hawkes still at large.” He picked the paper and began to read. Failing to find another way of expressing his anger, he actually laughed at parts of this warped, twisted version of the previous fortnight’s events…
TWO WEEKS AGO…
Viaduct Car Park, Chelmsford
21:37, 03.11.2003
The rain was unlike any he had seen before. It didn’t seem content with falling on you; instead it attacked you. Watery bullets firing relentlessly from heavenly guns, as if the gods wanted him dead.
It wasn’t surprising. They obviously knew what he had done. They knew of his ‘career’, his deeds, his life. They had, no doubt, been watching him since his early days, from his thievery at school to his current occupation. They had probably made a list of all of his crimes, and aided the police in their search for him (though to no success, so far). They had probably even put aside their petty differences, stopped the War of Religions and come together, in an effort to stop people like him. They had probably even reserved a space for him in Hell, where he would be tortured for all eternity, with a new level of pain for every man he had killed, every item he had stolen, every gun he had sold…why was he thinking like this? He didn’t even believe in gods.
He checked his watch once more and grunted. His client was late. They usually were. And still the rain attacked him.
21:39
The client turned smoothly into Viaduct Road and cruised down towards the park, before smoothly swerving through the historic arch (one of many) of the viaduct and parking neatly beside a black Mondeo. He turned the engine off and calmly got out, ignoring the rain and nodding courteously to the waiting man.
“You’re late,” the man said.
“I know,” he replied casually. The man merely sighed in reply.
“Your reputation spreads far,” he said in a flattering tone, “If it was anyone else, I would have left half an hour ago. This meeting was for nine!”
The customer shot him an evil look.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The man turned to the boot of the Mondeo and opened the boot, watching with delight as the customer’s eyes lit up at the sight of his hardware.
“Where’d you buy all of this?” the client asked.
“Buy it?” the man spat, as if insulted, “I make it myself. I’ve got about twenty five men throughout the county putting them together for me.”
“Did you buy the kits off the Internet?” the customer joked.
“Yes,” was the truthful reply, “There’s a great front run by some bloke up in the Midlands.”
“Care to tell me the address?”
“No chance. I must keep my sources to myself. You understand.”
“Yes, I do.” Not that he had needed to know, but it was worth trying.
“See anything you like, then?”
The customer didn’t reply. He merely extended his hand into the boot and moved it over the vast array of guns, stroking each one as if to feel its power. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns (double-barrelled or sawn-off), SMGs, machine guns, silencers, ammunition clips – ‘and no explosives, he noted with disappointment.’ Still, it did make sense, safety-wise.
“What if I wanted something explosive?”
“Then you’d have to come to one of my warehouses.”
“Where are they?”
“Are you going to buy anything or not?” the arms dealer replied, changing the subject.
“Where are they?” he persisted.
“That information is for paying customers…”
The client reached for his wallet.
“…Regular paying customers.”
The client returned his hands to the weapons. He picked up one of the more modern pistols and a silencer.
“How silent is this thing?”
“Why don’t you try it?” the dealer suggested, “It’s loaded.”
“Loaded?”
That was surprising. It was true that only fools sold guns, and that those who sold loaded ones were the more foolish.
“They’re all loaded,” the fool replied, “in case the ‘boys in blue’ drop by.”
This man truly was a fool, which was an encouraging thought.
After screwing the silencer on firmly, the customer turned away, aiming for the nearest lamppost. Satisfied, he squeezed the trigger and listened. The only sounds were the rain, the passing cars, and the gentle shattering as the bullet burst through the light, turning it off as effectively as pulling the plug. The shot couldn’t be heard.
“Good enough,” the client agreed, gazing down at the weapon in his hand.
“That’s one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“What?”
“It’s good quality merchandise, don’t you think.”
The client wheeled around and pressed the gun barrel into the dealer’s forehead.
“I’m didn’t arrange these meeting to buy your do-it-yourself water pistols,” he said, his tone now low and menacing, “I want to know where your warehouses are.”
“What’s it worth?” the dealer grinned, never frightened by a man with a gun.
There was the sound of flesh and bone being penetrated as the client shot the man in the foot. This was followed by a scream of agony.
“UGH! Sorry,” he gasped in pain, “I’m…just trying to…make a living.”
“So where are they?”
The dealer shook his head, before screaming as he received a bullet through his other foot.
“Widford Industrial Estate, next to the A414,” the dealer screamed, before giving the exact address.
“Thank you,” the gunman replied
The dealer froze in fear as he saw the man’s rugged features stretching into a smile. He’d heard much about this man’s reputation; his origins, the number of people he had killed. This man was something of a legend simply for his tradition before killing someone: he never smiled unless someone was about to die. Seeing those gleaming teeth, his lips in the widest grin possible, and a murderous glint in his eye, was the omen of death. Paralysed with terror, the dealer watched as the gun barrel returned to his head and the trigger was pulled.
Climbing back into his car, he proceeded to head out of the town. This was a necessary precaution. If anyone was following him, he couldn’t go straight back to his hotel.
It was highly doubtful that someone was following him. Tonight’s action was only the first. The first of many. Out of habit, however, he kept checking his mirror for familiar cars. That wasn’t the only way you could be followed, of course. The government had satellites that could do the job, and the authorities could even have four or five cars following him, alternating with each area of town.
Satisfied that no one was following him, and now five miles north of town, he took another route back. Within half an hour, his long-winded route had led him back to the town centre. Turning down Waterloo Lane, he drove down to the long-stay car park at the end and parked the car near to the river. As he got out and locked the car, he knelt down, seemingly to tie his shoe, and left the car keys behind the front wheel. He turned away and walked back up Waterloo Lane. When he was halfway along the road, he got his mobile phone and speed-dialled a number, then hung up after three rings. His colleagues would pick up the car in the morning and leave a different one when he needed it.
For now, he needed some rest.
Lol. Thanks a lot - maybe i should cut down on the 24!
And i know chelmsford is hardly a brilliant setting for a thriller, but for once i want to set a novel where i actually know what the place looks like. You're not really allowed to guess, and i haven't travelled much!
Ta muchly anyway, Aleana!
hello!
sorry I've taken so long to get rounhd to reading this, Batch, but its good. (as i have never watched 24, I wouldn't know about that)
I like the way you don't tell us everything, thats what keeps me reading. :D
ps. Force feeding you paper sounds fun!