The Hit Man's Last Job

This week's Prompt: Your Last Day at Work.

Today's job was easy. It was easier than the one before. On receiving the job, Phillip travelled to Manchester from his home in Scotland. He had moved to the Isle of Skye ten years ago. The quiet suited him. Anyway, after arriving in Manchester by train, he booked into the Midland Hotel. It was central to what he needed.

His target, or mark—he never knew what to call them—was working in a restaurant on Oxford Road. Well, it was a kebab house where you could eat in or take away. “Shisha’s” was the name. His Intel was that Davos worked the counter most afternoons and early evenings.

Day 1

Identify the Mark. Follow. Plan        

This was easy. The photo supplied showed his face with a scar running from below his right ear to the corner of his mouth. And his hair was tied up in one of those silly top knots.

Phillip was a man with no past, no future, and a reputation for getting the job done or making problems disappear, all depending on the contract. He didn’t look like much: a worn leather jacket, short hair under his Man United baseball cap, he was sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the road, watching the kebab shop at lunchtime. It was a busy and popular eatery.

Coffee in hand and camera at the ready, he set himself up for a long day.

Students, office workers, and general walk-ins were buying the food.

An electric bike stopped outside the shop. On the back was a green food storage box with UBER printed in white. The rider dismounted, kicked out the stand, and walked into the shop. Nothing unusual here, Phillip thought. Then he noticed the rider move to the right of the counter in front of the waiting customers. He was chatting with Mr Top Not. Hands were raised; they were in a heated discussion. Phillip took several photographs. The rider slammed his hands down on the counter and walked out. He jumped on his bike and rode off at speed.

Phillip then noticed Davos take out his phone. He had another heated conversation with whoever he was talking to. He ended the call, said something to his co-workers, and walked off to the back of the shop.

Phillip stood up, checked both ways, and crossed the road, walking down a small road to a service yard that covered all the outlets in the block. He heard the screech of tyres. An old, beat-up Toyota came out of the service road and turned right towards the City Centre.

“Shit,” Phillip said. “Not much I can do now.” He thought for a minute... then he walked into the kebab shop. “Hi, is Davos here?” he asked a young Turkish-looking lad behind the counter.

“He's gone on his break,” he replied.

“Cheers. When will he be back?” Phillip asked.

“I don't know; I'm not his mother,” he waved his hand in the air. Using a battery-operated knife, he then went back to cutting meat from a slab on a rotisserie. The meat dropped onto a Styrofoam tray, which held some bread and a little salad. Philip thought about lunch, looked at the countertops, then walked out.

Deciding to walk back to the Midland Hotel, he set off up Oxford Road, walking under the Mancunian Way. He couldn’t believe how many homeless tents were on the pavement. It was like a city within a city.

Passing the land where the BBC ones were, he shook his head at how things had changed since his last visit to Manchester. Crossing over and taking in the environment, still on the lookout for Mr Top Not and the red Toyota.

Reaching his room, he decided to have some lunch, a nap, and then call back to the Kebab shop in the evening.

The rain had been relentless for hours, turning the pavement outside Shisha’s into a sluggish stream. Beneath shuttered shop fronts, people huddled in blankets and patchwork quilts, claiming corners of concrete as makeshift beds. A neon off-license sign buzzed and blinked, casting erratic pink light across puddles.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of grilled lamb and garlic sauce, overpowering the grime clinging to the tiled floor. The place pulsed with life — cabbies swapping stories, delivery riders warming their hands, and partygoers chasing one last bite before the night gave in.

Phillip was inside the shop waiting in line to give an order. He noticed how Davos was selling the drugs. An Uber driver would show him the APP on his phone, which was an order for drugs. Davos would take a bag from under the counter, put it in a Styrofoam tray, place it in a plastic bag, and hand it over to the driver. The driver would then deliver it, and payment would be sent via the App, he presumed. He witnessed three orders like this in the space of five minutes.

This is the reason a rival gang wanted Davos out of the way.

                                                            ----------

Day 2

The How and the When

            The next day, Phillip was on the bench over the road from the kebab shop, waiting for it to open. Davos arrived in his Toyota. He parked on the pavement. He then saw him open the roller shutter doors and unlock the front door, retrieving several bags from the boot of the Toyota, and he took them inside. He then drove the rusty old Toyota around the block. After a while, Davos walked back, unlocked the door and entered the building.

Taking a walk around the back, he saw the Toyota was parked in the far right corner of the service yard. Looking around, Philip noticed there were no CCTV or doorbell cameras.

He went through his options,

1. Walk into the shop at a busy period, preferably at night, two to the chest, one in the head, leave the shop, jump on an e-bike and be off in a matter of seconds.

2. Sit in the back of his car; wait for him to finish, when he gets in the front, two in the back and one in the head for good luck. Once again, use one of the e-bikes to escape.

3. Wait at the entrance to the service yard. When he leaves, stand in front of the car, Pop, Pop, Pop.

Whichever option he chose, he was certain of getting a result. All three, he could be back at the hotel, showered, and have something from the room service menu, and be up for the 7:25 to Glasgow, an hour's wait for the connecting train to Fort William, where he left his Land Rover Defender.

            Still mulling over his options, Phillip walked back around to where he could see inside the kebab shop. Davos was using a knife to chop what he thought were vegetables. Another three hours until opening time, the street was deserted, “It’s always the way,” he said to himself. He looked around, no one about. He felt under his arm his 9 mm Beretta with a suppressor was still there.

Tilting his cap and pulling up his collar. He tapped on the door. Davos looked up, “We're closed, come back later.”

“I need the Loo, sorry mate, I’m bursting,” stepping from side to side, holding his hands in front of his groin. Making out he needed a Pee.

“Just a minute,” Davos walked around, wiping his hands on his apron. He unlocked the door, saying. Down at the back, be quick, and don’t try anything.” Bringing up the knife he had been using.

“Cheers, Man,” Phillip walked quickly in the direction of the toilets. When in, he took out the Beretta, checked it, waited a few minutes, and then flushed the toilet. Walking through the shop, he held the Beretta in his right hand close to his chest. His left hand was covering it. As he reached the counter, Phillip pointed the 9mm at Davos. “Hey,” she said.

Davos turned and saw the handgun, lifted both hands in the air, and started talking in what Phillip thought was either Turkish or Arabic. Phillip shot twice. Pop. Pop. Centre mass. As Davos fell to the floor, Phillip walked around the counter, tapping the body with his foot. He leaned over. Pop a hole in between his eyes.

Placing the Beretta back in its holster, he looked around. He couldn’t see any cameras. But then he heard the electronic chime as the door opened. He didn’t remember hearing it when he came in. Looking up, the young Turkish lad walked in.

“What the Fuk,”

“Hey, Hey,” Phillip was talking in a Liverpudlian accent, “I just came in to use the Loo and I came back to this,” Phillip shouted. He took out his phone. “I’ll ring the Police,” pointing it at the young lad as confirmation of what he was about to do.

“No, no, no police,” The Turkish lad started rambling on, and walking up and down.

“Hey, man, I need to go. This has nothing to do with me. I only came in for a piss”

The Turkish lad walked around the counter, knelt to look closer at Davos, which gave Philip time to take out his Beretta. Pop, pop to the back of the head. The lad was down. Holstering it again, he took out his phone and took several photographs. Phillip then walked to the door, opened it, flicked the latch so it would lock and walked out.

Taking several diversions, he had lost the cap, turned his jacket inside out, and was using a cane to walk by the time he got back to the Midland.

Checking his app, he traced the route from Victoria Station: first a train to Preston, then onward to Carlisle, and finally to Glasgow. From there, the journey split—either wait until morning for the connecting train, or brave the overnight bus to Fort William. Neither option was ideal; both would get him closer to where he needed to be, his car, then home.

Sitting in Victoria Station, he sent a message and the photographs from the kebab shop to his messenger service, confirming the hit. While awaiting a reply, he drank coffee and watched a TV in the Café, the local cops running around like bees on Oxford Road.

While sitting on the overnight bus to Fort William, with three other passengers, two in front and one behind. He heard a noise. He knew exactly what it was.

Pop, he didn’t hear the second pop. The bus stopped at Tarbet. A small village on the banks of Loch Lomond, for a comfort break. The passenger sitting at the back, exited, got into a waiting car and was off down the A82 before anyone noticed Phillip slumped over in his seat.