Fit For Purpose Julian Parrott (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

the journalist at her Ditchling cottage if the Irish newspaper sent some information on their journalist. MI5 had thought it safer for Daria and the local civilian populations if the Russian could be contained in an area where there wouldn’t be any chance of collateral damage. Within minutes of her agent’s call, Daria received an email with a short biography, links to some online pieces, and a photo of the journalist. She was petite, pretty, with long red hair.

At Thames House, the DD was alerted to the email.

“Right, Patel,” she said. “Looks like we’re a go. Alert the onsite team.”

Patel nodded and took notes on her tablet.

“Also trace the incoming information from the newspaper, they obviously have a bad actor in their midst aiding and abetting our little ginger assassin.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was dusk when the first MI5 agent at one of the Ditchling observation posts radioed an alert about a suspicious vehicle. Its make, colour and number plate didn’t match any of the local cars and didn’t match any of the visiting vehicles that had recently been through the village and the subsequent vetting. Several pairs of MI5 eyes were on the vehicle, a grey Ford Focus, as it drove past Daria’s cottage. It didn’t slow suspiciously but the MI5 watchers noticed that both the driver and passenger observed the little house intently as they drove by. Photographs of car and occupants were taken by hi-resolution optics and sent to Thames House for analysis.

“We’ve got movement behind the cottage,” a voice came over the radio. Through binoculars the MI5 agent on observation duty at the rear of Daria’s house had spotted a couple of figures taking up tactical positions in the meadow behind Daria’s house. The security service had planned for such an eventuality and moved an outlying team into position behind the two men they now considered active Russian agents.

“Two cars stopping, adjacent street,” another voice came over the secure communication system, surprisingly calmly. “Look like Audi Q5s, black.”

The DD listened into the conversations and observed movements in Ditchling through real-time hi-def video from an operations centre in the bowels of Thames House. Patel sat next to her.

“Two people leaving the first car,” the radio voice continued. “Visual confirmation: petite, redhead. Repeat: petite redhead. Accompanied by unidentified male carrying large camera bag, probably a gun bag.”

Patel’s fingers flew across her keyboard pulling up a still photo of the Russian with the bag and cross-referencing it against faces in MI5’s extensive database.

“Got an ID, ma’am,” she said excitedly. “One of the Holyhead Russians.”

“This is all coming together, isn’t it?” the DD asked rhetorically. “Shit. Alert the team. Weapons hot.”

The DD passed on that information to the agent in charge.

As the redhead and her faux cameraman approached Daria’s cottage, MI5 vehicles slowly and quietly moved into place blocking all the entry and exit roads into the little village. Effectively locking down Ditchling.

The Russian agent with the camera bag dropped back allowing the redhead to get a house length in front of him. He slowed and knelt and opened the bag and he appeared to be rummaging around in it. In the body of the bag, the agent chambered a round in the small Skorpian machine pistol and moved the safety catch to off. He nodded to the redhead. The assassin approached Daria’s front door and knocked loudly. She moved her hand into a deep coat pocket and flipped the safety catch of her Walther PPK/S to off.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Daria shouted from inside the house. “Can you come round the back?”

The redhead tentatively tried the door handle, locked, and then stepped back from the door. She thought for a moment, assessing her options. Then, she gestured with her head for the camara bag agent to follow her and moved to the side of the house. She made her way slowly around to the back of the cottage. There, she noticed Daria’s motorbike, and smiled. So, the Russian bitch was indeed in, she thought. She tried the back door, again locked. She knocked.

“Just a moment,” Daria shouted from inside and she was instantly pulled upstairs by the MI5 agents.

The redhead stood outside the door for a moment and then stepped back. In one fluid movement, she pulled her gun out of her coat and kicked at the door. The door lock splintered, and she moved quickly and smoothly into the kitchen, pistol at the ready. Her adrenalin flowed and she was on heightened alert to any movement but what she saw as she entered the kitchen was unexpected. She hesitated a moment before she raised her gun towards one of the two figures that greeted her in black combat fatigues. Her eyes widened, mouth opened, and her breath paused, she dove to her right, firing and hitting one of the dark figures low in the chest. She hit the kitchen floor hard and attempted to roll while bringing her gun up to sight on the other figure in black fatigues. A red pinprick of a laser sight jostled on her rolling body until it momentarily settled on her forehead. The bullet that followed killed her before she could pull her own trigger a second time.

The MI5 shooter went over to the red-headed assassin’s body and kicked the Walther out of the prostrate woman’s reach. It was just procedure; the shooter knew his round had killed her instantly. Once satisfied that the red-headed assassin would kill no more, the MI5 agent radioed that the assassin was down and dead. He then went to his colleague who was sitting up a little uncomfortably rubbing a spot below his left ribs.

“Shit,” he said. “She was bloody fast. I’ve never been shot before.”

“Good thing she went for a torso shot,” the standing shooter replied with a smile. “Your vest saved you.” He put out an arm to help his slightly embarrassed colleague