The Biter Bit – a nasty story about nasty people

The Biter Bit

The Walther PPK is without doubt one of the best semi-automatic pistols in the world. First introduced in 1931 it is still in service with the British and American military and Hitler used one to commit suicide. You can’t get a better recommendation than that. But that had nothing do with why I was using one. In my trade you get to use what is available. What was available was chambered for .22 long rifle and was tucked under my belt in the cross draw position. Don’t ever be tempted to use a holster. If a “pull” by the authorities is on the cards you can lose a pistol in the blink of an eye. Explaining away an empty holster is an entirely different ball game. I was stashed in the Bus Shelter about fifty yards from the Target’s terraced but no doubt incredibly expensive Chelsea home. Plenty of different buses used this stop so it wouldn’t seem suspicious if I let them come and go. And there she was, right on time, paying off the Taxi outside her house. Man, woman, boy, girl, it makes no difference to me. They are all just targets. As she opened the gate I was closing the distance, weapon out and down by my leg, Safety off. Up the path and I was behind her. I said “Eh… excuse me…” and she turned, an enquiring expression on her face. Weapon up, about a foot from her right eye. Trigger squeeze. The round entered through her eye socket but didn’t have the power to exit her skull so it just tumbled around inside messing things up. She gave a little cry of surprise, her arms flew out horizontally and she went over backwards. Then it was just an empty shell crumpled on the door step, its single eye glaring stonily past me as I bent to retrieve the ejected cartridge case. Back down the path, looking as if I belonged there, out of the gate and towards the Bus Stop. Walk don’t run. Don’t suppose there is a bus coming. No such luck. Walk on, heart beat coming down, sweat drying. As I walked I field stripped the PPK and dropped the parts into various drains, then pulled off and dumped the surgical gloves into a convenient wheelie bin. A bus at last. I made the Stop, boarded and took a seat near the doors. Off and clear.

I was staying at the Tower Hotel, just by Tower Bridge. I could have hopped straight back on the Eurostar and been home for supper but, with such a high profile Target, they would be watching all the exit points. I am pretty much a “clean skin” so it is unlikely that I would have pinged anyone’s Radar but you never know, better to stay in place for a few days. Besides, I haven’t visited the Tate Gallery for a while and when I knew I was coming to London I thought that I might take the opportunity. Kill two birds with one stone as it were. After an early dinner in the hotel’s carvery, where I allowed myself one glass of wine, I strolled through the arch under Tower Bridge approach onto the cobbled walkway called Tower Quay that runs between the Tower of London and the River Thames. I remembered those cobbles. Two years previously I had run over them on the London Marathon. I found a bench that hadn’t been appropriated by tourists and sat looking at the muddy brown river while I fished out my notebook PC and plugged in the Dongle. There was a message in my inbox from the Client. Could I do a Secondary Target while I was in London? Now the money is always useful and the Client is not someone you say “No” to lightly so I sent an affirmative. Normally, after a job, the shooter has to be a bit careful because it is obvious to all parties that he is the direct link between the client and the target and therefore the weakest link. In this case it appeared that the Client had no such concerns. Now I needed a new weapon so I composed a message to my contact. I have known Grim, so called because he tells everyone who will listen that he comes from Grimsby, off and on for years, ever since we were in the Legion’s Deuxieme REP together. He makes a good living as a contractor for a “face” called Icer who runs one of the West London mobs. He does what are known as “Suicide Runs”, couriering high value cargos, like large packets of white powder, around the country. He is also a procurer/armourer. If you want it he can get it – for a price.

Next day I went for my morning run through St Katherine’s Dock and out on to The Highway. I picked up the Jiffy Bag containing the new weapon at the prearranged Dead Drop near the big Tesco Supermarket, then circled back to the hotel for breakfast. It was one of the Smith and Wesson Airweight models, a .38 revolver with a two inch barrel. By virtue of its construction it would be noisier than the PPK but most civilians won’t recognise a single gunshot and I could work round that. The Secondary Target details were sitting in a draft email in a Hotmail account which I accessed and then deleted. I was ready to rock.

So here we are. The Secondary Target lives in a swish apartment block in a leafy London suburb. I work magic on the exterior door with my Swiss Army knife – easy when you know how – and we’re in. The lobby reminds me of an Agatha Christie play, all dark wood panelling and strategically placed lamps. Up the thickly carpeted stairs to the Secondary’s flat. He’s security conscious and his lock takes a bit longer. Inside there’s a nicely placed arm chair to wait in – a bit like James Bond in DR NO except that I don’t play Patience and my weapon is going to stay where it is supposed to be – in my hand. Click of the lock as the Secondary comes in carrying a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. Weapon up to dominate him but he doesn’t look dominated he just looks angry and he’s coming very fast, throwing the carrier bag as a distraction. Nice Isosceles shooting stance, two handed grip and weapon at eye level. Squeeze. In the last glare of comprehension before oblivion I wonder how much Grim was paid to doctor the weapon so that it exploded in my face. The Client must have had concerns after all.

The End