The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller (12 page)

“Are you going to be trouble Madame?”

“Abso-
bloody
-loutely!”

“I’m taking your car. It will be impounded. You will pay a fine and it will be crushed.”

“No, it really won’t be.”

“Yes, it really will.”

“No it won’t.”

“I promise you Madame. You will be going home on
le bus
.”

“Listen you jumped up little Napoleon. Get back on your bike and fuck off! I don’t have the time or inclination to listen to your petty threats. You are symptomatic of the causes of your failed state!”

“What failed state? France is not a Failed State!”

“I would say it’s very obvious. You are a backwards people and have been ever since your revolution.You don’t even have proper toilets, you do some have exceptional fashion houses I will grant you that but that’s Paris and has very little to do with the rest of your horse-eating, onion-wearing, pig-farmer
haw-he-haw-he-haw
nation!”

“
Madame
, get out of the car!” he said angrily.

“I bloody well will not! It’s cold.”

“I’m going to arrest you! Get out! Now!”

“The hell you are! I’m not being arrested by a dirty little Frenchman. It’s unthinkable!”

“You should have thought about that before you decided to do your impression of
Lewis Hamilton
on this road!”

“Look Pierre, what I suggest you do is get back on your little bike and piss off back to whatever croissant-outlet you came from. I’m going to Switzerland.”

“
Non Madame
! You are going to prison!”

“Listen you filthy beggar. Bugger off! This is your last warning!”

“My last
warning
? Who do you think you are to
warn
me!” the Gendarme told me incensed. 

“I don’t have time for this. Fuck off and don’t try and follow us, or there’ll be trouble,” I told him. 

With that I raised the window fired up the V12 and tore off down the road at full speed.  

Despite the excitement Nick surprisingly was still asleep. I got the Aston up to about one hundred and seventy on the clock and the blue lights became a small speck in the mirror. Unfortunately the rapid getaway was draining the Astons fuel tank faster than
Oliver Reed
at an open tab bar. With the services fast approaching and less than thirty miles showing on the Aston’s fuel computer it was unlikely I would make the next fuel stop with the remnants of the tank. With a substantial eighteen or so gallon tank the Aston’s drinking requirements were too great to do some sort of formula-one ten-second
splash and dash
so subterfuge was the only option. I judged the diminutive Gallic copper to be at least two miles behind me at this point so decided to kill the lights. On the unlit road he wouldn’t have enough range on his motorbike headlamp to see me and I quickly cut into the exit lane for the fuel services. 

The large carbon-ceramic brakes protested slightly as I scrubbed the speed from one hundred and seventy to forty miles per hour in the length of the run off before coming to a rapid stop in the fuel station forecourt. The brake discs glowing red ticked and hissing angrily in the cold night air. Quickly I got out and grabbed the fuel hose and began the lengthy process of refuelling the large tanks with super-unleaded. I watched the entry to the forecourt intently in case I needed to make a sudden getaway.  In the dark air even with the light of the forecourt the high-pitched whine of the motorbike and sirens could be heard flashing by on the nearby carriageway. Relieved my subterfuge had worked I relaxed a little.

I finished refuelling the car. It came to around one hundred and forty-five Euros, which was a problem since I didn’t have any Euros. Luckily I had something better than that. I had a gun that worked just like shopping magic - you point it at someone and you win free stuff.  Stopping to give the Aston’s windscreen a quick clean I headed into the forecourt shop, picked up a basket and filled it with snacks. 

Even with its prodigious thirst at such speeds the size of the tank meant the Aston could at least stretch another one hundred and eighty or more miles before needing to feast again, it therefore seemed wise to stock up since we were probably now fugitives in France. Nick was still asleep and oblivious to our newly found criminal status.

Having stocked up on drinks, crisps and chocolate I headed to the counter where a fat, morose, bald, French gentleman awaited. Although I had no intention of paying I figured if was going to commit the crime I would get some cigarettes for Nick and some Euros while I was at it. Given we were already on the local Gendarmes most wanted list I might as well go all out.

“Ten packs of Marlboro menthols,” I asked the Frenchman who obliged. 

He rang up the items and put them all in a bag for me which was polite given I had no intention of paying for services rendered but why bother with a smash and grab - set your own agenda I say.

“That is two-hundred and ninety seven Euros,” he told me.

“Gosh. Is it really?” I replied. “Well that’s a problem then isn’t it?”

“Why is that a problem?” he replied warily.

“Because I don’t have any Euros.” 

“You have Aston Martin sports car but you have no money?” he asked confused.

“It’s not technically a sports car. It’s more of a grand tourer. G.T. We’re on a
grand tour
. I have money…well honestly speaking I did have money but then this conman called Johnny…actually Roy, his real name is Roy, not that he would have got anywhere with me had I know he was called Roy…Roy stole it all. And now I’m going to get it back.”

“You have no money?”

“Technically? No, I don’t.”

“Then why did you buy all this shit?” he said annoyed realising he was going to have to put it all back again.

“I’m all for French liberty. So I just thought I would help myself like France does with the agricultural subsidy every year. Look on this as an EU rebate for the UK.”

“I don’t give a fuck about EU subsidy, you have to pay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless you want to do me a favour…” he suggested sleazily.

“Sorry my fat Gallic chum. I don’t do charity fucks.” I smiled apologetically. “And to fuck an obese Gallic troglodyte like you, I’d want more than a bloody OBE.”

“In that case you have a problem.”

“I don’t have any problem. Well apart from the Johnny thing but that will get resolved eventually.”

“I’m going to call the police. We will keep your car, when you pay you can have it back.”

“What is it with the bloody French and my car? You’re just a bunch of legalised carjackers! Bollocks to that!” I said at which point I produced my Beretta and shot the fat French fuck three times in the chest. 

He collapsed to the ground in shock. I was surprised he was still alive but it seems sixty-plus pounds of excess body lubber was a great defence against a nine millimetre hollow point. I walked round the counter and stepped over him.

“You alright down there Pierre?” I asked him.

“You bloody shot me!” he whimpered coughing up blood.

“Yes I did. Three times and by all normal measures you should be dead. Your poor choice of diet has led to an exceptional waste of bullets. In retrospect I should have shot you in the head but it’s a lesson learnt. You only figure these things out in the field.”

I pressed the till to open it and emptied the Euros into a carrier bag.

‘Don’t bleed or be sick on my Loubi’s” I told him. My suede Louboutin boots were pristine and I hadn’t had them scotch-guarded yet. By my estimate I managed to secure several thousand Euros from the till. “It’s been a pleasure frequenting your premises shopkeeper. But I must be off now. Things to do.”

“I need help! Call an ambulance!”

“Afraid an ambulance won’t do you much good my friend…you need a hearse.”

“Why?”

“You’re French. That’s about it really.”

I shot him in the head, which finally silenced him.

I ejected the security VHS tape out of the player from under the counter, collected my goods and departed the store returning to the waiting Aston where Nick was still sound asleep. Tucking the bag of cash and goodies into the foot-well I pressed the glowing red starter button and fired up the rehydrated V12 and made good my escape.

While my actions may have appeared to be brutal and cold-blooded, I can assure you my dear friends that there more to it than just a random act of life-ending violence. 

He was fat, French and ugly.

More justification to rid the world of such a useless waste of carbohydrate consuming DNA could scarcely be needed.

Chapter 10

AFTER THE
excitement of the fuel stop I reluctantly kept the speed of the Aston to a more sensible level principally to avoid catching up with the Gendarme who was somewhere ahead of us. While prone to shrieking like
Maria Callas
at an operatic convention, the Aston’s highly tuned V12 could be persuaded to purr softly if kept below three-thousand rpm - anything above which the exhaust bellows opened to release a full soundtrack of tenors, soprano’s and an accompanying concert orchestra. Thus I was content to bimble along at a mere hundred miles per hour in the hope of avoiding more law enforcement induced excitement. 

While my actions at the fuel stop may have seemed a frivolous and senseless slaughter of innocent life they did in fact serve a useful side purpose, at some point a Citroën wielding peasant would stop for a gallon or two of diesel, find the crime scene and summon whatever bumpkin cops they had on patrol to deal with this horrific outrage. Since it generated a much more critical investigation for the police than chasing after some dippy
tarte-anglaise
and her consort speeding about in their Aston it was a cunning ruse. 

I had not however counted upon the level of personal insult I had waged upon the Gendarme in question. Belatedly realising his error of passing me he had set up a roadblock at the tollbooth ahead. Penned in by the crash barriers I had little option other than to slap the anchors on and perform a handbrake induced J-turn then retreat against the traffic flow back in the opposite direction.

Being around three a.m the traffic was incredibly light but also mostly comprised of half-asleep or half-drunk French country yokels who were ill-prepared for an Aston DBS blistering towards them at one hundred and thirty plus miles per hour. I flashed the LED tipped double-xenon headlights at them suggesting they should get out of the way but like a rabbit frozen in the lights they seemed to plough on oblivious and it was left to me to swerve between them. The Gendarme was giving chase on the correct side of the carriageway. With my speed vastly reduced to one hundred miles per hour as I weaved between the oncoming traffic he was able to keep pace with me followed by what I presumed was a gaggle of Citroën patrol cars.

 Since we were now heading straight back towards Calais this wasn’t really going according to plan. In retrospect I would have saved a lot of aggravation if I had shot the idiot gallic copper when he first stopped me.

 Aware I needed to get some road-space between myself and the pursuit team I spotted my opportunity when a gap in the metal central reservation barriers approached lined with cones. I quickly swerved into the gap sending the cones flying - hopefully not bruising the poor Astons nose too badly then managed to get onto the right side of the carriageway where I unleashed the full fury of the five hundred or more horses and watched as the Aston’s needle climbed around to the one hundred and eighty mark leaving the chasers far behind.

Having pulled out a sufficient gap I was acutely aware we were now going in the wrong direction, which would be difficult to explain to Nick when he eventually woke up. Spotting a sign for a turn off I decided to resort to more extreme measures to end this cat and mouse chase that would probably have continued the entire night. As the slip road approached I repeated my lights off stealth-mode hoping they would fall for it a second time and shot up to the top of the junction exit road. 

I barely slowed down for the junction at the top since I had to make every second count and pushed the Aston into a wide power-slide left catching the tail with a swirl of opposite lock and power before I ran out of road and ended up in the banking below. I then accelerated onto the bridge over the carriageway and came to an abrupt stop leaving the engine running as I jumped out. 

Quickly I ran round to the boot and popped it, opened the gun safe and extracted a high powered MP5 and spare magazines then dashed across to the railing over the carriageway where the flashing orange and blue French police lights were now approaching on the horizon. I cocked the MP5 then put it in full auto-mode and waited.

As my French police nemesis on his motorbike appeared I gave careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The MP5 erupted angrily spitting bullets into the dark. Sparks flew off the front of the bike as the rounds found their mark, realising I was firing low I aimed higher and the bullets ripped into his chest. He swerved trying to avoid the hail of deadly fire and in doing so the bike fell from under him sending him skidding down the tarmac two hundred meters before his bike exploded into a fireball. 

The three Citroën’s from the roadblock were now approaching across all three lanes of the carriageway. As they approached I let rip across their windscreens with a hail of deadly fire, they swerved to avoid the fire and bounced off each other. The right most car veered off into the bank, the left most crashed into the central barrier before pirouetting out of control and coming to a stop while the centre car kept going before swerving as it hit the oil-trail left by the motorcycle.

I quickly changed magazines and opened fire again bringing the final central car to a halt. With its windscreen completely peppered with bullet holes it ran over the body of the stricken motorcyclist with a sickening thud before it smashed into the remnants of the bike carnage. 

I let go of the trigger. The barrel smoke curled gently into the crisp night air as I waited for survivors to appear. A passenger of the first patrol car pushed his door open and staggered out clutching his neck. I took aim and let him have it with a short burst of five rounds to the chest. Since he was wearing body armour it had little effect other than to wind him so I took aim down the Swarovski scope, turned on the laser pointer, took careful aim at his head and one-shotted him between the eyes. Satisfied there were no more target opportunities I returned to the Aston stowed the MP5 back in the safe and locked it.