Have a word with yourself Sam, this is no time to be arsing around, especially mimicking Psycho. Not in the best taste.
He set the timer on the microwave, placed his meal on the turntable, closed the door and pressed the Start button. He gulped his water and then grabbed a beer from the fridge.
Leaving the kitchen, he headed back down the hallway to his study on the left, opposite the door to the living room. The study door was slightly ajar.
I’m sure I closed that bugger as well, he thought as he fully opened the door and entered. He sat down, opened the lid of his laptop, and powered it up.
While waiting the inordinate amount of time it took his laptop to boot his mind drifted back to his conversation with Mickey the night before. Having a ‘eureka’ moment, he grabbed the receiver of the phone on his desk and tapped a number with the chunky plastic keys, each making a satisfying click when struck.
‘Mick? How ya doing?’
‘Not bad mate, how’s you? Up for another pint or two?’
‘No, not tonight mate, sorry.’
The Windows logo sat defiantly on his screen. Refusing to move and let the rest of the operating system load. Sam continued.
‘Listen mate. You know what you were telling me last night in the pub? The stuff you probably shouldn’t have?’
‘What, the MOD servers?’
‘Yeah, but be careful what you say, eh mate?’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry, didn’t think. What about it?’
‘How close were you, exactly? In terms of time, how much longer would it have taken you?’
‘It’s hard to say, mate. I only stopped to go to the pub. Not really in the best state to try when I got home.’
‘I hear you there mate, I got a right bollocking for turning up with a hangover this morning.’
‘I bet you did. So what are you saying? You want me to have another crack?’
‘Please mate, I need anything you can find on Nathan Raynor or SCU8, that’s Sierra, Charlie, Uniform, Eight, or Special Covert Unit Eight.’
‘Got it. I’ll let you know when I find something.’
‘Thanks mate, I appreciate it.’
Sam ended the call. He looked at the screen as it turned black, the last stage before the login screen appeared. It was on that black screen that he saw the reflection of a figure entering the room.
Instinctively, Sam threw himself onto the floor in front of his chair just before the pop of a silenced handgun was heard, followed almost immediately by a crack and clunk as the bullet hit the laptop screen, passed through the flimsy workings and embedded itself in the wall.
Sam pushed his office chair with all the force he had in him. It sped across the wooden floor of the office and hit the intruder. Before the chair had stopped moving, Sam was on his feet, bounding the couple of steps through the office space. He planted a foot on the seat of his now stationary chair and, using it as a springboard, launched himself at his assailant.
They connected and flew across the hall, bursting through the doorway into the lounge where they landed heavily on the wooden floor, the gun sliding over the polished surface, ending up beneath a heavy oak bookcase.
At that moment it felt to Sam like time had stopped. Both he and his attacker appeared to realise in unison that the odds had just changed and this was now a test of ability.
Sam needed to get the advantage, he raised a clenched fist, ready to strike the man, but his opponent was quick to react, a knife-hand strike connecting with Sam’s neck. Sam lost balance, slightly stunned at the force the man managed to muster. He wasn’t in a position to beat his opponent. He needed to control the direction and flow of the fight, get himself into a position where he could get the upper hand. This was like a high speed game of chess, only with real people and lethal consequences. He had to take control, just like being in the ring.
But this wasn’t a tournament, no head-guard, or pads, no ring judges. No one would stop this bout if it got a bit dirty. Right here, right now, a battle ensued from which only one man would walk away.
Sam tried to regain his balance, he didn’t have the space to build enough power into any strikes while they were rolling on the floor, he had to get to his feet, but that would also give his assailant the same opportunities, at least it would be an even playing field.
As if the man sensed Sam’s intentions, he pushed Sam over and sprang, cat-like, to his feet. Shit, this bloke’s quick. Thought Sam. He started backing away from the hitman, but before he knew what was happening, a side kick connected with his abdomen and sent him flying back into the hallway. He landed heavily and immediately started to scramble his way, on all fours, up the hallway toward the kitchen, trying to get purchase on the floor, to propel himself back up onto two feet.
The other man stepped coolly into the hall. He followed Sam, calculating, taking in his surroundings, constantly assessing the situation. He was taken aback by Sam’s skill. He wasn’t used to targets fighting back. All it usually took was a single bullet, and he then disappeared into the night. But he was enjoying this. The fight. The hunt. The competition. To him this made a pleasant change. Unfortunately, he would have to end the game soon. His task was simple. Eliminate the man in the photo he'd been sent, the man he was now fighting, and get out.
Sam slammed the kitchen door shut and looked around for a weapon. He spotted it on the worktop, the utility knife he’d used only a few minutes ago to stab the lid of his microwave dinner.
He raced for the knife and the kitchen door opened as he grabbed the knife from the worktop. Sam faced his attacker, a balaclava over the man’s head leaving only his eyes visible. Sam was tempted to throw the knife, but his training told him that in close-quarter combat he was better off with a weapon in his hand. He didn’t have the required distance to make throwing effective, and it wasn’t well balanced, so its path would be unpredictable. And as it was only a kitchen utility knife, it wouldn’t be that effective anyway.
They faced-off, Sam in a traditional fighting stance, left foot forward, left arm lead, the knife in his right hand, guarded by the extension of his left. His opponent took a squarer almost horse-riding stance, feet wide, knees bent. They waited. Two well-trained martial artists, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Both men knew what was at stake, neither willing to be the first to make a mistake. One slip-up could result in a serious injury, or worse.
Beep! Beep! Beep! The microwave. The assassin was distracted for a split second, giving Sam the opening he needed. Sam made his move. He lunged, thrusting through with his right arm, forcing the knife toward his attacker.
The assassin was just too fast. He blocked Sam’s attack with his right forearm and crossed his left arm over his right, grabbing Sam’s back and sending him spinning. This was followed by a front kick to Sam’s sternum. Sam, once again found himself flying backwards, this time into a kitchen cabinet, the knife spinning through the air, landing out of reach. He managed to stay on his feet, but the pain of the previous strikes was starting to affect his ability. His attacker tried to follow up with a reverse punch.
Sam responded quickly, managing to dodge the strike, the fist missing him and connecting with the microwave door. The assassin let out a cry of pain as the glass in the door cracked. Sam ducked out of his attacker’s way and made his way toward the small dining area beyond the kitchen.
Need a weapon, he’s too good.
He backed up to the small, round breakfast table, stretching his hands behind him, frantically looking for something, anything he could use as a weapon. Nothing. He picked up a chair and launched it at the assassin, but it was easily dodged. Sam edged around the table, heading for the patio doors, but never turning his back to his attacker.