So many stories careering through my head today.

Another night of waking at 03.00 am. Wide awake, mind racing, all these stories clamouring for attention. Like buses, none for ages then a fleet of the things arrive at once, my errant muse has a long history of inconvenience.  I can sit at my laptop in daylight hours without a sniff of  an idea, but I’m prolific in the hours normally reserved for sleep. So, I did what I usually do, scribble away like a man possessed, not really concerning myself with quality at this stage, just getting it all down.

The rest of the day I fiddle about with it. Tinkering. Is any of it going to be useful?  Could it form part of a project already under way or is it a completely fresh idea? Last night’s musings gave me two new directions for a partly-written book, but I’m leaning towards developing a new story-line, probably in a different book. So many different strands now – here’s the two that surfaced in the early hours. They may survive and become part of a new book, they may not. Who knows what 03.00 am will bring tomorrow?

The man with no name sat back in a padded chair, relaxed and at ease, reading a lengthy newspaper article. The bare hotel room was bland, carefully chosen to match his personality while he was on a job. He’d travelled a long way and knew that the man who’d hired him would be in touch at the appointed time.

Precisely.

He glanced incuriously at the digital clock at the side of the carefully made bed. Fifteen seconds to the hour. He moved slightly closer to the telephone and as he reached out a hand the ‘phone rang. He was smiling as he answered with a single word. “Yes.” Punctuality was a good sign, but he’d expected nothing less from this client. He listened in silence for two minutes, making no notes.

“My name?” he said as the monologue came to an end. He glanced at the discarded newspaper on the bed and in particular at the article he’d just finished reading.

“Call me Indra,” he said. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line and smiled. The client was a man whom he would never meet, but it pleased him to know he was dealing with a man of intelligence. “That’s right,” he said. “The Hindu god of war. It’s as good a name as any.” It was possible that the client had merely read the same article as himself, but even if that were the case it demonstrated an ability to retain information. That talent was a prerequisite of knowledge and the surest guide to any viable measurement of intelligence.

It was always a bonus to work for intelligent clients. They were far less likely to cheat the hired help. The difference between a common thug and an intelligent man was that the intelligent client would know that cheating a man such as himself was tantamount to a death sentence.

He replaced the receiver and began to collect his belongings. He didn’t own much and even among the few items he did own there were none that he couldn’t walk away from without a moment’s regret.

He had money, rather a lot of money, but was not even remotely concerned with money. He had enough for his needs. He lived well, ate well and dressed well, sparing no expense, but he could manage perfectly without any of the trappings of wealth. It was important to him that he owned nothing that he would miss if it were no longer available.

The same maxim also extended to personal relationships. He had no family, no friends, and no lovers. He had never allowed another person into his life. Other people were a tie and an attachment and he had no need of either. Everything in his life was disposable, to be discarded when necessary.

The only object that really mattered today had been waiting for him at reception when he’d checked in. He took it out of the padded envelope and examined it carefully. The .22 calibre Colt Woodsman had been derided by some as a ladies gun with no stopping power, but in his opinion it was the perfect weapon. Easy to carry, and conceal where necessary it had never let him down. He routinely specified a matching silencer and always self-loaded his ammunition. The gun lacked stopping power, that was true, but in his hands this was a virtue. He wasn’t looking to knock down a charging buffalo after all.

When he touched the barrel to a human head and pressed the trigger it was game over. More powerful handguns were far more accurate, but gunshot victims had been known to survive even a head shot from a magnum cartridge. A bullet could pass straight through a skull and leave the victim alive. Not in good shape, but alive. With the Colt that option wouldn’t be possible. When the bullet left the barrel it passed through the skull, but lacked the power to blow out an exit hole. With a surgeon’s skill, he’d calculated the exact charge needed for his ammunition. The bullet may not have had the power to break out of the skull again, but it rattled around inside, turning everything it touched into mush. Job done. Nobody could take a direct head shot from a .22 and live to tell the tale.

Indra put the weapon inside a shabby leather briefcase and collected his loose change from the bedside table. He was ready to go to work and now that he had the details of the job he was keen to get started. This eagerness had never deserted him and was a major factor in his long record of success.

He was very good at his job. In fact, he was a lot better than that; he was the best. Being the best took dedication and the elimination of distractions and unnecessary attachments. He had the details he’d asked for, he had the weapon he’d specified and he was ready for the next stage: finding the target and killing him in a violent means of his own choosing.

Becoming a soldier was easy. It took hard work and the ability to follow orders.

Blind obedience.

Moving up, the requirements were more exacting. There had to be a spark, a suggestion of leadership potential, but the best and the brightest recruits could be fast-tracked through the ranks at a pace that mocked the career structure of a conventional business. Team Leaders got to meet the boss on a regular basis and the financial rewards were enormous. The big money on offer had to be earned and Spider demanded blood and sweat in equal measure, but it was not unusual for a Team Leader to have a BMW 6 series with tinted windows on order well before the time they were old enough to take a driving test.

The auditions had been Spider’s idea. The final barrier to Team Leader status was a procedure he handled personally. The young man sitting in the passenger seat was shivering with suppressed excitement as Spider swung the big car down the exit ramp. The long motorway journey had passed in silence, but the tension hung in the air as the appointed audition grew ever closer.

The traffic on the North Circular was as bad as ever and Spider made the decision to travel elsewhere in the country on the occasion of the next audition. He preferred the anonymity of London, but the traffic was a pain in the arse and he’d consider other options. Bristol perhaps? Or Glasgow? The only essential requirement would be that the chosen venue was a long way removed from his home base.

Spider turned left and within a few minutes the traffic eased. The suburbs attracted less attention than the inner city areas and he’d planned today’s destination with characteristic attention to detail. He accelerated past a dawdling motorist, enjoying the sensation of power as the big car surged forward.

Spider glanced in the rear mirror as the speed camera flashed and recorded his details. The car was a Volvo estate. Less than a year old, roomy and powerful with the best seats in the industry. The original owner had kitted it out with a host of extras, but wouldn’t have recognised it now if it sailed past him on the motorway. The colour was different for a start and the registration number was an exact duplicate of a similar car parked in an underground garage in Aberdeen. The Scotsman wouldn’t appreciate the arrival of a fixed-penalty notice on his doormat in a week or two. He may even be able to prove that he’d been three hundred miles away on the day of the offence, but the chances were that he’d have to pay up in the end.

Spider wasn’t concerned. He’d only keep the car for a couple of weeks and then move it on. Eastern Europe or the Gulf were the most likely destination. The big German motors, Mercs, Beemers and Audis, were always in demand, but Spider had a soft spot for the Volvo, he couldn’t fault them for comfort and they were so much less ostentatious than the more prestigious marques.

The occasional speed camera was no more than an irritant, but Britain is the most spied-upon country in the Western world and careful planning was needed from this point in particular. Automatic number plate recognition, or ANPR, recorded the registration details of every vehicle on just about every main road in the country. The data, over thirty five million records every 24 hours, was retained by the police on a central database and could track the progress of a specific vehicle with awesome accuracy.

Spider took every precaution to ensure that any vehicle he used would never be traced back to himself, but vehicle recognition was only part of the threat to his safety. Closed circuit television cameras covered all built-up areas and the technology was improving all the time. Face-recognition software was widely available and Spider had drilled into his troops that the omnipresent cameras could pick a face out of a crowd and cross-reference the digital image to data collected by a different camera which had revealed a crime in progress.

As the traffic died away and the houses on the tree-lined avenues became more affluent, Spider sat forward in his seat, concentrating fiercely. The end of  their long journey was imminent and he could sense waves of excitement and expectation emanating from the youth next to him. Spider eased to a halt under the shade of a mature plain tree and looked carefully at his surroundings. The houses were set back from the road, each with a well-tended garden and broad expanse of drive. He scanned the street lights for CCTV cameras, but saw nothing to arouse concern. A single pedestrian was walking towards the car on the other side of the road and as the figure drew closer Spider looked directly at the youth seated next to him.

“Problem?”

The youth shook his head. The figure drew closer, no more than fifty yards away now. A woman leading a small brown dog on a leather lead. The woman was in her early thirties, well-groomed and attractive. A resident, judging by the expensive clothes and her high-heeled shoes were not exactly ideal for lengthy walks.

Spider opened the glove box and removed a JVC camcorder. He checked the battery levels and focussed on a tree further along the road. He grunted in satisfaction and nodded to the youth who immediately climbed out of the car and walked towards the woman and her dog. She had been fiddling with the dog’s lead, unravelling a piece of string that had entwined itself in the jewelled collar and rose again as the youth approached. Spider zoomed in on her face and discerned no signs of concern, only a willingness to assist the young man who she presumed to be in need of directions.

The youth walked right up to her, his calm attitude still attracting no semblance of fear in the woman, and as she spoke to him, he looked back at the watching Spider and smiled. Spider recorded the exact moment when the woman saw the knife for the first time and the expression on her face changed to naked terror. The first stroke was clumsy – the impetuosity of youth – but each succeeding slash with the broad blade found its mark. When the woman sank to the ground, her ravaged face was unrecognisable. Spider nodded when the youth looked round once again and through the viewfinder watched as he reversed his grip on the knife and buried the blade to the hilt in the woman’s chest. He stabbed her twice more before rising to his feet and walking slowly back to the waiting car.

Spider flicked the dashboard button to open the boot and heard the weapon drop onto the plastic sheet lining the interior. He switched off the camcorder and replaced it in the glove box. The assassin opened the passenger door and climbed inside. Spider waited for him to fasten his seat belt before pulling smoothly away. Failure to fasten a seatbelt was a criminal offence.