Gone to Ground

The trail had gone cold. All his recent efforts to trace the target had come to nothing.

He’d fully expected to have completed the assignment by now. The difficult part, tracing a man who didn’t want to be found and with the resources of a Witness Protection Programme behind him, had proved well within his compass in the past. If the rewards were sufficiently tempting, there was always someone willing to talk. Usually a cop.

Cops like to see scumbags put away, not rewarded with a new identity and a comfortable future life.

Nobody in the small market town where the target had buried himself for two years had any idea that a notorious criminal was living quietly among them.

The target had disappeared.

Just walked away.

Told no one where he was going.

The man with no name didn’t know where his target had gone, but he knew why he’d gone.

Boredom.

Simple as that.

He’d visited the target’s adopted hometown. Putting himself in the target’s shoes.  Walked the boring narrow streets. Seen the terraced house where he’d lived. The dismal industrial estate where he’d worked.

The target was a big city boy. Bright lights. Action. Plenty of money in his pocket, and, most importantly of all, he’d been someone. A man to be reckoned with. A player. Now, he was stuck in a boring little town, in a boring little house and a boring little job. No wonder he’d made a break for freedom.

The man with no name was a specialist in his field. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest what he did for a living. He looked completely unremarkable in every way and prided himself on his anonymity. His features were regular, not conventionally handsome but certainly not unpleasing to the eye. His hair was brown, medium length. No distinguishing features. He was of middling height and medium build; everything about him was average. He took great pains to keep it that way.

His carefully presented appearance made him invisible.

Instantly forgettable.

He had no family. No close friends. Indeed, no friends at all. He didn’t need the support of any social group. His solitary nature kept him strong. Having other people in your life, caring for others, were evidence of weakness and weakness made people vulnerable. A weakness he’d exploited many times.

His needs were entirely selfish and easily satisfied by money. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was thirsty, he drank. When he needed sex, he sought out a woman. It didn’t bother him to pay for a woman. Sexual need was a basic commodity, easily satisfied in any country on Earth. He paid top price and expected the best. He’d never see the woman again, no matter how skilled her efforts to please him.

The man with no name had known from the outset that this would be a difficult job. He’d set the price high to reflect that difficulty. But he’d never allowed the prospect of failure to enter the equation. The target was a man of some importance. He’d given up some major underworld figures, provided evidence to ensure that a large number of men who’d previously been considered as untouchable were now slopping out in high security prisons.

Budgetary considerations would not apply. Not for a witness who had put so many of his previous comrades away.

The new identity and new life weren’t a problem. The man without a name had traced witnesses who’d thought themselves safe before. Successful operations and satisfied clients in every case.

If the target had made a break for it, certain facts were not in dispute. He would have funds at his disposal, probably dating from the time before his arrest. He would return to the life he knew best. And, he would change his appearance. He may have been bored; it didn’t mean he was stupid.

The man without a name knew where to start looking. The target’s first consideration would be to change his appearance. He’d have lost or gained weight, changed the style of his hair, worn different clothes, but none of these changes would be enough if he wanted to return to the old life. The target would need plastic surgery. A lot of plastic surgery. That would leave a trail.

The man without a name sat on a hard bench in a boring little pub in the boring little town and thought through his next step. If he felt a tinge of regret at the target’s inconvenient disappearance, he didn’t show it. He always enjoyed the difficult assignments best.

All his jobs amounted to the same thing in the end: a man or a woman had to die. Some targets were more important than others. Some targets were better guarded. Some even considered themselves to be invincible.

They were wrong.

No one could make himself or herself impregnable. Anyone could be killed. Means and opportunity. That was all it took. Which was the area in which his special talents proved so valuable to his clients. He alone had the track record to carry out the assignments deemed to be impossible. He alone could strip away the detail until only the solution was left behind. A solution that required only the right man to carry it out. A man without conscience, prepared to suffer any pain, any discomfort, to carry out his plan. A man utterly dedicated to his work.

It wasn’t necessary to enjoy the act of killing another human being.

That was a bonus.