Mightier Than the Sword

All Rafferty had to decide now was how long the victim would be allowed to live. His only constraint being, he had to be at Heathrow in time to catch the early morning flight to Belfast. He checked his watch. He always enjoyed seeing that look on the victim’s face when they believed there still might be a chance of survival.

He returned to the taxi, unzipped Martinez’s bag, and counted the bundles of crisp five-pound notes. At least he’d told the truth about that, even if he was more than £226,000 short. He zipped the bag back up and locked it in the boot. After all, Martinez would no longer have any use for it.

The area commander’s orders were clear: once the job had been completed he was to leave the body in the warehouse and another operative would deal with its disposal. The only thing required of Rafferty was to make a phone call and deliver the message, “Package ready for collection.” After that, he was to drive to the airport and leave the taxi, and the money, on the top level of the long-term car park. Another operative would be responsible for collecting it and distributing the cash.

Rafferty returned to Don Pedro, whose eyes had never left him. If the chauffeur had been given the choice, he would have shot him in the stomach, then waited a few minutes until the screaming died down, before firing a second bullet into his groin. More screaming, probably louder, until he finally forced the gun into his mouth. He would stare into his victim’s eyes for several seconds and then, without warning, pull the trigger. But that would have meant three shots. One might go unnoticed, but three would undoubtedly attract attention in the middle of the night. So he would obey the area commander’s orders. One shot, and no screaming.

The chauffeur smiled at Don Pedro, who looked up hopefully, until he saw the gun heading toward his mouth.

“Open up,” said Rafferty, like a friendly dentist coaxing a reluctant child. One common factor among all his victims was the chattering teeth.

Martinez resisted, and swallowed one of his front teeth in the unequal struggle. Sweat began to pour down the fleshy folds of skin on his face. He was only made to wait a few more seconds before the trigger was pulled, but all he heard was the click of the hammer.

Some fainted, some just stared in disbelief, while others were violently sick when they realized they were still alive. Rafferty hated the ones who fainted. It meant he had to wait for them to fully recover before he could begin the whole process again. But Martinez obligingly remained wide awake.

When Rafferty extracted the gun, his idea of a blow job, the victims often smiled, imagining the worst was over. But as he spun the cylinder again, Don Pedro knew he was going to die. It was just a matter of when. Where and how had already been decided.

It always disappointed Rafferty when he succeeded with the first shot. His personal record was nine, but the average was around four or five. Not that he gave a damn about statistics. He thrust the barrel back into Martinez’s mouth, and took a step back. After all, he didn’t want to be covered in blood. The Argentinian was foolish enough to resist again, and lost another tooth for his trouble, a gold one. Rafferty pocketed it before he squeezed the trigger a second time, but was not rewarded with anything but another click. He pulled out the barrel in the hope of removing another tooth, well, half a tooth.

“Third time lucky,” said Rafferty as he thrust the muzzle back into Martinez’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Another failure. The chauffeur was becoming impatient and was now hoping that his morning’s work would be completed on the fourth attempt. He spun the cylinder a little more enthusiastically this time, but when he looked up, Martinez had fainted. Such a disappointment. He liked his victims to be wide awake when the bullet entered their brain. Although they only lived for another second, it was an experience he relished. He grabbed Martinez’s hair, forced open his mouth and pushed the barrel back inside. He was about the pull the trigger a fourth time, when the telephone in the corner of the room began to ring. The insistent metallic echo in the cold night air took Rafferty by surprise. He had never known the phone to ring before. In the past, he had used it only to dial a number and deliver a four-word message.

He reluctantly withdrew the muzzle of the gun from Martinez’s mouth, walked across to the phone, and picked it up. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“The mission has been aborted,” said a voice with a clipped, educated accent. “You won’t need to collect the second payment.”

A click, followed by a burr.