I stare down at the target with cold detachment as a halo of blood pools around the fucker’s head.

I raise the gun and fire again—the sound of the shot a whisper within the marble bathroom.

I step away from the body before blood reaches my hand made Silvano Sassetti shoes. I remove the suppressor and place it with the Glock in my single-breasted slim-fit Armani overcoat. The metal still warm against my broad chest, like a new-born kitten, snuggled in the inside pocket.

I stride out of the vast en-suite bathroom, bigger than most people’s fucking living rooms, and into the plush big arse master bedroom. I pause to cast an eye over the expensive décor and admire myself in the Louis IV mirror—handsome fucker—before leaving through the servants’ entrance.

In my esteemed career, I’ve made enemies, but am always one step ahead.

I’m the best “contractor” (we never say killer or assassin) in the business. I’m not being a dick or anything, just stating the facts.

I get into my rental car and drive straight to Miami airport, where I enjoy first class all the way home to London.

My dad, an alcoholic, took pleasure in beating my mum and me every chance he got when pissed, which was most days. He was a good-for-nothing layabout cunt who just sat in his own piss watching telly all day.


The night before my 13th birthday, I’d had enough. I waited for him on the landing of our council house in Dagenham.

I hid in the shadows, pressing my skinny frame against the slick, mould-coated landing wall.

He came out of the bedroom, staggering towards the tiny bathroom, his bloated belly hanging over his stained boxer shorts. I stepped out of the shadows and faced him.

“What the fuck are you doing here, you little shit?” he slurred.

I replied by shoving him down the stairs. The cunt bounced like a big fat ball and snapped his neck on the bottom step, like some fucking hanged man.

The verdict was accidental death, but mum knew it was me, although we never talked about it.

I got a taste for killing after that.

I joined the army so I could get paid to do what I loved doing. I was never any good at anything else as I was shit at school. I was a natural and the military cultivated and honed my skills as a cold-blooded killer.

It wasn’t long until I was snapped up by a shady part of the military and they showed me even more skills that I could use to deadly effect.

I gained a lot of experience doing “wet work” in all manner of shitholes of the world. You name them and I’ve probably killed someone there.

I discovered that I could make a lot more money doing this kind of work myself and after five years of killing for queen and country, I left the military to go it alone.


I put myself out there and killed for huge amounts of money. I don’t kill women or children—I’m not a fucking monster, you know—but anyone else is game.

With all this money, I gained the trappings of success; cars, clothes, pussy, houses, and jewellery. Not bad for a little shit from Dagenham.

I get back to my pad in Belgravia, a nice five bed gaff with huge through longue and fuck off chandeliers—the full works! I even have a swimming pool in the basement that I use every morning to keep myself fit and trim. I decided a long time ago: only the best for me.

Although I’m tired, my mind is racing like some fucker on a diet of Charlie, Whizz, and Red Bull and I know it’ll take hours to come down from this high.

I step into my double shower cubicle with its rainforest feature, using Dior Homme shower gel from Harrods, enjoying the powerful jets of hot water that rain down upon my chiselled face and body.

I splash on Channel Allure cologne before putting on a regular fit dark Hugo Boss suit, over a Hawes and Curtis slim fit white Egyptian cotton shirt-no tie. I leave the first two buttons undone to reveal a tantalising glimpse of tanned skin, and then I’m ready.

I stare at myself in the full length mirror, in my huge bedroom that looks like some poncy hotel suite in Rome that I once stayed in. I smile at the reflection: handsome bastard.

I leave the house to walk the one block to the bar that I love going to to celebrate the conclusion of a job. The second half of the payment will be in my Swiss bank account by now as I have informed my client that the job is done.


The early summer evening is rather pleasant for London, temperature just right, with a light breeze caressing my dark hair. I take a shortcut down an alleyway, looking ahead to having my first beer and getting lucky with a fancy tart.


I turn to face some skirt with spiky blonde hair. That’s the second thing I notice. The first is that I’m on the business end of a Glock, its black eye blindly staring up at me like some fucking metal cock.