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away.

TWO
Matram placed the binoculars back in the glove compartment of his Lexus RX300. A slow smile drifted across his face as he put the windows back up and turned on the air conditioning. So far the mission was playing out perfectly.
The murder was as beautifully engineered as the car he was sitting in.
It was just after six and the streets on the estate were empty. He had just watched Barry Legg walk out of his house and turn down the quiet road that stretched down past the local pub. It was a hot, steamy night – they were all hot and steamy this summer – and Legg looked slightly ridiculous wearing just shorts, dock shoes and a Liverpool FC football shirt: Steven Gerrard's, unless Matram was mistaken. Legg was alone, and apart from nodding to one man on the other side of the street, nobody seemed to have passed him on the way.
Matram checked his watch. Ten past six. Legg would be a few minutes early to watch his son.
Except he wasn't ever going to arrive.
'Target approaching,' he said into the hands-free mouthpiece he had hooked around his neck. 'Ready?'
'Affirmative,' replied Clipper.
The line was kept open. Matram watched as Legg rounded the corner. His pace was quickening as he stepped down from the main road on to the track that led towards the football pitches. Trench and Clipper started walking alongside him, Trench walking slightly ahead. As Matram watched them turn into the field, he took the car forward, turning the corner so he could keep them in sight. Both men were just ten yards away, out of sight of the houses.
'We're looking for the Fox & Hare,' he heard Trench say. 'Do you know which way?'
His tone was firm, noted Matram. Enough to stop a man and distract his attention, but not loud enough to provoke any suspicion. Good training.
'You've passed it,' said Legg. 'A hundred yards back down the lane. Turn right. You can't miss it.'
Matram rolled up his binoculars towards his eyes, and adjusted the focus. Legg was speaking to Trench, but his eyes were looking up towards Clipper. The man was standing with his legs a yard apart. His shoulders were rock steady, and his right arm twisted slightly forwards.
Legg's a military man, reflected Matram. Even a couple of years out of the army, he still recognised the position a man took up when he was about to shoot somebody.
'I've seen you before . . .' said Legg.
'Stand still,' barked Trench, pulling the Smith & Wesson Magnum Hunter pistol free from his jacket.
The Hunter had a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel, much longer than any normal pistol, giving the bullet extra velocity and impact: perfect for a job like this where speed and accuracy were a lot more important than trying to conceal a bulky weapon.
'. . . across the water,' said Legg.
Clipper also pulled his gun from his jacket. He fired first, then Trench, both men delivering two rounds of fire. Four bullets ripped into Legg's body, two blasting through his brain, two severing open his heart. He crumpled to the ground, dead.
Through his binoculars now, Marram watched the small trickle of blood seep out into pathway.
Trench walked towards the corpse. From his pocket, he took a packet of Pampers baby wipes, and cleaned the traces of blood away from the grass. He stowed the wipe back in his pocket, hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, then walked back towards the car. Matram was waiting for them, the engine already running, and the body was laid in the back of the vehicle.
Matram gunned up the Lexus, and pulled away. By nightfall, the body would have been safely disposed of. His wife would have called the local police in a panic, but it would be a couple of days at least before they showed any interest in what had happened to him. Guys disappeared all the time, and usually they turned up a few days later with a terrible hangover; if the police started chasing all of them they wouldn't have any time to fill in forms.
Matram smiled to himself. By then, all traces of the execution would have been eliminated. The