Arts
Synopsis They take his sister, attack his family and mean to kill him with extreme prejudice … What’s a guy to do? BIZZ is a greedy collusion of organised crime, banking, government, business, politicians and corrupted spooks. They’re making lot’s of money. They aim to stay invisible, and no one gets in their way. When investigative journalist, Eilidh Duncan, uncovers BIZZ … it’s only a matter of time When BIZZ finds Eilidh … uhh-ohh! When big brother, Sam Duncan, wonders why she’s offline … OMG! Sam goes to London and joins some dots … KABOOM! Excerpt Nearby, the executioner waited, patient and ready. He couldn’t kill the soldier in the pisser, not with publicity one of the goals. Tension-fuelled humour rippled in his gut. In a lavatory stall, air cut by a sharp scent of bleach, the target pulled out a Browning Hi Power. He jacked a round into the chamber and eased the safety-catch off. He stepped from the cubicle, ready. Empty space. He made a quizzical face at the mirror, eased the gun back into his holster and headed for the door. The urinals hissed to chase him away. No evidence, no clues, only inkling. Probably nothing, but he trusted his inner voice. Across the way, the assassin appeared to scratch his back, touching the grip of a concealed pistol. He didn’t care about the impact of his action on bystanders. Nightmares and trauma lay beyond his concern and taking someone out in public made for an exciting mission. He visualised the kill: up behind the victim; barrel close to the bump at the base of the skull; the shot; the drop of the body; the coup de grâce; and a swift exit. Imagining the escape, and excited camaraderie with the driver, gave the killer a fantastic rush. Tension became tense elation as the final trigger-pull neared. Another notch on the gun. He looked forward to the pub, in a few hours. A quiet meeting of recognition with the commander. Glowing eyes and handshakes. The powerful affirmation, adulation and whispered congratulations. Knowing glances and nods. He dissociated murder from the rest of his life; without doubt, a loving family man. The target reappeared, walking among the shoppers. His wide-shouldered, lean frame, dressed casually in jeans, a country shirt, tweed jacket and Chelsea boots blended in. Easy movement suggested strength and lithe athleticism. Curling dark brown hair blew about, ruffled by fingers of breeze. The sun brightened the world for a few seconds, only to hide once more behind surging clouds. O’Reilly left a shop window and followed walking briskly behind his quarry. Twenty metres, fifteen, ten ... The adrenaline flowed, yet his breathing stayed measured and movements precise. A car door slammed. Bus brakes squealed and hissed. Neither diverted his focus as he closed behind his victim. He raised his pistol. The sun came out. His toe stubbed on an uneven pavement slab deflecting his aim and affecting his balance. Worse, his silhouette betrayed him as it strode abreast of the mark. At an instinctive, professional level the prey understood the silhouette’s hand movement. The target faced the inevitable. Honed instincts and train