The Hitman's Death - An Alex Dorring Thriller by Vince Vogel

Author:Vince Vogel [Vogel, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-06T22:00:00+00:00

34

Alex arrived at the rendezvous to find Philip Foster wearing a grave face. It was a parking lot on the edge of New York City, deserted except for the single car belonging to the MI6 man. He was standing outside it and his lips curled the moment he saw the battered Bentley drive up.

It stopped and Alex got out, meeting his former handler in between the two vehicles. Foster’s eyes narrowed when he saw the outline of the family sitting on the back seat of the Bentley.

“Why?” he immediately said.

“Because I couldn’t let them die.”

“Your mission was to get in and out without being seen. Not to cause a mountain of shit!”

“Look!” Alex snapped. “If I’m doing this, then I need to do it my way.”

“But your way may have got us found out!” Foster cried into the empty parking lot.

“Then tech need to work quickly.”

Alex produced the chip from a pocket and handed it to Foster. The MI6 man took it, turned back to his car and whistled. A skinny, young man dressed in a parka coat and resembling a mole came scuttling out of the passenger side.

“Here it is, Jackson,” Foster said to the man.

The eyes squinted behind Jackson’s thick-lensed glasses as he took the chip and gazed at it. Foster’s expression became incredulous.

“Are you going to just stand there and admire it?” he snapped at Jackson, the latter’s beady eyes glancing up. “Or are you going to use it to get into the GRU?”

“Sorry, sir,” Jackson said before scuttling back to the car.

Foster watched him get into the passenger seat and begin placing the chip in his own laptop. Once he was sure the tech man was getting to work, he turned back to Alex.

He said, “I’ll have to give you our car and get someone to pick us up and take that battered Bentley away.”

“The family need to see someone. They’re in shock.”

“Well I’m not taking them to a bloody hospital, if that’s what you think.”

“But you can have someone take a look at them, can’t you?”

Foster groaned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Getting his phone out, he made a call. Alex got the impression he was speaking to someone in the FBI.

“I need to get rid of a car,” Foster said. “And I need a ride, too.”

The MI6 man listened to the voice on the other end, nodding along before ending the call.

“You’re lucky we have friends here,” he said to Alex while going through something on his phone.

Alex’s own phone buzzed and he picked it from his pocket to see. It was a message sent by Foster. He opened it and found a file containing pictures. All of them were of a young Thai male: outlandish clothing of bright colors, a haircut resembling a piece of modern art, and a supercilious look engrained on his face from years of being spoiled by privilege.

“That’s A-Wut,” Foster said. “His father is high up in Thailand’s military. Which, in a country run by a military junta, is as high as you can go without being king.

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