Kim & The Hitman

By Sandie Baldry

Get ready for a heart-pounding, adrenaline-fueled ride in Kim's world, where unexpected twists and turns will keep you on the edge of your seat

 

Kim is robbed of her voice, forced to communicate by tapping keys. But the digital barrier she now faces seems minor compared to the monumental challenge ahead. No one takes notice of the girl who thrives on attention, casting doubt on her credibility when she needs it most. Yet, undeterred by scepticism, Kim embarks on a race against time fueled by her unwavering determination. With every ticking second, she unravels the secrets of her newfound reality, never backing down in her pursuit to save a life on the brink of destruction. However, obstacles multiply, and danger evolves as the hitman's plot twists like a labyrinthine maze. Immerse yourself in an extraordinary tale wrought with suspense as Kim takes a stand against the forces that threaten to shatter her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: sandra baldry
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224138548

Book preview

Chapter 1

Vincent

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Vincent stayed in his Vauxhall, switching on the windscreen washer to clean the dust off. He needed a clear view of the apartment block on the opposite side, with for-sale signs vying for prominence at the car park exit, which wasn’t easy. At this rate, Vincent would be lucky to catch sight of the target’s car when he left, and venturing closer wasn’t an option. He had spotted the security cameras perched on the tall walls of the apartment block.

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while stealing glances at his Rolex, he awaited the emergence of the target—Michael Winthorpe, a local councillor who had garnered formidable adversaries. Vincent paid to eliminate him. He didn’t know who had generated the hit and didn’t care. This one had come through the agency, contacting him via a mobile he kept for the purpose. A voice on that phone, altered, making it sound weird, had given him the instructions. It was all secret agent stuff, except he wasn’t a secret agent; he was an assassin, and they weren’t a government department. They could have been, for all he knew, whoever they were, they took a ten per cent cut. It was irritating when they simply gave the job to someone like him. The only advantage was he remained anonymous to the person or organisation generating the job. Instructed to make this one look like a hit, not an accident. Vincent guessed it was to set an example. He had the skill set to make that happen.

The challenge was enjoyable for him, unlike the easy hit-and-run of the last job. Or the suicide before that. The target shoved under a train he had waited for. Easy money. This job would allow him to show his expertise, releasing a pleasing glow over his body.

Vincent had followed his target for two weeks and was familiar with his routine. He left for his office at eight-thirty and worked until three. Nice hours if you could get them. He would then stop off on a Monday at his golf club. He never took his clubs with him, so Vincent guessed he would prop up the bar to meet with other wankers. 

On a Tuesday, he came to the apartment where Vincent waited to visit his mistress. He had glimpsed her last week as she draped herself over him on leaving. She wasn’t a bad looker but a bit too showy for his taste. He had smiled as the woman had taken the man’s face between her hands, kissing his mouth like he was a child. Vincent smiled; perhaps he was into spanking as well, grinned Vincent. 

Vincent glanced at the car clock. Soon, the target will move again to return home. He lived with his wife of twenty-five years, two dogs, German Shepherds, and a grown-up son in his late thirties who had divorced recently. 

It would be between here and his house that Vincent would strike. Then home to Maggie, his Rottweiler; he loved that dog. No complications. Her only desire was food, exercise, and getting a fuss. He could easily purchase a woman on a street corner in Ipswich town at night. Again, there are no complications. Married twice, Jackie, his first wife, took him for everything he had. Then he was young and a twat for allowing it to happen. He didn’t give the second wife, Stella, a chance. He refused to repeat that path, just him and Maggie.

Vincent snapped out of his thoughts as he spotted Michael Winthorpe’s BMW waiting at the exit for a gap in the traffic. He started the engine and signalled to pull in behind him as he drove off. He would follow him to the country road and complete the hit.

Vincent’s hands squeezed the steering wheel. He wasn’t taking the same route home. He was going in the opposite direction, towards the town. Shit! He could do without this

complication. 

Resigned to the detour, Vincent followed the target, keeping two car lengths back. As the traffic fluctuated and pedestrians crossed, he risked losing the hit. He snapped down the windscreen, eye protection as the glare was giving him a headache. At this rate, he wouldn’t get home for another hour. 

While he waited, he checked his glove compartment. A packet of paracetamol lay there with his strong mints. His fingers reached in as the lights turned green, and he moved on. The pills would have to wait.

His target then pulled off the road into a post office entrance, forcing Vincent to pull over and into a space reserved for taxis. One lone cab waited. Vincent glanced in his rear-view mirror; the taxi driver was reading a newspaper. Vincent didn’t underestimate how possessive taxi drivers were over their spot; the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. 

The target jumped out of his vehicle and strolled into the entrance while checking his phone.

Vincent considered taking him out when he got back into the car—then chastised himself. No mess, no bystanders involved. That would do his reputation no good, and he survived on his reputation. He followed the training he had as a mercenary. To keep collateral damage to a minimum, keep it clean.

The target, carrying a parcel, returned to his car and pulled away. Vincent went to follow but got distracted by a tap on the car’s window. An older woman carrying two shopping bags peered at him with a frown.

‘Are you working?’ she snapped, trying the locked door and setting Vincent’s hackles up. Ignoring her, he signalled to the traffic behind and pulled out, leaving the woman staring after him.

The target car was somewhere ahead. This time, he hoped to go towards Boddington with fewer vehicles on the quiet country road. A glance at the clock: it was five-thirty, and it was rush hour; every person and their car would be on the road trying to get home. Vincent’s jaw clenched, seeing the entire plan going tits up.

It was another fifteen minutes before they reached Boddington Road. He confirmed his worst fears as he observed a steady stream of traffic using it as a shortcut from Bury to Ipswich.  

He stayed two car lengths behind the target, forced to give way to oncoming traffic and slipping further back. It was not a problem. Vincent was aware of the target’s destination as they headed homeward. 

Towards the target’s country home, the BMW made a turn. Now, just the two of them were on a road resembling a country track. Tall trees on either side thinned the closer they drew to the cottages that lay further up, set back from the road—each with its own security system. He couldn’t risk getting caught on camera too far, so the time had come.