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“Yep”

“I’ll send you the address. Full fighting order”

“Schedule?”

“Imminent”

“Understood” click.

He might be a rotten old fucker, but I’ve missed dealing with blokes who actually know what they’re doing. I laugh to myself, back in the day in four-man teams they used to avoid putting us as opposite numbers until the assignments got real dark, because one of us was an asset, but both was a liability, apparently. It became a running joke that we would be handed Geneva Convention pamphlets for every job to read on the drive, flight, or boat trip in - just in case we needed reminding. Reaper is like that drinking buddy that can drink as fast as you, when you’re not waiting for the others to catch up, you drink at your natural, alarming pace. With devastating consequence.

Oh well. I tap the address into the burner phone and send it off before heading into the living room where Sawyer lies on the sofa apparently still trying to find something to watch.

“I’m going to be popping out in a bit”

“What, where? On your own? What about the Police? What are you doing? What’s the plan? Can I come?” she immediately fires questions like a quick-fire round on one of those quiz shows. There is absolutely no way that she consciously thought each of those questions before they left her mouth. My gut is to dismissively tell her to fuck off and laugh, but that is genuine concern in her face.

I guess she reads my face, sits up, and stops asking questions. I don’t want to tell her anything. But I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice as she’s now legs folded, hands in her lap, leaning forward for my answers.

“Harry’s house. Doubled up. Shooting him in the face, ideally. And no, I’m not taking a distracting civilian who can’t stop talking on a ride-along to a covert assassination”

“What if I promise to be quiet, and I won’t pspsps you, not even once”

“No”

“I could be helpful, you could use me!”

“As…?”

“Lookout! It could be like a stakeout, I’m super observant!”

“Oh yeah? What colour was the rucksack that Craig brought me earlier?

I know she doesn’t know. But I feign support as her forehead wrinkles in concentration before finally giving up.

“Fine. I’ll stay here. I’ll have more fun on my own, anyway” she sulks.

But sulking is fine. Sulking but safe I can live with. Doesn’t matter how happy she is if she ends up dead, does it?

* * *

Once night falls, I’m prepared for battle. Harry’s danger is in his connections and organisation, not in him as a man. He’s a wily little shitbag whose existence now threatens to detonate the only glimmer of light I’ve allowed myself to see in a very long time. On top of that, the prick tried to have me killed, and didn’t even have the balls to give the order himself. He dies tonight.

When the van pulls up at the end of the street and flashes it’s hazards twice, I know it’s time. I break “Operator Mode” and give Sawyer a kiss on the head. She’s clearly worried. I am not. This is a game I’ve played many times, and Harry is an easier target than I’m used to. I didn’t even need Reaper for the hit itself. I needed logistical support and eyes outside. The van starts moving as soon as I climb in the back, it doesn’t wait for the doors to close.

I take a pew, my back to the panel side. Reaper sits opposite, a fist bump is all we need. Kicking a nondescript black holdall to me I check the contents.

“All the Gucci kit in here, you flash fucker” I nod my approval.

Reaper nods back. “Harry?” he asks, indifferently. A silent nod before our standard pre-mission weapons checks. Everything works as it’s meant to, he’s been generous in the amount of everything he’s packed for us.

“Really?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, pulling out a pipe bomb.

With a nonchalant shrug “Never know. Might wanna blow some shit up”

I can’t help but laugh, and notice that he’s packed our usual extra supplies. Weapons and medicals and all that, obviously. He’s packed a bottle of port, our traditional post-mission celebratory drink. I lift it out the bag and hold it up to show him.

“Just like old times” he beams at me