Kismet ch1

Kismet

‘Kismet’ – ancient Arabic belief that all events are interconnecting; a favourably colluding series of events, otherwise known as fate or fortune.

Chapter 1

The verdant patches flashed by in sporadic, elegantly designed ensembles, which were pleasant to the eye against the grey, grimy background, no matter how little Mother Nature had to do with their creation. The tall buildings were set back, allowing for the brilliance of the sunshine to dominate the ground, adding splendour to an already impressive façade of beauty. Strategically placed and aesthetically designed palm trees adorned the verges of the wide, concrete roads next to them, with the lush, lawn-like parks positioned just behind them. These elongated stretches of tranquillity were fenced in from the juxtaposed beach by large hedges and a variety of flowering flora, creating another striking contrast to the exhaust-fumed, dirty concrete that lay only metres away. It was almost as if the parks were provided only as buffer zones, to protect the sandy shoreline from the grime of human inhabitation.
Mark often liked to walk in the park, as he found it soul-cleansing. Whenever he had a problem to ponder, he had found that an aimless walk could provide clarity and peace, which would inevitably lead to answers. His life always seemed so hectic to him; like he never had time for anything recreational; so a walk in the park was a welcome respite from the hurly-burly of modern existence. He often lamented this fact, secretly wishing for serenity and calm, but he knew, deep down, that one could not expect to live in this city and be inactive. If you so much as tried, this place would swallow you without even chewing.
The metallic silver BMW basked in the glorious sunshine, flashing through the shadows and the brightness with an equal nonchalance to both. The top was down, so Mark could feel the contrast of heat and breeze, occasionally experiencing both as the exhaust fumes from other road users spilled over the sides of the plush automobile and onto his clean-shaven countenance. He eyed the glowing dashboard dials with a sense of pride, recalling the day he had acquired his beloved vehicle. Quite why he was so proud was something of a mystery to him. Everyone in this city had a BMW. Many people had better. Yet few of them could afford to pay with cash, as he had done.
He was still admiring the resplendent displays when he noticed the fuel gauge. With the charcoal background and ivory white display, he had mused how it complimented the car very nicely, providing a further touch of elegance in an already sublime piece of engineering brilliance. However, at the moment, the red, flashing light was blinking at him. He would probably need fuel today: this was not a day to be unprepared.
He pulled in at the service station and stopped next to the advanced fuel station. With a leisurely, yet sprightly, spring in his step, he alleviated his coveted vehicle’s thirst, striding in to the adjacent building and supplying the assistant with a gold Visa card. Afterwards, with equal zeal, he returned to his baby and hopped back into the front. Reaching across, he opened the glove compartment as he quickly ensured there were no onlookers. Satisfied at this, he put his hand inside, ignored the primed Glock and took out another pair of gloves. Snapping the compartment shut, Mark removed the gloves from his hands, tossing them into the nearest receptacle, replacing them with the freshly acquired pair. He turned the key, allowing himself a few moments to appreciate the purr of the beast, before rejoining the queue of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.
It was only a short while later when he reached his destination, now even more jovial than before. His building was the same as most in this part of the city: it was tall, it was gleaming and it was immaculate. Most of all, however, it was inconspicuous. There were fifty-two floors in total, but they were just part of another tall office block in a city that was filled with them, like trees in a forest.
Mark headed into the farthest elevator and pressed the top button, which arrogantly proclaimed the ‘fifty-two’ in a special, gold trim. He felt a sense of pride in the fact that the other people in the metal container looked on with a mixture of curiosity and envy that they were joined by a man who plied his trade in a penthouse office. He had picked this location specifically. The firm next door sold insurance and the floor below was consumed entirely by a company that was involved with telecommunications research. The sign above his door read ‘Business Consultancy’ and the elevator in the lobby led right up to the door. There were hundreds of thousands of offices in Los Angeles, but this had been the only one he had found that inspired such looks, whilst still providing him with the security he needed: the organisation beneath him ensured that the building’s communication lines were completely impenetrable.
Completing the retinal scan on the door; which was a feature of every office in the building; he entered and immediately eyed the platinum clock on the wall and then double checked the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. He had a good three minutes yet, which was ample time. Closing the door behind him, he wandered idly over towards the large, mahogany desk with the laptop on. He opened it up and completed the retinal scan required for this device: this was not a feature the building provided, but a means he employed on his own. Then he sat back in his revolving, leather chair, a little anxious, and stared at it for a few moments, sparing only a few seconds to adjust the only photograph in the room so he could see it more clearly. His former Mossad commander smiled back at him as they enjoyed an embrace. Mark looked at it for a minute and considered the only friend he had ever really had.
His deliberation was interrupted by a slight bleep, as he realised that it was nine o’clock already and the communiqué had arrived precisely on schedule. The secure server flashed and he moved the cursor to click on it. It was Rio.
He read it and re-read it twice. ‘Good morning, Black Sheep,’ it read. ‘Fresh opportunity for today only. Are you interested?’
Mark was intrigued by Rio. They had done business twice before and both times the man behind the user name had appeared eloquent and intelligent. This was interesting, for Black Sheep never liked to work blindly, so had conducted the necessary investigations, only to discover that Rio was in ill-educated drug dealer, suggesting that he used others to arrange his communications. Such a hands-off approach was rare for a man who took such risks, which caused Mark the appropriate level of consternation. However, although Black Sheep was usually reserved for tasks of a more complex and sensitive nature, Rio paid well and the jobs were easy. He was also local, Mark had discovered, which made him accessible easily, should the need arise. Black Sheep was happy to take his money: it was some of the easiest revenue he had ever procured.
‘Always interested in opportunities,’ he typed back. ‘When and where?’
‘Do you want to know who and why first?’ the messenger bleeped.
Black Sheep pondered that for a second. Why start now? ‘Never. When and where?’
‘I’ll send the details in the usual manner,’ came the response. ‘Attached will be the who and why. Use it if you want.’
‘Okay, thanks. You know the fee, I presume. Half now and half upon successful completion.’
‘Understood. It will be done in a few minutes. Out.’
Mark sat back and submerged himself in the luxurious leather, watching the screen intently. Then his email notification came up and he feverishly opened the file. The details of who and why were, indeed, attached, but he ignored them. He scanned his eyes over the where and when. Tonight. He memorised the Santa Monica address and securely deleted the entire email with the Kremlin device installed on his computer. Why was not of interest to him: that was a matter for politicians. Who was never much of a concern and, indeed, he rarely needed names or faces. Anyone at that address tonight would experience the sheer professionalism of Black Sheep.

It was always essential that, no matter what, there be no traces of his presence. That being the case, he left his beautiful BMW in the office car park and walked towards the subway. The heat of the day was increasing, so he indulged in a light lunch and iced tea before heading towards the subway station. After changing his gloves once more and retrieving his Glock from the car, he made his way down the street, amongst the bustling crowds.
Black Sheep had completed many opportunities and had many clients, but none had struck him quite like Rio. Everything about the man suggested he was the lowest form of depraved life, yet his syntax had always been polite and grammatically accurate. Mark found it difficult to believe that such a man would delegate delicate negotiations, so could only conclude that the visage of Rio that he had unearthed was one that had been created deliberately. To what end, Mark had yet to surmise, but he knew he must do so if the business relationship were to continue. Black Sheep did not accept contracts from people he did not know everything about. This presented a risk and, in this industry, there was no margin for error. He was not about to meet Rio –that was an insane idea – but he would certainly commence reconnaissance once this opportunity was successfully completed.
The subway station he entered was bright, yet tatty, and was surprisingly quiet for the time of day. The lunch rush was evidently over, which was good news, as it allowed him an even slighter risk when using the public transportation system of the city. The fewer people that noticed him, the better. It was with a sense of irritation, then, that he noticed the man approaching him as he waited quietly on a bench.
The man was middle-aged and rotund. His hair was thinning and he bounded over towards Mark with an anxious expression on his face. His polyester, beige suit smacked of the limitations created by marriage and children, which was a presumption quickly supported by the wedding band on his finger. He approached the stranger on the bench without consideration, obviously pressed by more severe concerns, and stood expectantly before the mighty Black Sheep, ignorant of whom he was coming into contact with.
Mark continued to look straight ahead. He did not wish for interaction, nor would he instigate it. When the stranger finally spoke, he did so with a querulous tinge in his voice that was subjugated by a worried tremor in the tone. “Excuse me, friend.”
Although he desired to avoid any form of contact, Mark knew that a man who was clearly induced to stress was unpredictable and that this fact, in turn, could lead him to display animosity if provoked. To ignore him could easily do just that and he wanted to create a scene even less than he wanted to remain invisible. “Can I help you?”
This agitated man did not even notice the firm manner in which he was addressed. His pupils were dilated and his body language suggested that he was extremely nervous: he was fidgeting with the five dollar bill in his hand. “Do you think you could change this?” He extended the hand with the money in.
Mark eyed it suspiciously and with malcontent clearly showing in his eyes, but the action went unnoticed. He was going to have to help this man out to get rid of him. “Sure. Do you want dollar bills?”
The relief was clear in the stranger’s face. He obviously needed to catch the next train very urgently. “That would be great!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I have to get home to my family. We have an emergency. My daughter is sick.”
Ignoring the volunteered information as best he could, Mark rifled through his pockets and found five, single bills, swapping them for the five dollar counterpart in front of him. “Well, there you go. I hope it all works out for you.”
“Thank you so much!” the stranger announced triumphantly. “You have no idea how much this means to me. You have probably saved my family.” With that he walked off.
Black Sheep mused on this final statement for a few moments. Saved his family? Could such a simple act of such mild generosity really result in such an overwhelming outcome? Why not, he thought to himself. He had just saved an entire family. Not that he cared a great deal, but there was a slight sensation in the pit of his stomach that he did not recognise.

Santa Monica beach was always a pleasant diversion from the city. The sun-drenched pier was a home for all kinds of amusements and, therefore, joy-filled moments and the golden sands provided a place for people to relax and get themselves a genuine Los Angeles tan, rather than one given to them by some cheap machine in Hollywood. Families frolicked here and youths congregated harmlessly – a rarity in modern Los Angeles – and it could all be complimented by the amusements on the pier or a stroll down the nearby Third Street promenade. It was a place for solace from the harsh realities of the cut-throat nature of the city.
Mark enjoyed it here immensely. It gave him some air to breathe and space to stretch out. The beach, however, was inconvenient for him; the mix of Armani and sand was never a sensible one; so he concentrated mainly on the green expanses that separated the famous beach from the growling and baking tarmac that lay only metres away, in the form of Santa Monica Boulevard. This was home to him. More so, even, than his house in Malibu or his more discreet apartment in Venice Beach. Here he could think. Here he could plot.
Except that, today, he was not plotting. This clement afternoon, Mark sat pensively and ruminated on the precise cause of the strange feeling he had in his gut. He watched a young woman, who was clearly homeless, as she washed her face with a discarded bottle of Evian. Her clothes were dirty, though not especially worn, and her face was grimy, although this only appeared to cover up the bruising that was apparent underneath the dirt. This girl had clearly been the victim of a beating of some description.
Mark watched her with a keen interest as he slurped on his take-away coffee. She had no coat, only a stained blanket, amongst her possessions and he could smell her fear. She tended the bruises carefully, with dexterous hands that suggested she had done this in the past. Perhaps the cause for her chosen way of life, he mused, although Santa Monica beach was not a place for the faint-hearted at night, so she could easily have befallen a crime of some kind. The wounds were healing, it would seem, but the vacant glint in her eye suggested that the inner demons were far from ameliorated.
Black Sheep was fascinated by her, though for what reason he was unsure. The sensation he was experiencing seemed to provoke some kind of sympathy for her plight. Was that what it felt like to care? Did he care?
Dismissing such a fanciful notion as absurd, he continued to watch her as she delicately combed her black hair through with her fingers. She was oblivious to the looks she received from passers-by and never once gave the well-dressed, handsome man on the bench anything more than a fleeting glance. It was clear to him that she had other concerns, just like the man on the subway whose family Mark had saved, except her worries were clear for the world to see.
The more he watched her, however, the more Black Sheep felt this strange, alien feeling grow inside of him. Perhaps he had eaten something that did not agree with him. No, that was not it. What was it, then, that compelled him to watch on? He could find no answer to his question before he noticed that the sun was beginning to fall. It was time for him to move on and grasp the opportunity. Still, he felt as if he should leave the coffee. Maybe she would appreciate the warm drink as the chill of the crepuscular light swept in from the ocean. He changed his gloves, leaving the old pair on the bench, and walked slowly away.
The sensation had grown now, to a point where it was actually starting to concern him. What was it? He seemed to recall similar instances of this from many years ago, when he was young and much less of a man than today. He walked without the purpose that usually dominated his every step, now suddenly thoughtful and, dare he think it, apprehensive. Certainly, he was heading towards the address that he had committed to memory in body, but his mind was being pulled in so many other directions.
Suddenly, however, the thought struck him. It came from somewhere deep in the recesses of his forgotten, discarded past and was not as much an idea as it was a recollection. He now recognised the sensation that was causing him such bother. The last time he had experienced it was when he was just a teenager and he had watched on as a boy, of a similar age, had been the unjust victim of the vitriol of a gang of youths. Mark had observed with trepidation, sincerely hoping that he would not be next, as the boy was punched and kicked into a hospital bed. He remembered how he had felt helpless and that scared him: a far cry from the days of Black Sheep. Now, without warning, he recognised the strange uprising in the pit of his stomach: it was guilt.
He stopped in the middle of the pathway, no longer flowing with the ocean of people that disguised him. He looked around him and realised that he was actually noticing them. A woman with a baby, a beggar in bedraggled rags, a man standing by his wife as she bought shoes. The first notion that struck him was that none of them – not even one – reeked of money the way he did. His appearance was immaculate and deliberate, almost anal, in conception and execution. Of all the people he could see, his was the only façade. Everyone else wore their own skin. He had purchased his.
What was this that he was feeling? Was it an epiphany? Here he stood, drenched in Armani, Rolex and Gucci, magnificent and crisp, yet very few others, it seemed, in this affluent city of Los Angeles were as privileged as he. Why was he so lucky? He often liked to believe that he had been given a gift and had exploited that to gain as much as he could during his lifetime. Now, however, he was starting to suspect that this was not quite the case. It was dawning upon him, as he stood there, motionless in the fading light, that he had actually taken it from these people. Not directly, of course; although he had done that to many; but through the services he provided to those who stole their hopes and dreams. He helped them perpetuate their crimes. It was true that he had benefited greatly from the world that exploited these people. Yet, somewhere along the way he had totally lost sight of his own hopes and dreams. Now he vividly recalled wanting to be a fire-fighter when he was a child, because he had wanted to help people. It was ironic that, now he had the skills to fulfil such ambitions, he had completely forgotten about them.
Mark was not certain how to perceive the emotions that flooded his mind like unwelcome adrenalin. They were ambushing him, forcing him back against a wall and no amount of running would engender his escape. He was trapped by having re-discovered his conscience, as if he had opened the Pandora’s Box that contained his humanity. As unexpected as this was, however, it was creating a warm, fuzzy feeling inside of him as an idea germinated in his newly opened mind. It was not too late. Perhaps he could never be a fire-fighter, but he could probably go one better. He could help people without them even knowing it. Everything was in place. All he had needed was the inclination.
Black Sheep turned on his heels and strode away from the address of his intended opportunity. He had a much better idea. As his walk became more brisk, he realised that he was now confident in his rapidly-taken decision. In fact, he was confident in himself. Until now, he had not noticed that had been missing.
It was only minutes to the address he had memorised several weeks before. He waited for a few seconds behind a parked mini-van, checking his weapon and surveying the scene. He almost considered his intended purpose, but stopped himself. He was enjoying this feeling of self-satisfaction and ratiocination could only end that. His actions were borne out of gut instinct, rather than the torpid, analytical mind that had propelled him to the zenith of his profession. It was new. It was exciting. It was rather like the touch of a new lover, except the ebbing of contentment lapped against more than just his loins. He liked it.
Mark knew the club was small and played host to many unscrupulous characters, so expected security on the door. He watched the two, giant doormen, then, without any element of surprise. In fact, he felt the tingle of anticipation coursing through his veins, where usually there was ice. If he did not know any better, he would say that he was more than zealous. It was odd, but he felt slightly aroused in a way he had never experienced before. Was this what it was like to feel good about yourself?
The sentinels stood either side of the single doorway, but were not alert, instead engaging in profane discussion. Black Sheep sensed this was his chance. He now had a new opportunity. Casually, he walked out from behind the vehicle and checked the light. It was dark now, so his face would not be recognised from distance and there were no witnesses nearby. It was time.
Mark fixed his glare on the first victims of his wrath. Buttoning up his jacket, he made his way over towards them, waiting for one of them to notice him and issue a warning or inquire about his presence. He passed through the shadow of the adjacent building and found, to his shock and delight, that neither guardian even acknowledged him until he was just a few metres away. They had not even seen him. Amateurs.
When one of them finally did, the fear was instant, as he saw the Glock far too late. Black Sheep had it in his palm already and the two silenced shots were dispatched to the two foreheads instantly, without hesitation or remorse. Black Sheep did not make a sound, tucking his weapon into the front of his belt, under his jacket, and striding over the two fresh corpses to reach the stairway on the other side of the doorway.
At the bottom of the stairs stood another bouncer, who noticed Mark immediately and watched on curiously as he approached, with his view being too obscured to witness the demise of his colleagues. The night was young, so he had not expected guests just yet, but it was undeniable that his employer often had urgent business to attend to. Still, he observed the neatly groomed man descend cautiously, as was his charge.
Black Sheep could immediately discern that this obstacle was larger than the previous two and far more attentive. He could not perceive who else was in the room that he was about to enter, so would not risk a gunfight that could, potentially, alert dozens of armed enemies to his location and intentions, particularly whilst his range of movement was so restricted in this tight stairwell. He would need to see the club, and have room to move, before he could decide on his next manoeuvre.
What he noticed first was the dim lighting, perpetuating his perception that the establishment was a seedy one, which only resulted in augmenting his resolve. He had to see this through, even though he was unsure as to quite why he had come to the decision he had made. A bar came into view next: it was dirty and hugged the right-hand wall, not ceasing until the wall on the far side forced it to. The doorman stepped forward into the doorframe, so obscuring Black Sheep’s view. Under normal circumstances, a man as capable as this would appropriate some level of deception, or employ a tactic of misdirection, to allow him the time to fully dissect all the available information prior to embarking upon his next course of action. Mark did no such thing. He lunged straight in off the front foot.
The sentinel had held up his giant hand to indicate that the visitor should halt and was never suspecting of a move that was so adroit and lethal. Black Sheep was still on the bottom stair when he flashed out his hand straight in front, jabbing the thyroid cartilage ferociously. The guardian reacted only by grabbing his own throat, as the pain overwhelmed him and he immediately gasped for air. Black Sheep completed his entrance by drawing his weapon and firing one further round into his head. Then he entered the room, stepping past the cadaver he had just created.
The club was small by Los Angeles standards, reserved for members only, most of whom could be described as wealthy. Inside there was the bar along one wall and, spreading out to the left-hand side, was the seating area, which comprised of around a dozen intimate tables and a small dais, which acted as the stage. There were two men sitting at one of the tables, both of whom Black Sheep instantly recognised as members of the extended entourage he had observed weeks previously. Although they had noticed the demise of their colleague, and were about to act, they were no match for the deadly accuracy of a Glock in the hands of a true professional. They were dead before they even drew their weapons and flopped to the carpet with blood seeping from their foreheads.
Mark surveyed the room more carefully now. There were no immediate threats present and only one point of egress, other than that he had entered through. He did not hesitate, striding over towards it imperiously. Before he could reach it, however, the door burst open, informing him that the room was covered by surveillance. It was testament to his blundering approach that he had not circumvented such an obvious entanglement.
Black Sheep did not have time to curse his cavalier attitude, being thrust into action as a matter of reflex, rather than any premeditated consideration. He was able to get two shots off with his gun, both of which pierced the torso of the first man through the door. By the time the next two were through, they were upon him, covering the small distance quickly and, therefore, negating the advantage he gained through his marksmanship skills. Mark needed both hands to counter their simultaneous attack, so dropped the Glock to the floor in order to catch the wrist that was aimed for his face. He did this with his left hand, pivoting and spinning around to use his bodyweight to twist the arm, whilst using his victim as a shield from the remaining foe.
The man shrieked as Black Sheep snapped his wrist quickly, spinning around once more to perform a roundhouse kick on the remaining adversary. His leg came up and over the guardian with the limp wrist and connected with the back of the skull of his colleague, hurtling him forward into a table and sending it spewing towards the stage. Mark then turned back and finished his hostage with a deft and vicious knee to the face, before powering over towards the sentinel who was scrambling to his feet. He never made it to his feet: the heel of the intruder’s hand came down upon the top of his spine before he even knew he was in danger.
Black Sheep methodically peered around at the carnage he had caused, retrieved his weapon and continued towards the doorway. He had a good idea what was the other side and was not disappointed.
Sitting in his office, almost paralysed with fear, Rio did not even have a gun. He paid others to carry guns and had never needed one before. How he now wished he had adopted a different policy.
Mark entered the office with his Glock primed, aiming it at the terrified drug dealer as he moved slowly and deliberately inside. He paused for a second and Rio sensed the apprehension in the man before him.
“What are you doing?” the drug dealer stammered. “You’re Black Sheep, aren’t you?”
Mark nodded slightly, eyeing the malefactor over his weapon. “What’s your last wish, Rio?”
“You’re supposed to be working for me!” he cried in retaliation. “Is this a contract? I’ll double whatever they’re offering!”
“It’s not a contract,” Black Sheep replied dryly and firmly. “I’m doing something I should have done a long time ago.”
“What?”
Mark wetted his lips. “Ridding the world of people like you. You pay people like me a fortune to kill off your enemies, most of whom are officers of the law. It’s time you were the prey.”
“Is that the problem?” Rio whined. “That’s not the case, I swear! Let me tell you why I hired you!”
Mark’s eyes bored into the man he was prepared to kill. “Why is for politicians,” he said quietly. Then he pulled the trigger.
It was then that he saw it. There was a monitor on the wall which showed the rear of the establishment. On this monitor was the image of eight or nine armed men preparing to enter. These were not part of Rio’s entourage. He would know their uniform anywhere. These were SWAT.
He bolted back through the club. This was not the time to be caught. He had only just started. There was so much more he needed to do. Leaping up the stairs, he burst out onto the street, only to find three of Rio’s men were attempting to enter at the exact moment he was trying to leave.
Black Sheep did not even get a shot off. He could understand their reaction. A stranger was running out of their club with a gun in his hand. Had he come upon such a person, he would have killed them too. The heat of the bullets entering him was numbed quickly as several of them sped straight through him. Mark flopped to the ground and looked up at the night sky. How cruel it was that he had only just come to understand his role in the world, only to have it ended by the very passion that had fuelled his epiphany. What a waste. If only he had helped someone sooner……