Chapter 1
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3 AM, January 12, 2026. | Blackpool, England
In the cold January wind, a tall, lean man walked silently on the concrete sidewalk of Regent Road towards the fork in the street. He was covered completely in black, from his hooded jacket to his boots and pants, camouflaged in the night. As he reached the fork, he stopped, and pulled up his watch.
3:02 AM
He had 8 minutes to complete the job.
He pulled out a mask, death-black, like the rest of his clothing, and put it on.
He had never lived here before, although his knowledge of the place surpassed most of the area’s residents. He had done his research very thoroughly.
He turned right at the fork, entering Charnley road. Now, he entered the tiny, dingy alleyway in between the first two houses, where a rickety, wooden ladder went from the ground to the roof of the cottage on the left.
He started climbing, and reached the top in no time.
So far so good. At this rate, the kill would be easy.
He checked his watch again.
3:04 AM
Six minutes more.
He crouched, walking towards the chimney of the cottage, from where he looked over the edge undetected. He read the name of the street on the pole.
S King St.
He began to walk slowly over to the right, his padded boots making no noise against the layered tile roofs of the houses, glancing over the sides of the houses cautiously. His destination was 6 houses away.
As he crossed the fifth house, there was a large gap, from which a larger alley went in between the houses, closed off by a gate, and this time, with two guards carrying 40-caliber pistols in their holsters, and, as the man on the roof knew from his knowledge of the local police, a Glock each, concealed in their inner jacket pockets.
He walked back a little, and took a deep breath. He ran forward.
And jumped.
He fell on the tile roof of the white concrete house, and got up.
His victim was inside.
Now, the job had really begun.
He checked the time.
3:05:01 AM
Precisely 5 more minutes to go.
Walking over to the attic window, he pulled out of his pocket a small rod with a few bars at the edge, like a key. Unlike a key, he could push the bars in and out and could lock them in place with a push of the little button on the edge close to him. An efficient lock picker.
He entered the picker into the keyhole of the attic window, and pushed the button, twisting the key at the same time.
With a click, the window opened, and he jumped inside.
Landing on the plywood floor, he shut the window above him and pulled out his mobile phone from another one of his pockets. (he had quite a few pockets).
He turned it on and pushed a finger into the home button, making it go further into the phone.
The screen darkened, and he entered his fingerprint into the sensor at the back. The screen turned green. The cameras in the house were now running on a loop.
He placed the phone back into his inner jacket pocket and headed towards the trapdoor leading towards the second floor. Pulling out the lock pick, he inserted the key in and popped open the lock.
Instead of jumping down again, he removed a vial from his pocket and opened the trapdoor very little. He opened the stopper of the vial and held its mouth in the opening.
Although it was invisible, the gas wafted out of the vial and filled up the corridor. Ten seconds later, the guards at the door fell asleep.
He jumped out of the attic and landed on the polished mahogany floor, glancing towards the guards. They would be awake in 10 minutes, and would never admit to falling asleep while on guard duty.
He walked towards the door they were guarding, and entered.
Like the corridor, the room had a mahogany floor, and dark oak walls, with a balcony on the left. A large double bed with a bedside table inhabited the far end of the room, in the center. Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the right held a large, diverse collection of books, and another shelf on the left held a few decanters of wine and a couple of crystal glasses.
The man walked up to the bed. A fat, pink face poked out of the sheets, looking asleep.
He placed the second, now empty glass vial back in his jacket pocket.
The man in the bed had been dead for a half minute now.
In the event of a post-mortem, there would be no trace of poisonous gas, but a complete constriction of an artery of the heart. The autopsy would reveal a heart attack.
Now, he needed a cover picture.
Walking over to the shelf with wine, he picked up a decanter of Italian Chardonnay and a crystal glass, and placed them on the bedside table. He poured some wine into the glass. He had been enjoying a glass of his favorite wine after a long day of travel.
Next, he scanned the titles on his bookshelf and found a copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He opened it and placed it in the body’s right hand. He had been reading one of his favorite plays with a glass of wine.
Only one thing was left. He picked up the body’s left hand and placed it on its heart. He had felt discomfort in his chest and clutched his heart. And the attack had struck ferociously.
Perfect.
As he was about to leave, something felt wrong to him. He turned around and searched hard.
Oh, man. Stupid. Stupid.
He returned to the bedside table and turned the lamp on. Why would he be reading in the dark?
Stupid.
He left the house from the way he came, re-locking the trapdoor and the attic window with the pick, and was soon walking back on Regent Road in the cold January wind.
He had completed the assassination of the Prime Minister of England.
