The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller Read Free Page A

as long as he didn’t move the date I suppose one day was as good as another for celebratory purposes.  We had a social engagement that evening and I was tired after the nights on-board entertainment with Vladimir therefore elected to have a shower and go straight to bed, the Champagne was starting to give me a light headache.
    As I dozed I considered what Johnny had asked me to do, to say a trip into the wild council estates of Hackney was out of my comfort zone was an understatement. I had grown up spending my time almost entirely in the wealthier neighbourhoods of Chelsea, Mayfair and Westminster apart from the odd trip to friends who had moved to Hampstead. The rest of London was a mysterious place full of people of questionable character. I felt much safer in Belize than most provincial parts of the capital. Johnny of course would know this, which is what made his request all the more strange. Despite the dangers of being caught with an illegal firearm in a country under strict anti-terrorism legislation I would carry a gun. I reasoned even the postmen in Hackney probably needed to pack some heat given the borough’s reputation of being home to murder mile . Also, unusually for a girl of my class, I would go on public transport at least from the neutral ground of Holborn onwards. The potential of leaving a witness to blab about the strange behaviour of a Chelsea it-girl travelling into the inner city social-housing hell would not be acceptable and I wasn’t in the mood to murder a taxi driver. I could happily kill taxi drivers most Friday nights outside Nobu when it was raining but merely to suppress a witness was an unnecessary cost of life. I tried to sleep and formulate my plan.
     
    As Boromir would have possibly said if assigned such a task
     
    ‘ One does not simply walk into Hackney .’

Chapter 2
    I WOKE up just after seven. One of the advantages of drinking Champagne (at least quality champagne as opposed to the factory-engineered piss produced for Essex party girls) is that it doesn’t leave a hangover. Unfortunately the dehydrating effects of a long-haul flight followed by a boozed-up breakfast and afternoon nap all conspired to produce a similar effect. We were due to have dinner at eight at The Ebury with Anoushka, Piers, Charlotte and her new mystery beau.  
     
    If I had a nemesis it would be Charlotte. 
     
    She had perfected the art of being an exceptional bitch whilst managing to portray to all others the innocence of a six-day-old kitten. I have lost count of the times I have seen her paint her face with the ‘ I’m going to cry because you’re mean ’ pout despite the certain fact she would kill her own offspring for the latest Birkin bag. 
    We had arrived late, after oversleeping and missing my Pilates session I had decided it was better to be late and pristine than allow the cattish bitch any more ammunition to reinforce her own ego. 
    Johnny had gone with a black Tom Ford suit. Since Charlotte would no doubt wear an over-revealing white number to show off her fake spray-on tan I decided to wear a black Chanel cocktail dress with zebra print Loubi heels and an obnoxiously decadent Van-Graff diamond necklace complimented by Tiffany earrings.
    Charlotte (despite her Chelsea pretensions) wasn’t monied enough to have a safe full of ice and no matter her best efforts to procure a hedge-fund manager or minor member of the Saudi royal family she had yet to secure a suitable enough husband candidate to fund the lifestyle she mistakenly felt entitled to.
    Since there was an outside chance I would have an opportunity to off the horrid wench in the powder room I took my trusted Beretta concealed in a special compartment of my Vuitton Birkin bag.
    The dinner crowd was already onto starters by the time Johnny and I arrived. Charlotte greeted me with the sincerity of a crash test dummy. More surprising was the mystery dinner guest - a tattooed oik who looked like he was there to sell heroin and