With less than a year to retirement, General Marvin Trent had ensured a healthy nest egg above and beyond the military pension. Invested in a tax-free off-shore haven, it returned a most lucrative income each year. He was financially secure for life.

Over the years Trent had established a thriving business. There was no shortage of buyers and no accountability. There was over supply and no stocktaking. Every incoming flight brought new equipment and every day saw something vanish. And Trent alone saw the staggering growth in his retirement fund. A Blackhawk helicopter disappeared. The official report stated it was lost in battle. A number of trucks ferrying weapons were alleged victims of hijack and a dozen tanks just disappeared. This theft was also attributed to Taliban supporters present within the Afghan military.

One day in Washington Trent met a man who changed his life forever. The man, a business associate of an ambitious and up and coming Senator, promised untold opportunity and riches in return for financial support of the man being fast tracked for the Presidency. Trent accepted. He provided whatever his new employer requested: weaponry, assassins and planning.


*


"Meet me at nine." Trent recognised the businessman's voice. Though long since returned from the warzone, Trent still acted in his procurement role. He understood the significance of the message. The man was in urgent need of equipment. Another bonus was in the offing, another contribution to his retirement fund. Life was so good.

Unlike active soldiers, the General had long ago forfeited the instinctive perceptions of his surrounds. Wealth may have afforded many luxuries but it blunted the factors that alerted to danger. Battle hardiness had yielded to the easy buck. His wealth grew but his vision failed.

He approached the normal meeting point, surprised to see the restaurant in darkness. He tried the door, it pushed open. He strode to the unoccupied bar and poured a drink, a drink he'd never taste. Trent turned in time to see his soon-to-be killer. He recognised him. They had met once before. The name Calin Roberts was badged on the front of the man's uniform. His reputation spoke for itself.

It was the same face he'd seen many times in the sporting pages of newspapers. He had graduated from tennis ace to master assassin. Calin Roberts was one of the few men Trent ever truly feared. Realisation came too late, his judgement had been correct. The General died before he could speak.

The killer turned and walked away.


Three months earlier, the same assassin had accepted another retainer, from the man he'd just killed. A wry smile etched onto his face as he reflected on that meeting and the Judas-like relationship between employer and assassin, a contractor one day and a victim the next. Both instructions though had required authorisation from above. In the world of the assassin betrayal was a way of life. The most recent appointee to the role of Calin Roberts wondered if that was the fate that would one day confront him.

'Will I too one day become a liability to someone's future advancement?'

Perhaps it was time to get out, time to forge a new identity. It wasn't too late to attempt a tennis comeback.


Calin reflected on the mission of three months earlier, it had been his first homeland mission as Calin. The meeting with Trent had not been pleasant. He left with misgivings. Dealing with this man was a challenge. He was both dangerous and ambitious. He couldn't be trusted and he had powerful friends.

"Why do you need me?" the killer asked. "Aren't your own boys good enough?"

"Sometimes it's necessary to distinguish between the personal and the professional. And this is one of those occasions. If however, you feel this task is beyond you," the General baited. "I can name you two other intelligence agencies who are more than willing to undertake our work."

"Who and when?" asked the man donning the Calin Roberts uniform for the first time. In the lead up to this meeting, Calin had been advised of Trent's ego

"Alex Bryant is his name and as close to yesterday as possible is the preferred time."

"Urgency costs." It was a non-negotiable demand.

"If it's completed within twenty four hours, I'll double your normal fee."

"It will be done." The killer lived up to his dual claims. Alex Bryant was dead within twelve hours.


*


Night came and they moved towards the river. During the day Calin had undertaken reconnaissance, he'd sighted a boat he considered ideal for their purposes. Observation though was a long way from possession. From a distance one couldn't see the vessels' security devices, nor could they read the fuel gauge. There were so many unknowns and so few alternatives

He slipped into the river a quarter mile from where the boat sat. It was moored to a buoy mid-stream.

The water temperature was near freezing. Calin realized swimming wasn't possible, the body wouldn't survive six minutes in water that cold. Another method of access would have to be found. Jess saw it.

"What about that river swing," asked Jess? She pointed to a huge tyre that hung about fifteen feet out and around six feet above the water from a thick tree branch about thirty yards downstream from where they sat. "Doubt it will be missed any time soon."

"How do we get it down?" asked Calin?

"Get me a knife," Jess replied. "Then come with me." Calin followed without question. Was he about to witness another gymnastic routine? Alexis tagged along without comment.

"Makes you believe in evolution," said Alexis as she watched Jess scale the tree and then ease out along the branch supporting the swing. Calin ignored the sarcasm. He watched in awe at the incredible balance and sure footedness. Jess lowered herself down the rope and eased herself onto a seat on the tyre's inner surface. She then started to swing, skilfully increasing the swing arc.

"Get ready to grab the tyre on the next swing," she called.

"You seem to be having so much fun," replied Alexis. That comment snapped Calin back to reality. Alexis had no intention of playing second fiddle to any rope-swinging, baton-twirling cheer leader.


It was much larger that he'd estimated, about fifty feet in length he guessed, a fibre glass hull, superbly appointed and powerful. It was sheer luxury. It more than lived up to its name, Sea Princess. Calin eased himself onto the deck, expecting to hear the ear-piercing scream of an alarm. Silence ensued. Next he watched for some activity from one of the riverside homes. Nothing, the night remained undisturbed.

Less than a minute later, Calin switched to panic mode. Night turned into day as massive floodlighting lit up the rear garden and jetty on one of the more palatial homes. Calin watched as a figure emerged from the house. He was running towards an inflatable tied to a jetty. The man appeared to be armed, agitated and in a hurry.

Calin waited until the inflatable was moving, then he lowered himself back onto the tyre he had secured to the vessel's starboard side. All he could do was wait, and hope. The air at water level so damn cold.

The dinghy thumped into the Sea Princess's rear. The passenger tied it to the bollard then clambered aboard. The obvious became apparent, he wasn't looking for intruders, his search was more urgent. It was the desperation of an addict. Calin recognised the symptom; he'd seen soldiers in battle cursed with the same drug reliance.

He listened to the man's agitation. He was screaming into a phone. "It's gone, where did you leave it?" A plan formed. The on-board voice grew more hostile. "The fucking canister's gone too."

Calin manoeuvred the tyre to where the dinghy was tied. He then freed the tyre and pushed it hard towards the mid-stream current. He watched it float down river. Prior to freeing the inflatable from the bollard Calin considered his options. Should he take out the searching passenger or just attempt the escape, he opted for the latter. He released the inflatable and pushed free. He steered with the inflatable's paddle, progress was slow. The one searching the luxurious fifty-foot boat; was slower. Calin manoeuvred the inflatable towards the shore.

An angry cry of "Fuck,' startled Calin. The tone and volume shattered the silence of the night. The source of the sound became apparent, the passenger aboard the Sea Princess had discovered his transport back to shore was missing. Gunshots followed. The neighbourhood came to life, lights, both inside and outside the homes. The midstream boat too was now bathed in light, it's passenger on the deck waving wildly to anyone on shore.

Calin cursed, the invisibility of night had been extinguished. Escape had become much more difficult. The place would soon be swamped by police. How long did they have?

Logic forced a reassessment. It was evening, bureaucratic cost cutting had seen night staffing levels reduced; response time would be slow. Perhaps they had fifteen minutes, maybe more. Calin estimated the inflatable had a speed of around twelve knots. A quarter hour could place them three miles downstream, well clear of this location. That just might be enough.