The thugs should have given up following me long ago. I duck around another stack of crates on my way through the container harbour. The moment Daniel took their target, Genevievelyn, off my hands they should have split up like good little thugs and left me with only one to deal with. I can take out one. I have done it before. But two is dangerous and they have guns. I don’t.

But they did not split up. Maybe they haven’t seen the subtle hand-over. We always plan it subtle but noticeable. Wouldn’t want it to slip by my pursuers. But those two were obviously daft. And while Daniel and the girl should be at a safe distance now, I was hurtling through the container harbour looking for a dark corner.

Fuck it. This place should be dead. Dimly lit by emergency lights at best. The steps behind me come closer. By now I can even tell their voices apart as they argue over where I went.

Not far enough and that’s the truth of it.

Who ordered this night shift? I hurry further into the labyrinth of containers and crates. With this much light, I can forget about climbing up a stack and vanishing like Batman into the night. The machines moving through the harbour cover my noise which helps, but my followers have four eyes which look in different directions most of the time.

I stop and listen for my thugs. But the noise covering my steps, blurs theirs as well. I swear inside my head, trying out some new and fanciful phrases. At least, I’m getting out of the area the night shift is working.

The two men are still following. It would have been nice if my little crawling manoeuvre had lost them. Alas. Across the next aisle the containers recede into darkness. I sprint through the light and ignore the bellowing that rises behind me. I duck behind the containers just as a bullet bites a piece of metal out of the closest crate.

I run further into the night, following the beckoning of dark corners and deep shadows. The men don’t fall behind, but if I can slip away into another section, I may finally be able to scale a container. Crabbing around a few more crates I stop short. The next aisle is already occupied.

A man wearing all black stands half hidden in the shadows. I almost didn’t see him but in the gloved hand he angles down before his body I see the glint of steel.

A gun.

A gun with a muffler my brain corrects happily.

I stumble back behind the crates and run a hand over my face. Through my fingers I can see the thugs approach. They grin triumphantly as if it was their skill that trapped me and not unholy night shifts and an unexpected assassination.

“Found you,” the closer man rumbles unaware of the death lurking close by.

The assassin doesn’t wear a mask. It’s a desperate idea but like it or not, this strange executor is my best hope. I hold my breath and round the corner. With a yelp, I drop to the ground as if tripped. The thugs behind me laugh, seeing their prey stumble into their reach.

They lumber after me, muttering their discontent. The long chase made it personal for them and they are about to exact the kind of recompense they like. A boot hits me in the ribs and I squelch my breath out. Noisy, but not suspiciously noisy. Another kick hits home in an attempt to pry my arms form my face.

“Careful,” one of them says into the barrage of kicks. “She still needs to spill where the girl went.”

“Doesn’t need her teeth for that,” his companion replies and brings his boot down again.

When the assassin’s gun goes off, I hear it as the gentlest plop through my bruised body. I curl up tighter.

“Shouldn’t have run,” thug number one jeers.

“Just makes you exhausted when we catch you,” the other agrees.

“Less strength to fight back now,” the voice of number one takes on an ugly tone. “Not that I mind. A little struggle adds spice.”

A kick lands in my ribs. As painful as it is, I refuse to take my arms away from my head or uncurl the slightest. A few more hits to my legs and back hurt like hell, but hope flares hotter when one of the men realises they have an audience.

“Hey, you!” Number one shouts, unaware of his position. “Get off. You’re not welcome here.”

The kicks stop coming for a second. Then number two growls ‘idiot’ and the two men chuckle as they continue to soften my shrimp position for peeling. I wonder how long I can hold out. My ribs hurts; I’m pretty sure at least one is broken or cracked. My nose bleeds because as great a protection arms are, they are not perfect.

“He’s not leaving,” number two hisses.

“Jerk,” number one replies. There is a pause in the pain. “I said, fuck off!”

“Gentlemen.” The word runs through my pain like quicksilver rain.

Then there is nothing.

No boots hitting home against my aching body. No muttering from the thugs. I tense, breathing shallow and quiet.

I hear nothing but blood thundering in my ears and air screeching through my lungs with each laboured breath. But when the thugs keel over, their bodies thud onto the tarmac close enough for me to feel. I huddle up tighter which is difficult because my ribs clamour for attention, the medical kind if possible.

Then silence falls over my pain again, slow and suffocating like concrete. I hold very, very still, but nothing happens. The shallow breathing becomes difficult through the pain. It blossoms up from my ribs and other impact points. Still I don’t dare move.

I can’t hear the approaching steps — they must be very soft judging from what I saw — but a stealthy glance reveals black shoes, carefully dulled down to avoid catching any kind of light approaching me. Despite their purpose, they seem posh.

I close my eyes when the shoes stop in front of my face and concentrate on breathing. He doesn’t know I saw his face. I did my job when I rolled out from behind the crates. Nothing indicates, I know what he looks like.

I clamp my eyes shut and try to forget the nose protruding boldly from his face, the high cheekbones towering over hollow cheeks, short brown hair and even darker brown eyes. Yes, I am definitely doing a great job not remembering what he looks like.

The silence spreads, it hovers between us in a storm ready to break loose.

“Will you not move?” A silky voice trickles down.

“No.” I stay still, lids pressed together tightly. My toes start tapping inside my boots to release tension but the pain shooting up my legs forces me to stop.

“Maybe you are not as much of a fool your situations makes you out to be.”

“Thank you.”

Silence falls again. After a while I dare another glance, but the feet are still there. Nothing to it but wait and hope then. For a long time nothing happens. My position becomes increasingly uncomfortable. But the assassin obviously has time.

“Listen,” I finally say. “Let’s keep this short. It’s the middle of the night in a closed of area. That you managed to put those two men out of the fight makes it highly unlikely you’re one of the guards they have patrolling here. I don’t care. I don’t want to know what brings you here. But either you leave and I’ll stay like this until I make a run for it in thirty minutes, or you — you kill me now.”

A safety clicks in the night.

After a pause a soft snort follows. “Ten minutes will do.”

The feet walk away impossibly quiet. After one glance to confirm this, I close my eyes again, and begin to count. It’s a bad means of measuring time, but the only one I have access to in my current position. As time goes by the blood pumping pain through me at irregular flares turns unbearable. I stretch my legs a little, relaxing the grip on my head.

Nothing happens.

At least, my muscles hurt differently each time I move a little. I’m not sure how much time passes; I hope it’s at least ten minutes. I stay down just to be sure and still I doubt. Now and then I try to peer around from my prostate position. I see nothing. The air smells of cold iron and impending rain.

When I raise my head, I see two bodies sprawled on the ground. Each has a very precise hole in its head. I swallow hard and get my feet under me. My ribs ache, every breath hurts, and my muscles shake with exhaustion.

But that cold voice runs down my spine again, liquid neon blazing a bright trail through the humming pains. Dr Abebe will be less than excited to see me in this state, but she would dislike me being dead even more. This is just bruises and cracks. I hobble off into the darkness. There are three bodies that I avoid looking at studiously. Neither of them is my fault per se.

The darkness swallows me up and I shuffle towards the far end of the harbour. The killer is nowhere to be seen or heard. It doesn’t make me feel better. The quiet footfall of dull black shoes is burnt into my memory as much as the soft click of his safety. A part of me is certain, that he watches, making sure I leave and pondering the issue of recognition.

At least, I am not bleeding any longer. I wipe the dried blood from my face and flag down a taxi as soon as I get into a more populated area. Back at my place, I scramble up the three storeys and collapse onto my couch. Then I text Daniel to tell him I am fine.

He replies a split second later. He is indeed in one of H-Trust’s safe houses with the girl. Mission objectives achieved. I decide to black out on my couch and take care of everything the next day.