A87 near Port an-eorna
Scotland
7- 30 a.m.
April 17th
Trevor Stanton, the ‘fifth man’ that Michael Dewy had failed to spot when he had spotted the other four illegal entrants to the country on the shores of Loch Carron, had hitched a lift on a truck bound for Inverness. It was a lucky break and he knew it. The truck was on a return from Plockton, delivering refrigerated supplies to the hotels. Stanton knew he could have waited for hours, even had to have walked quite a long way before he’d got any transport. It wasn’t a straw he had drawn; he had chosen this starting approach to his journey south. It made most sense to him. The others had drawn for transport down the country.
He sat in the passenger seat of the van’s cab listening to the banter of the stereotype trucker. Stanton was barely able to keep his eyes open. He had brown, almost black eyes; harsh hard marbles with no hint of friendliness. The swim had really pushed into his energy reserves. Ten years in the French Foreign Legion, six years as a mercenary and the last three as a freelance assassin, hiring himself for the most part to foreign governments, had taken their toll on him. He was still incredibly fit, but at thirty nine, the oldest of the five, it was tough going. He knew the money on this one was enough to retire on though so it seemed worth it. Somebody wanted someone very important dead that was for sure.
“Where have you been?” The truck driver asked.
Stanton knew the drill. He reeled off some well rehearsed and thoroughly researched tourist details. The stock in trade lies of assassins and spies everywhere rolled out of his mouth with enthusiasm and verve. In spite of being tired he kept his focus.
The truck driver enthused over his homeland and bemoaned the effects of the tourist industry with a careful ‘no offence meant’ thrown in.