Coyle was simply a killer, a murderer for hire, and content in the simplicity of that description. He killed for money. Ergo, a killer. He was not ashamed of this, though he claimed to be an independent claims adjuster for tax and legal purposes. Given how many of his victims – and they were victims, no bones there – died because someone wanted to claim on their insurance, he thought it appropriate, if perhaps a touch morbid.
After a final look out the window, he sat back and brought up his Optik display. “How are you feeling today, my friend?” he murmured, glancing over to where his partner sat, recharging after last night’s successful outing.
The drone resembled nothing so much a rather small stealth aircraft. It was powered by a trio of extremely powerful micro-motors and possessed an astonishing array of anti-tilt and airflow sensors like all counterterror – or CT – units.
Its heavy-duty chassis was armoured, and equipped with a modified M107 semi-automatic sniper system. The .50 calibre anti-material weapon was out of date by a few years, but still eminently useful, nor was it the only one the drone possessed. Besides its panoply of sensors and its weaponry, it could interface with most operating systems, allowing the operator a variety of tactical and strategic options.
The drone had been upgraded for use in clandestine combat operations, or so the seller had claimed. It was a prototype – the only one of its kind so far. Coyle hoped it would remain so. In his opinion, it was far too lethal a device to allow in the hands of private military contractor like Albion – God alone knew what a prat like Nigel Cass would do with such a weapon. But it was perfect for Coyle’s needs.
The man who’d sold it to him hadn’t been aware of why he needed it, thinking him just another private collector. He’d been more concerned about the money Coyle was paying him. Given his debts, that wasn’t surprising.
After a quick systems check, Coyle dismissed the drone’s display. Everything was functioning well within established operational parameters. Given how much he’d paid for it, he was somewhat relieved. Money well spent, and at his age, anything that made his job easier was to be embraced. His knees weren’t what they used to be.
Never one to remain idle, he turned his attentions to a partially disassembled spiderbot that lay on a tray on the floor. He set the tray on the low table before him with a grunt. The spiderbot was listed as a Blume brand product, but Coyle knew that it had been developed by an American corporation, Tidis. Tidis hardware married to a Blume operating system.
The unit – with its six segmented limbs and armature array – was designed for small tasks in harsh environments. He’d purchased several dozen of the devices, using one of his aliases and a shell company – an industrial cleaning firm, based in Sheffield. Spiderbots were durable, replaceable and easily hackable. Perfect for his needs. They had autonomous operating systems, using a standard cTOS template. They could interface with anything using the operating system, and required little maintenance.
He’d cracked this one open, and was in the process of testing a new – and highly illicit – upgrade. An improvised firearm – a zip gun, as Americans called them. Though, he hoped, not so crude as all that. Consisting of a 3D printed barrel, breechblock and firing mechanism, it needed to rest easily inside the spiderbot chassis while remaining concealed.
He’d tested several prototypes, making adjustments as he went. Initially, he’d considered just giving the spiderbot a stripped down .22, and seeing how things went. But that struck Coyle as sloppy and one thing he was not, was sloppy.
A person in his line of work couldn’t afford sloppiness. Sloppiness led to mistakes and mistakes led to death or worse – incarceration, interrogation and eventually a shiv in your guts in the exercise yard. None of which Coyle found appealing. He liked his freedom. He liked his music and his books and his one glass of wine a day, after dinner.
He paused, frowning now. There was always an element of random chance at play with any hit. You couldn’t control for every variable, no matter how meticulous your preparations. You had to learn how to adapt to an evolving situation and roll with the punches. The death of the wrong man at Lister House had been one of these unforeseen variables – not a mistake, as such, but a complication nonetheless. One that would need to be remedied. He checked the GPS signal for the target’s Optik, but it was still deactivated.
It was likely in police custody. Another complication, but not insurmountable. He intended to wait until he heard from his employer, however, before he made any attempt to recover it himself. Killing police officers was something he tried to avoid, when possible. Not out of any respect for the authorities, but out of simple pragmatism. Dead policemen tended to complicate matters.
His Optik chimed. A call. He looked at the ID and smiled. His daughter. Answering, he said, “Hello, sweetheart. How was practice?” The conversation that followed was enthusiastic and welcome – a bright spot in an otherwise grey day. A bit of joy before the bollocking sure to come when he talked to his employer.
He chatted to his wife for a few minutes as well, trading affectionate inanities and inquiring as to how things were at home. His family thought he was out on a job – which he was, though not the job they imagined. He missed them terribly, of course.
