ECML Coach Formations (Part 3).


Even Virgin's generous drinks policy couldn't induce a great deal of sleep and it was a weary blond who at 8.30 on a Heathrow morning collected her luggage and headed for Customs. Going through the green channel, a preventive officer appeared and asked the usual "Anything to declare?" Myra produced from her trolley 200 Silk Cut and a bottle of vodka. "Is that all?" asked the earnest young Excise officer with a penetrating eye. "That's all" said Myra quite honestly, as she repositioned her black clutch handbag...er, the one she SHOULD have declared, the one she bought in New York, from the gun magazine. The one with the special slot that could comfortably accommodate a medium sized automatic... "Carry on", sniffed the Customs man.

Myra was soon back at work in the London office, soon back living with her Mum and Dad in their Basildon council house. Soon though, her "business" line rang and there was an offer of work. Each successful job brought yet another job which in turn lead to another job. The contact soon started to refer to each job by the following titles "Commerical", meaning gang oriented, "Domestic", meaning the termination of an unhappy marriage and "Business" which implied some sort of corporate or industrial background.

With so many jobs Myra's confidence was growing by leaps and bounds. So it was something of a rude awakening when after successfully concluding a job on a Saturday, Myra found herself in the midst of a late afternoon traffic jam and her recently deceased target barely a street away. Soon the sound of sirens began to fill the air police and ambulance rushed to the scene. Increasingly nervous, Myra gripped and re-gripped the steering wheel. Claim down, CLAIM DOWN she repeatedly told herself, but she realised that she was, for the first time, not in control of the situation.

She was suddenly jolted back to reality by the roar of a motorcycle as it's rider pulled out around her and weaved through the stationary cars. The seed of an idea was planted and Myra vowed that she would never be in this predicament again...

In truth, Myra's first wobbling attempts at riding the battered old Honda 125 she had purchased were less than impressive. But she signed with a motorcycling school and within a couple months she was an accomplished rider. Once she passed her test she looked around for a suitable machine and saw advertised a very low mileage 1978 Kawaski Z650.

It wasn't too big, but had the power and speed she thought that she might need and, best of all, it was inconspicuous. "How much will you take luv?" she asked the the middle aged man who had had it from new. "Eight hundred pounds" came the reply.
"Ate undred quid? It's over twenty years old!" The man looked at her and simply said "What do you want, a brand new Harley?". Myra counted out sixteen fifty pound notes, comforted by the fact she could have very easily bought a brand new Harley. She arranged to have the seller drive the bike over to the house which she recently bought ("What shall I do with all this money?" Myra once asked her contact. "Bricks and mortar" came the reply).

She had actually bought two houses, one which she rented, the other she kept sparsely furnished. There she sometimes stayed, but more importantly, she kept most of the tools of the trade there, including the bike. She sometimes stayed the night there, her parents thought that she saw seeing somebody, a thought that Myra did nothing to dissuade.

It was there one day that her mobile phone rang. "Fancy arranging a divorce?" the voice of the other end of the line said. By this Myra had had tracings from Bill's shoulder holster made up into a holster for herself by, as her contact put it, "A none too fussy Gupta I know down the Lane". She sat upright on the bed, in her panties and shoulder holster. As she listened to the voice of the phone, she pulled the 9mm from it's holster and caressed her sagging breasts with the gun. She gently traced a passage from between her breasts towards her panties. Her eyes half closed in pleasure, she had to pull herself back to reality and focus on the job in hand.

"So she wants to meet me? Where?. Mmmm...yer, I know, about 3.00pm OK-is she OK? I don't know if I like this. Mmmm...cash up front. OK, if you say so. Right" Myra looked at the clock-better get her skates on. She rammed the gun back in it's holster and looked at herself in the mirror. Hands on hips, yeah, she did look good. It was a cold but bright day...yeah, why not, let's see what's it like. She went to the wardrobe and tossed the heavy bike jacket on the bed, together with a pair of tight black leather jeans. . Once the jeans were on she slid a pair of short black leather boots on and once again looked at herself in the mirror. She placed a white silk scarf loosely around her neck, then, after slightly repositioning the gun, put the jacket on. She snatched up her keys, and having made sure she had cigarettes and a lighter she headed for the door.

She jabbed at the bike's start button and the four cylinders burbled into life. She eased the bike off it's stand and reached into the jacket pockets and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. Having allowed the bike to warm up, she nicked into gear and rumbled off for her meeting.Myra reached the appointed place on a gravel patch by the side of a back country road. it was a spot frequented by lovers, but at 3.00pm the lunch time liaisons had gone back to work and it was too early for the after work crowd. Myra liked the feeling of power the bike give as she place her gloved hands briefly on the engine for warmth. She lit a cigarette, allowing it to droop from the corner of her mouth, her breath and the smoke mingling as she waited.

Presently, an aggressively driven black 300 series BMW appeared and crunched it's way over the gravel and stopped by Myra, A good looking woman in her mid-forties was at the wheel. Her clothes and bearing said "money". She looked up at Myra with obvious distaste. She viewed Myra through sun glasses as she drummed her  well tended nails on the steering wheel. Myra smiled and said "Hello darlin'-you Mrs. Smith?" "Mmm" began the woman, barely concealing a contempt that Myra could not understand, "That's right. I was told to give you this" handing over a large sum of used notes. Putting her cigarette once more in her mouth, Myra fanned the money. She unzipped an outside pocket and placed the bundle within. "That'll keep me fags and Pils for a couple of weeks, won't it?" smiled Myra, not invoking any such niceties from Mrs Smith. She merely continued: "Here's some pictures and a list of his movements. Wednesday might be a good night. He goes straight from London to his yacht club meeting. He comes back around 10.00 on the train, doesn't use his car. The station's quite around that time.

Myra took a drag from her cigarette, the ash falling as she did so, hitting her jacket and falling on to the bike's tank and the tight leather of her jeans. She brushed it away.The woman carried on " I'm paying you a lot of money, too much in my opinion. Make sure you do it right. And you better not mention my name if things go wrong."
"Listen" hissed the leather clad blonde "I'm a pro. It ain't gonna go wrong. It might take a couple of weeks, I have to look at things and work out the best way of doing this thing." "Just do it and do it right" replied Mrs. Smith as she started her car.

Myra studied the squashed cigarette end she held between her thumb and forefinger and decided she had one good drag left. As she exhaled she watched the woman drive away. She dropped the cigarette to the ground and felt her gun through her jacket. She started and bike and revved just a little. She placed her boot on the cigarette and crushed out. Offing that fucking bitch, she thought, would be a decided pleasure, whether she got paid or not.

Sure enough, Wednesday did seem the best option. She went to the yacht club and waited. She saw him get off the train. She drove back to the quite town where the man lived. She waited for the London bound train and just like Mrs Smith said, he was the only person to get off. Shit, maybe she should do it now. She did have the .22 with her...no, no, wait, don't rush...next week-next week.

Myra maneuvered the bike between the shuttered newsagent's kiosk and what had been a coal merchant's office. She wore tight blue jeans and long black boots, which, merely for an extra buzz effect, she slipped a flick knife inside the right calf. Once again, it was a cold night and breath mingled with the smoke from her ever present cigarette. She unzipped her jacket slightly and patted the 9mm in her custom made holster, while for back up she carried the .22 in her right pocket. Hope the train is on time...only 7 minutes between that and the train from London...and there's sure to be people getting off of that. She walked over to the station entrance and out on to the platform. She looked down the track...the station clocked flicked from 21.52 to 21.53. Come on, come on, she though as she took a deep drag. The train from London was due at 22.02, her intended victim's train at 21.55. There...a pinprick of light...the train. As it grew she felt her mouth dry slightly and she felt for the gun yet again. She took a last drag of her cigarette, then flicked it onto the track, it's passage marked by an almost straight of smoke in the still night air.It hit the ground and it's ash exploded like a myriad of miniature meteors. Common sense told her to use the .22 and silencer yet she knew she'd enjoy the 9 mil would satisfy her much more. The train grew large and soon was slowing to a stop. A solitary door opened and slapped shut. Was it him?

Almost immediately the train was on it's way, drowning out the footsteps, it's noise reaching a crescendo, then began to creation a perfect diminuendo. It revealed a lone man walking up the platform...Mr. Smith. His footsteps changed as he left the masonry   platform and mounted the wooden beam steps of the footbridge. Then as he across the asphalt covered steel deck of the bridge they changed to a metallic booming, only to revert to the dull thud of the wooden steps as he descended. Myra waited in the shadows and lit another cigarette...                

She waited until he has passed her and turned into the narrow passage between the station yard and the backs of some shops with flats above. Common sense told Myra to get rid of the cigarette, yet she kept it as she started to quickly walk after her victim. She looked around...nobody about...unzipping the jacket she reached for her 9mm. By this time the man was walking a little uneasy...someone was following him. But who?  He wanted to turn round and look, but decided not to. From the footsteps, it sounded like a woman. A pro-surely not. He didn't know how right he was. 

As usual, Myra felt the excitement welling up inside her, with mouth dry and her panties wet...cigarette in mouth she leveling the big automatic...it didn't seem quite right somehow, shooting this poor sod in the back. Still, she was doing him a favour really, he wouldn't have to go home to that bitch of a wife of his. Just as she squeezed the trigger he seemed to tense, as if he knew. Bang, the bullet crashed into his left shoulder and catapulted him into the ground, where he began to groan. Myra stopped over him, another bullet in the back of the head. Another divorce, mused Myra as she rammed the gun back into her jacket, trembling both in fear and excitement. Almost immediately, a dog began to bark and two shafts of light pierced the night as people looked from the flats. Time to leave.

Turning quickly, Myra heading back to her bike. As she hurried along, she kicked one of the spent shell casings and it went ringing and bouncing, until it lost itself in the undergrowth around the chain link fence of the station. Myra straddled the bike and flicked off it kick stand. Key on...give it some gas...prod the starter. The starter motor whirled and whined. Nothing. She fingered the button again and again. Cigarette in mouth she urged "Come on, come on".This time there was a click-the starter motor jammed. "You fuckin' bastard". Myra sat there for a moment, she could hear the London train approaching. Then she remembered...this is an old bike...it's got a kick start. With difficulty, she bent over, eyes squinting because of the smoke of her cigarette and readied the kick start. Awkwardly, she put weight on her left foot and leaned the bike a little. She placed her right boot on the kick start and heaved down. Christ, this fucker will break my foot Myra thought. She tensed herself and kicked. A little more promising. The train was almost at the station. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, it's angry orange glow reflecting ever more intently on Myra's black leather fingers, serving to heighten the killer's predicament. As she expelled the smoke, she gave a mighty kick, almost losing her balance as she did. The bike roared and easing it forward, Myra thankfully was gone before anyone had got off the train. Within half an hour Myra lay on her bed, still in her leathers, still wearing her guns. She smoked a last cigarette before going to sleep. As she lay on the bed, blowing smoke at the ceiling, Myra thought to herself "What a great life, what a fucking great life"  


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