Chapter 2: Change of plan
The rain in London was a fine, persistent mist that beaded on the wool of Joseph’s coat and made the neon signs bleed colour into the slick pavement. From the fifth-floor window of the vacant office, the world was reduced to geometry and light. He lay prone on a foam mat, his breathing slow and shallow, the stock of the rifle cold and familiar against his cheek.
Joseph looked at his phone. 5:24. It read.
He looked through the scope. The street below was a tableau of black cars and shifting shadows. A sleek black SUV parked out front of The Mandarin, its tires whispering on the wet asphalt. The rear door opened. Jao got out with his wife and son, a neat, sequential exit. The wife, in a jade green dress, laughed at something, her hand touching her husband’s arm. The son, maybe fourteen, stared at his phone, hunched against the drizzle.
Joseph tightened the scope’s vision, the crosshairs settling on the centre mass of Jao’s tailored overcoat. A bodyguard got out holding an umbrella over his head, a broad-shouldered man scanning the rooftops with a professional, unhurried sweep. Joseph held his breath, his finger resting alongside the trigger guard. The bodyguard’s gaze passed over his window, seeing nothing.
They entered the restaurant, swallowed by the mahogany and gilt doorway.
Joseph positioned the aim to the seat Jao was supposed to sit at, the one by the east window Mark had specified. The table was set for three, a crystal glass catching the low light. He waited, his world contracted to the circle of the lens. Any moment now.
He never did.
The chair remained empty. A waiter poured water. Joseph’s pulse, a steady drum in his ears, didn’t change. He shifted the scope minutely, scanning the restaurant’s interior through the rain-streaked window. The view was partially obstructed by a partition, but he could see sections of the dining room reflected in mirrors.
He looked around the restaurant, at least the view from the window. He could see Jao’s son at a different table, smaller, near the kitchen door, already back on his phone. His mother was not with him.
Jao was on the opposite side, out of range. He was seated in a deep, high-backed booth, nestled into a corner of opulent shadow, his back to the outside wall. A tactical choice. The man was paranoid, or just lucky. The wife sat across from him, her back to Joseph, a wall of decorative brass and etched glass between the scope and its intended destination.
A clean shot was impossible. Not from here.
Joseph let out a breath, a slow release of calculated acceptance. He packed his rifle away, the disassembly methodical and silent. The components fit into their grey foam slots like puzzle pieces surrendering their shape. He wiped down every surface he might have touched, a ritual performed a thousand times. He walked out of the building, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder like a tradesman’s tool kit.
Outside, the mist had thickened. He looked at the restaurant entrance. Two men in dark suits stood sentry, one casually holding a wand detector. He wouldn’t be able to get in armed. The plan was always the plan, but the plan had a margin for error. He was the margin.
He crossed the street, walked half a block to where his car was parked in a pay-by-the-hour bay. He put the duffel in the trunk, the lid closing with a soft, final thump. He took off his coat, turned it inside out to its plain black liner, and shrugged it back on. He ran a hand through his black hair, disrupting its order.
Then he walked towards the restaurant, just a tall man in the evening crowd.
The security man with the wand gave him a nod, waved him closer. Joseph raised his arms slightly. The wand passed over his legs, torso, beeped sharply at his left side.
It beeped. He pulled his car key fob out of his coat pocket, holding them up. “Car keys,” Joseph said, his voice flat, a hint of annoyance worn smooth by years of practice.
The guard nodded, apathetic. “Reservation, please?” the man said.
“Reservation for Richard,” Joseph said.
The guard consulted a tablet. “Your table will be ready soon. Wait at the bar, please.”
Joseph nodded and sat at the bar. The air here was different—close, warm, humming with low conversations and the clink of ice. It smelled of aged whiskey, cigar smoke, and perfume. He ordered a coke. He didn’t drink on the job. His eyes found the backbar mirror, a vast, gilded sheet of glass reflecting the room behind him.
He looked in the mirror on the wall, looking at Jao’s table.
The booth was deeper in the reflection. He could see the side of Jao’s face now, the way he leaned forward to listen to his wife, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A bodyguard stood post six feet away, a silent statue. Another was near the kitchen door, watching the son. The geometry was still terrible. But he was inside. That changed the calculus.
He sipped his drink, the cold bubbles sharp on his tongue. He calculated distances, angles, the likely path to the restrooms. He noted the staff door swinging into the kitchen, the fire exit sign glowing softly at the end of a corridor.
Joseph finished his drink, the ice clicking softly against the glass, and slid from the bar stool. He moved with the unassuming purpose of a man seeking the restroom, following the small, discreet sign past the kitchen door. The corridor was narrower here, lined with dark wood paneling that absorbed the sound of the dining room’s murmur.
He pushed the bathroom door open. It was empty, silent save for the drip of a faucet and the low hum of an extractor fan. White tiles, chrome fixtures, the sharp scent of industrial lemon cleaner. He walked the short line of three stalls, pushing each door inward with the toe of his shoe. They swung open, revealing empty spaces.
Satisfied, he turned. He didn’t have a weapon. His gaze swept the room, cataloging: trash bin, soap dispenser, hand dryer. He spotted a paper towel machine, the large, brushed metal type mounted to the wall. He grabbed his car key from his pocket, the fob cold in his palm, and walked over to it.
He put on gloves carefully before touching anything, the thin latex snapping against his wrists. He worked the key into the narrow slit on the side of the machine, feeling for the latch. He shimmied it, applying precise pressure. The front panel popped open with a quiet metallic sigh.
He pulled the paper towel from the roll, a long white cascade spooling to the floor. He reached inside, his fingers closing around the cold, solid cylinder of the metal pipe feeding the dispenser. He gave it a firm twist and pull. It came free, about ten inches of solid, unadorned steel. He put everything back in place, the panel clicking shut. He let the spilled paper towels lie.
He slipped the pipe into his sleeve, the weight resting against his forearm. He walked over to the standing urinal, facing the wall. He unzipped his fly, a performer in a familiar play, and waited. The extractor fan hummed. A minute passed. Two.
The door swung open. In came Jao and a bodyguard. Jao walked over to the sink, sighing as he examined his face in the mirror. The guard, the same broad-shouldered man from the umbrella, began his sweep. His shoes clicked on the tile. He opened the first stall door, then the second.
Joseph heard the steps behind him. The guard saw him and tapped his shoulder, a firm, impersonal touch. “Sir.”
Joseph nodded, and zipped up his zipper. He turned to leave, his body relaxed, his face a mask of mild inconvenience. As the bodyguard looked in the last stall, Joseph turned around. The movement was a single, continuous arc.
He removed the metal pipe from his sleeve. The air hardly stirred. He buried it into Jao’s head, just above the ear, with the dense, final sound of a melon hitting stone. Jao collapsed on the floor, his legs buckling instantly, his reflection vanishing from the mirror.
The guard spun at the noise. Joseph was already moving. He walked to the last stall where the guard was, closing the distance in two long strides. The man’s hand was flying inside his jacket. Joseph whacked him over the back of the head with the pipe. The guard stumbled forward, his skull cracking against the partition. Before he could cry out, Joseph stabbed him in the neck with the pipe’s end, a hard, penetrating thrust. The man gurgled, sinking to his knees, then to his side.
Silence returned, deeper now, broken only by the drip of the faucet and a new, wet sound from the guard. Joseph stood between the two men, breathing evenly. He looked at Jao’s sightless eyes, at the burgundy bloom spreading on the white tile beneath his head.
He walked over to the sink. He washed the metal pipe under the hot water, watching Jao’s blood and other matter swirl in a pink vortex down the drain. He dried it meticulously with a clean paper towel. He opened the dispenser panel again and slotted the pipe back into its housing, clicking it into place. He tore off the soiled towels from the floor, balled them up, and stuffed them into his pocket.
He pulled off the gloves, putting them in his pocket. He looked back, making sure no footprints of his were left behind in blood. None. The room silent, he walked out and exited the restaurant, walking to his car.
The mist had turned to a steady rain, washing the alley clean. He drove, the windshield wipers keeping a rhythmic beat. He rang Mark.
“Job’s done. Slight change of plan, though. They didn’t sit at the window table, so I had to go in,” Joseph said, his voice even over the car’s speaker. “I waited in the restroom. His bodyguard came in as well, so I took care of him.”
“Fuck. Nice work. Stop by the shop,” Mark said, the relief audible.
“I’ll be there soon.” Joseph said, hanging up.
He parked in the familiar alley behind Rochelle’s, the scent of wet asphalt and oregano replacing London’s whiskey-stained air. He walked into Mark’s shop, the bell jingling overhead, and went to the back where the copper pots glowed in the kitchen light.
Mark handed him an envelope, his expression tight. “The client gave extra.” He said, patting his shoulder, a gesture that felt heavier than usual.
Joseph took it, putting it in his pocket without looking. He then took out the bloodied gloves and the balled-up paper towel from the Mandarin’s bathroom, putting them deep into the trash bin under a layer of coffee grounds and parsley stems.
He pulled out his phone. 6:30. “I have to go in half an hour.” Joseph said.
Mark looked at him, wiping his hands on his apron again. “You’ve got plans?” Mark asked, his head tilting. It was a rare, personal probe.
Joseph nodded, a single, definitive motion. He didn’t elaborate. He never did.
Mark’s phone rang then, buzzing on the prep table. He answered, listened, his eyes flicking to Joseph. “Understood. Thank you.” He hung up. “That was the client. The cops think the attack was the Ming family’s rival mob. They were spotted near the restaurant earlier. It’s already a settled narrative.”
Mark smiled, a real one this time. “Thanked me. Said ‘Sam’ is the best.”
Sam. Joseph’s fake name for the job, clients.
Joseph acknowledged it with a slight shift of his weight. The envelope in his pocket felt no different than a receipt. The images from the white-tiled room—the sudden collapse, the gurgle, the pink water circling the drain—were already filed away, compartmentalized behind a mental door he was now closing.
He thought of Leah, waiting for him, her news sparkling in her eyes. The collision of these thoughts was a brief, internal static he was practiced at ignoring.
“I’ll see you, Mark,” Joseph said, turning toward the door.
“Give my best to whatever it is,” Mark called after him, a casual line thrown into the space between Joseph’s two lives.
Joseph didn’t turn back. He stepped out into the cooling evening, the shop’s warmth clinging to him for just a moment before the city air took over. He got into his car. He started the engine, the familiar purr a signal of transition. In thirty minutes, he would be across town, in a different life, and the man named Sam would cease to exist until he was needed again.
He drove through the neon-washed arteries of the city, the Bentley’s cabin a silent capsule moving between worlds. The steering wheel was cool beneath his palms. He watched the shops and traffic lights blur past, his mind carefully empty, a defense as practiced as his breath control before a shot. He headed to an old building just outside of town, a brick warehouse converted into anonymous storage units, its parking lot potholed and poorly lit.
He parked his Bentley in a garage, the door rattling shut behind him with a sound like a coffin closing. The air inside was still and cold, smelling of concrete dust and old motor oil. He got out and walked over to a black sedan, the car meant for his father life, its exterior bland and utterly forgettable.
He took off his clothes, the dark coat and trousers he’d worn in London, and folded them neatly. He put them in the trunk of the Bentley, next to the grey duffel bag that held the pieces of the rifle.
Then he put on a grey sweater and blue jeans, the fabrics soft and ordinary against his skin. Getting into the sedan, he adjusted the mirror. He drove to Leah’s.
The sedan rolled through quieter streets, past houses with glowing windows and trimmed hedges. He parked at the curb two houses down from her home, a habit so ingrained it was pure instinct. He checked his phone. A text from Leah:
Adam’s making his famous spaghetti. Hurry up!
He typed a reply. On the street. Two minutes.
He sat for those two minutes, watching the porch light of the tidy bungalow. He breathed in, held it, let it out slowly, pushing the last remnants of the white-tiled room out with the air. When he opened the car door, it was with a different gravity. He walked up the path, and the front door flew open before he could knock.
“Dad!” Leah launched herself at him, her hug fierce and smelling of shampoo and baked dough. He held her tightly, feeling the reality of her, the solid warmth of her shoulders under his hands. This was the anchor.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice quiet against her hair.
“You’re just in time, I was starving,” she said, pulling him inside. The house was an explosion of warmth and noise—a football game on the TV, the clatter of pans from the kitchen, the comfortable clutter of a lived-in family room. Adam, Leah’s boyfriend, waved a oven-mitted hand from the kitchen doorway, his face smiling.
Dinner was spaghetti and the famous garlic bread, eaten at a crowded table. Leah talked about her biology project, her hands animated. Adam interjected with jokes that made her roll her eyes. Joseph listened, asking a question here and there, the sound of his own laughter surprising him sometimes, a foreign but welcome echo in his chest.
He helped clear the plates, his large hands careful with Leah’s mismatched ceramic ones. The domestic rhythm of it—scraping leftovers, the rush of hot water—was a liturgy that washed the day from his skin.
Adam loaded the dishwasher while Leah made coffee. “So, what’s this news?” Joseph asked, leaning against the countertop. He watched Adam go quiet, his focus suddenly fixed on aligning a fork in the rack. Leah reached for his hand, looking at her dad. “It’s actually a present,” she said, her smile widening.
She got up, grabbing a small, wrapped box from the sideboard and handing it to him. The paper was covered in cartoon stars, slightly wrinkled from her excitement. Joseph took it, feeling the light weight, and unwrapped it carefully. He opened the lid to the box.
Inside, nestled on a bed of white tissue, lay two items. He pulled out a tiny photo first. It looked like an ultrasound, a grainy, ghostly shape swimming in a sea of static. The image was marked at the top: Fourteen Weeks. He put it down on the table, the laminate cool against his fingertips.
His hand went back into the box. His fingers brushed soft fabric. He grabbed a tiny, cream-coloured onesie, unfolding it slowly. The word was printed in small, navy-blue letters across the front: Grandpa.
He looked at Leah, her face questioning his, her green eyes wide with hope and a trace of anxiety. The room seemed to contract, the hum of the refrigerator growing distant.
He thought she was sick a while back; she said it was the flu. Then, at Adam’s birthday three weeks ago, she wasn’t drinking. She never normally did, but usually on a day like that she would have one champagne toast. He didn’t think too much of it then. The clues rearranged themselves with a quiet, seismic click.
“You’re pregnant?” he said, looking at her. His voice was softer than he intended.
She nodded, smiling, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. “Yeah.”
He stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor. He hugged her, enveloping her completely, feeling the new, impossible fragility of her. “Congratulations, sweetheart,” he said into her hair, the words thick.
“Thank you, Dad,” she whispered, her arms tight around his waist.
He gave Adam a nod over her shoulder, a communication between men that carried the weight of a handshake. Adam nodded back, relief smoothing his features. Joseph finally let go, holding Leah at arm’s length, studying her face as if seeing it for the first time. A grandfather. The title felt archaic, borrowed, belonging to a different man in a different life.
“Fourteen weeks,” Joseph repeated, picking up the ultrasound again. The grainy shape resolved into a head, a spine, a suggestion of limbs. A person.
“Are you… are you okay?” Leah asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “You’re being really quiet.”
“I’m… stunned,” he said, and it was true. The emotion was a tangled wire in his chest—pure joy spliced with a cold, familiar dread. He forced a wider smile, the one he used when a mark was closer than expected and he had to appear harmless. “This is incredible. Have you told anyone else?”
“Just you,” Adam said, joining them. “We wanted you to be the first to know.”
Joseph looked at the onesie again, the word Grandpa now feeling less like a title and more like a target. He saw, for a fractured second, not a baby in cotton, but a vulnerability. A leverage point. He blinked the image away, This moment was sacred. It had to remain untouched.
“We’ve been looking at baby names,” Leah said, bubbling over now that his reaction was secured. “Adam likes traditional ones, but I’m leaning toward something a little more unique.”
“Unique is good,” Joseph said, his voice returning to its normal timbre.
“Do you know the gender?” Joseph asked, taking a sip of water to steady himself.
“No, we don’t want to,” Leah said, her eyes sparkling. “We have it in an envelope from the doctor and we wanted you to hold onto it for us so we don’t open it.”
Adam nodded in agreement, pushing his chair back. “The temptation’s too much, we’ll peek for sure,” he said, grinning. He grabbed the envelope from a drawer, a plain white sealed packet, and handed it to Joseph. His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry, work,” he muttered, and went into the study to take a call.
The room felt suddenly quieter, the hum of the dishwasher more pronounced. Joseph looked towards Leah, who looked like she was thinking, her earlier elation subdued. He saw the shadow pass over her face, a subtle tightening around her eyes.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling. It was forced. The corners of her mouth didn’t reach her green eyes, which had glazed with a sudden sheen. “Yeah, yeah I’m okay.”
He walked over to her, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, his large frame folding down to meet her leve
“Talk to me,” he said, his voice a low rumble that contained no pressure, only space.
She looked away, towards the window and the dark street beyond. Her fingers traced the grain of the wooden table. “I wish Mum was here to know this,” she said quietly.
The words were a pinprick, precise and deep. He felt the old wound, ten years scarred over, throb once in the silence. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He simply reached out and pulled her into a hug, her head tucking against his shoulder as it had when she was small and skinned her knee.
“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “But she’ll be watching down, looking over you and him or her.”
She pulled back, wiping her face with the heel of her hand, a quick, embarrassed gesture. “Yeah, I know,” she said, her voice firmer now. She took a steadying breath and the forced smile returned, but it was warmer, more genuine. “She’d be annoying about it. Buying, like, a million tiny socks.”
“She would,” Joseph agreed, a real smile touching his own lips for the first time since he’d seen the onesie. The memory was a clean pain, sharp and sweet. “She’d have the whole nursery furnished by now.”
Adam returned from the study, apologizing again. The mood lifted, buoyed by practical plans. They talked about due dates, about Adam converting his small office into a nursery, about Leah cutting back her hours at the library. Joseph listened, cataloging every detail.
The night wound down. Joseph left, saying his goodbyes with longer hugs than usual. He drove the bland sedan through the sleeping suburbs, the streets empty and silvered by streetlights.
He arrived at his own house, the house Leah grew up in. He never moved from it. He parked in the driveway and sat for a moment, staring at the darkened windows. The silence here was different from the sterile quiet of his work flat. This silence was layered, dusty with memories.
He opened the front door, closing it behind him with a soft click. The hallway was exactly as it had been for a decade. The air smelled of lemon polish and, faintly, of old books. He didn’t turn on the bright overhead light. A small lamp on the console table cast a soft, amber pool.
All the photos were still on the wall. Leah and her mother. A gallery of frozen joy. A birthday party with pink frosting smeared on a five-year-old’s cheeks. A beach vacation, both of them squinting against the sun, arms around each other. His late wife’s smile was direct, challenging the camera. He stopped before it, reaching out to trace the edge of the frame, his finger coming away dustless.
He smiled, a private, weary expression. He headed upstairs, the stairs complaining softly under his weight. In his bedroom, he stripped off the soft sweater and jeans.
He walked into the ensuite bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the steam billow out to fog the mirror. He stood under the near-scalding water, his head bowed, letting the heat pummel the tension from his neck and shoulders. The water sluiced over him, a torrent trying to cleanse a stain that lived beneath the skin.
He turned off the water. The silence rushed back in, broken only by the drip from the tap. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his hair roughly. He stepped out onto the bathmat, the steam beginning to clear.
He caught his reflection in the mirror, his piercing blue eyes meeting their own gaze in the glass. The face looked back at him—the father, the protector, the killer. All one man. The water dripped from his chin onto the floor.