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    The Facebook Killer: Part 2
    The Facebook Killer: Part 2
    The Facebook Killer: Part 2
    Ebook122 pages2 hours

    The Facebook Killer: Part 2

    By ML Stewart

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    About this ebook

    There is no long description. If you have read Part 1, you know how terrible things are going to become.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherML Stewart
    Release dateSep 19, 2011
    ISBN9781466115637
    The Facebook Killer: Part 2
    Author

    ML Stewart

    M.L. Stewart was born in London, England in 1968.Since first self-publishing in 2011, his books have been enjoyed by some 100,000 readers.

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      Book preview

      The Facebook Killer - ML Stewart

      The Facebook Killer: Part Two.

      M.L. Stewart

      Copyright M.L. Stewart 2011

      Published at Smashwords

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Chapter 1.

      I hate flying. I always have. The takeoff and landings have always terrified me, and tonight was no different. A strong crosswind made things even worse. One wheel thudded onto the tarmac, the plane lurched violently to the left. It felt like we momentarily lifted off again, when the other wheel suddenly made contact with planet Earth. I kept my eyes tightly closed, my heart pounding. A child was screaming his lungs out somewhere to the rear of the plane. A woman, opposite, was muttering something I could only assume was a prayer. We lurched heavily again, this time to the right, before slamming down on both wheels. The shrill screech of the flaps being raised drowned out the prayers and the screaming child. The seat belt cut into my pelvis as my forward momentum overtook that of the slowing plane.

      The captain’s announcement meant nothing to me the first time around, but my fellow passengers seemed to take some comfort in his words.

      Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Allama Iqbal International Airport, Lahore. The current temperature is five degrees Celsius and we are experiencing heavy rain. We would like to thank you for flying with Pakistan International Airlines and we hope to see you again soon.

      Norman waited by luggage carousel number five. Half expecting to stand out a mile from the crowd, we were pleasantly surprised to see at least another forty white Europeans had taken the same flight from London.

      We had travelled light. We had been forced to. That bastard Gerradine’s newspaper article had almost messed up everything. On that last drive back to Epping Forest, we’d heard on the radio that the police had intensified their search for Adrian Devoy but were also pursuing another line of interest. The bastard had put them onto me.

      Gary Pearson’s death hadn’t made the news by the time we fled London and we had no reason to worry that it would be linked to the apple picking. My only regret had been that we didn’t have time to wrap things up properly, we still had one of the original thirteen left to deal with.

      Laputa was all locked up and we had covered the path with dead tree branches, leaving nothing to indicate anyone had been there. The camper van was put back in the storage unit, where Devoy was doing well and still being fed and watered. I paid the doctor another month’s salary and informed him of our expected return date. We then took a taxi to Heathrow airport. My hand luggage held the laptop. The suitcase contained Norman, the rest of the cash, a copy of the Koran in braille, a gas mask, a hijab and burka.

      And so it was that we found ourselves almost 4,000 miles away from home, lost in a city of over ten million people, of which, we had to track down a mere five. But before we could even think about that, there was some unfinished business to take care of.

      Norman, Albert and I had booked into the Avari Hotel. We’d decided that since this may be our last few weeks of freedom, we would take the Executive Club suite. It wasn’t the twenty-four hour butler service which attracted me to the Avari, more the armed security guards and wifi connection.

      Abdul Basir

      Born as Thomas Wilson, 1985. Struck down and blinded by meningitis at the age of four. Converted to Islam aged Twenty. Known as Taliban Tommy to his former friends and Abdul Basir, which ironically means servant of the all-seeing, to his new friends.

      Location: Chelsea. Status: Single and living with Mum and Dad. Likes: Music and discussions on radio. Dislikes: Extremism, bigotry and war.

      Now Tommy didn’t try and make a secret of his favourite place of worship, a converted flat in South Kensington, with a capacity to hold thirty people. As Albert so cleverly pointed out, it wasn’t going to be too difficult to spot the blind white man.

      However, what wouldn’t prove so simple, was gaining access to Tommy. It turned out his father was the owner of BEA Industries, one of the country’s most prolific manufacturers of armaments. Tommy had been deemed a kidnap threat from an early age and was therefore accompanied by a bodyguard wherever he went. Tommy was driven to the micro mosque in a bulletproof car, his guard never leaving his side. To make matters worse, his family home was comparable only to Fort Knox.

      Unbeknown to Mr. Gerradine, his newspaper article was actually a blessing in disguise. It was the catalyst for Tommy Taliban’s death. Think about it. The man lives in a bulletproof world, an Exocet missile probably couldn’t get into that house. But I knew something that could.

      Serge had transferred the VX nerve agent into a small insulin vial, allowing easy passage through the airport security checks. I followed his instructions to the letter. I’d been warned of its strength, and so, wearing the gas mask and gloves, I slowly drew the lethal liquid into the syringe. Six milligrams is all it would take to kill a man, he assured me, but for good measure, I'd bought fifteen. As I placed a microscopic drop on each raised letter of Braille, I found it hard to believe that the Americans had listed such an innocuous-looking liquid, a weapon of mass destruction.

      Serge had proudly explained to me that he had mixed it with dimethylsulphoxide, to act as a skin-penetrant. It was a strange feeling to think of young Tommy Taliban opening the package in a week or so, the feeling of pride that his prayers had been answered. He hadn’t been able to find a Braille copy of the holy book for over a year. He'd plastered websites with requests in search of one, and I was about to make his day.

      It would be around page thirty that his breathing would start to falter, five pages later, he ought to be feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. By my reckoning, the spasms should kick in a couple of pages after that, quickly followed by total paralysis and then death by asphyxiation.

      The book was mailed in an airtight, padded envelope. The enclosed letter simply read, May Allah be with you.

      We'd been forced to leave England in such a hurry that we hadn’t had time to plan properly. The VX was the only thing we could bring. The rest of the hardware was still in the storage unit, which was a shame, I'd had great plans for my Pakistani apples.

      I was once waiting to meet a friend flying into Gatwick airport, when I saw a man, around Norman’s age, pushing his elderly mother in a wheelchair, through the security checks. She was asleep and connected to an oxygen tank via a facemask. No one woke her; they just checked her passport, which her son was holding. I couldn’t help but think to myself, now if I ever want to smuggle a load of drugs into the country, that’s how I would do it. And that had been the plan, bizarre as it may sound. I was going to have a one hundred year-old woman made from latex, together with an accompanying passport. Her insides would have been hollow; to allow us to transport everything we needed to achieve our goals in Pakistan. Yet, that bastard journalist had screwed things up for us.

      The only downside to our Executive Suite was the complimentary drinks service provided; of which Norman had taken full advantage from the moment we arrived. Aside from that, the suite itself was of a reasonable standard. A large living area led to a quite luxurious bedroom, complete with four-poster bed. There was a separate office, which also contained a safe. This is where the laptop slept, alongside our cash.

      I spent four hours the first night trying to get used to wearing the burka. I found it disorientating, hot and almost soundproof. My second attempt wasn’t so uncomfortable and I was thankful that we hadn’t arrived here in Lahore’s one hundred degree summer.

      And so

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