“Address of target?”
“33 Cherry Tree Drive, Marehamby, Lincolnshire,” said Ronald Digby, adjusting thick-lensed spectacles. “What’s, er, what’s the cost?”
On the other side of a burnished desk, a grey-suited young man (“Just call me Steven”) fingered his blond ponytail. “We’re speaking the same language, yes?”
“Well, assassinations are twenty thousand for domestics, fifty to five hundred for politicals and by negotiation for HOS.”
“Heads of State,” Steven replied drily. “Relationship?”
“Wife, er, Sandra.”
“Then we’d need a deposit of five thousand.”
Digby opened a briefcase, taking out bundles of notes. He hesitated. “I’m a bit worried that Vanessa, er, my mother-in-law, might suspect. How does it work?”
Steven smiled. “Obviously I can’t tell you everything but we use tiny little drones that look like insects. They use facial recognition technology. They inject various poisons, all are undetectable – death looks natural. You’d just leave a window open.”
Cautiously, Digby pushed the bundles across.
Digby gone, Steven had a sudden thought, ‘Marehamby, Marehamby!’ He recalled the picturesque little town. Hmm. The ‘drop drone’ could carry several ‘killer drones.’
He dialled a number. “Darling, it’s me, I was wondering if you fancied a weekend in the Lincolnshire Wolds?”
Featured in the book, To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories
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