Free STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense by Derek Thompson Page B

course, the stupid bastard. “Come on amigo, something closer to home,” Karl passed him a larger case.
    Thomas balanced the rifle comfortably, nestling it against his shoulder. The weapon smelt different, and the realisation amused him. He wriggled his face closer in to the sight and inhaled then released. The crosshairs barely moved as he levelled up and fired. He felt the recoil in his shoulder and shrugged a little, preparing for the next one. Now he saw the hole, placed close to the inner ring. Five shots followed, each within an inch of the original.
    “Very good. Amazing what a little time and preparation can accomplish. Now, step aside and let me show you what a professional can do!” Karl was still a much better shot. He made short work of the remainder of his ammunition and lowered the rifle with a sigh. “The bar, I think.”
    * * *
    “Drink up Tommo — nothing worse than cold coffee.”
    He swayed the cup mid-air. “Peterson wants to send me on some special training next week. I reckon he wants me out of the way.”
    “I’m not surprised. Remember that wee Customs lass I was doing so well with?”
    Thomas arched an obligatory eyebrow.
    “She’s been reassigned — she told me when I rang her last night; did I mention I picked up her number before we left? Anyway, it looks like someone’s having a bit of a clear out.”
    “Well, I’m staying put.”
    Karl gave him the kind of look that he used to give his sister Pat when she still believed in the Tooth Fairy. “Think so? A quid says they split up our dream team within a fortnight.”
    They both did mock spits and shook hands on the bet. Thomas toyed with the rim of his cup. “When I was a kid, I used to pray at night for Jesus to end the Miners’ Strike and save their jobs,” he sucked in one cheek. “Yeah, stupid, I know. But I was ten. It was the last time I ever thought about relying on anyone else.”
    “Hey though,” Karl brightened, “just imagine if he’d ever achieved it. We’d have got him over to the six counties on the next ferry out!”
    “Look, I owe you an apology, Karl, for thinking you were prepared to . . . you know . . .”
    “Fix up your drinking hole? Understandable, under the circumstances.”
    Karl wiped his face with a napkin. “Listen, I know you feel you’re in the middle of everything, but — and don’t take this the wrong way — stick to what you’re good at and leave well alone.”
    Thomas pondered that for a second. The problem was, he was already involved.
    * * *
    He didn’t sit down to eat until after 10 pm; a cheese omelette with bacon bits in it and bread that was only good for toasting. He cleared away methodically and switched on the immersion heater. Now or never time. He drummed on the desk while the laptop fired up and didn’t linger on the default image: Rievaulx Abbey, beset by lightning. Sifting through the unused images folders, he found what he was looking for — two pictures of the red car at the port. Not his best work by any means — slightly blurred, though enough detail across the two frames to put together a complete registration number.
    He dialled Miranda, without thinking of the time, and asked another favour.
    “That depends. If it’s for your job, the answer’s no .” She sounded distracted, probably by all that background music.
    “Are you in a club?”
    “What?”
    He was pretty sure she’d heard him and wasn’t that a man’s voice close by? “Are you with someone?”
    For a few seconds there was silence then he heard a familiar tone. “I’ve got to go, Thomas. Just text me whatever you need. Bye.”
    The room went cold. He sat for a while, staring into space, taking it all in. Sleep was off the menu now — a familiar part of the pattern. He washed up and sent Miranda the text. Then he grabbed his car keys and an SLR camera, promising himself that he wouldn’t end up outside Christine’s flat again.
    To begin with, he just drove around, looking for a prospect.