London.

January 2013.

The adults still prowled the streets, but now the inhabitants of the city fought in regular street battles, and more often than not, superior intelligence and recently, more weaponry, prevailed.

I crept silently through the building, scanning for any Adults left.

Ready?

Yes.

Scared?

Not of them, but of the consequences of what I did next.

My mission was simple:

Kill David, so as that Parliament couldn't be held responsible, allowing our agents to take power in Buckingham palace, and end the dictatorship set up there.

Simple.

A noise. Not the lumbering heavy breathing of an Adult, but the slow, rhythmic crunching of broken glass underfoot.

David had protection.

Peering around the door, my silenced SIG P226, stretch of rope and my Sniper rifle, (all lovingly provided by Parliament) being my only weapons, I swung around the corner. In one fluid motion, I sent a bullet straight through the guards skull, and into the wall behind with a sound barely louder than the original shot.

Pulling a grenade from my pocket, I hastily made up a trip mine, attaching a piece of thin wire to the pin of the metal 'death bundle', before tying the other end to the door frame.

Should keep any intruders, Adult or otherwise, at bay.

Reaching the shattered window, I lifted the sniper rifle to my eye.

Ready.

And, just on cue, the car came around the corner.

It was a textbook ambush. The explosives were laid. All I had to do, was take the shot.

Steadying the rifle, I drew a bead on the satchel attached to the manhole cover. There was enough explosive in there to send the car flying.

Provided I hit it.

The distance between car and bomb began to close. 40, 30, 20 meters. It was now or never. If I missed the shot, who knows what could happen? The car would stop. The guards would open fire. I would be killed, or worse, captured. The equipment would be traced to Parliament, and David would put his entire army into practice. 20 armed, uniformed soldiers, vs 50 or so unarmed politicians, and possibly a roaming hunting squad?

They wouldn't stand a ch-

Before I can even come to terms with what's happening, it's happened. The car is burning. The guards, and the target are dead.

I've done it.

"HE'S DEAD!"

"Who?" responds Jess

Suddenly, I'm not in London. I don't have my kit.

I'm in my rented house, just outside of Aberystwyth, in Wales. I'm fighting for the Republic of Britain, not Parliament.

And she's just made me some coffee.

"There is something serious going on, isn't there. Don't pretend there isn't; You've never fallen asleep on the sofa before, and you've certainly never woken up shouting "HE'S DEAD!" to yourself."

I don't respond.

"It was to do with what that secret service guy said, wasn't it?"

I let her continue.

"He said something about what happened in last night's op, didn't he?"

What was this, an interrogation? Well, it was my turn to ask now.

"Do you remember how I met you?"

"You had just killed that David guy, and were reporting back to Nicola, that girl who was always playing the 'look at me im margret thatcher and im the prime minister and now im off to flirt with all the evil dictators i can find' at Westminster, when I walked in and gave you some coffee.

Yes, why?"

I take a sip of the coffee she had made me. Perfect, as always.

"Want the short story?

He's not dead, he was meeting with last night's target, and the secret service want me to track him down and kill him."

Silence.

"I was beginning to wonder what, or whom, could scare someone as brave as you."

I smile, and she smiles back.

"Haow much did Herr blue fiesta giv you, hmm?" She asks, putting on a ridiculous voice.

My face turned. "You'd better sit down."

"He didn't give you any, did he?"

I stay completely straight faced.

"What will we have to sell? The plane?"

She sat down next to me.

"The gold lined swimming pool?"

I keep looking straight ahead.

"Rob's education?"

"He was getting along so well with that Mr Gates' kid as well..." I murmur, joining in the sarcasm. As normal, not as good as her sense of humor.

"Our Holiday home on Mars?"

Finally, I can't help but burst into laughter.

"£10,000"

"WHAT?! That's incredible!" Jess almost goes through the ceiling.

"And £20,000 more if I complete the next one"

"Never mind that! We're rich, rich! Oh, you're the best guy on the planet..." and on that note, tries to crush me with a huge hug.

"You know, it's very reassuring to know what you look for in a man..." I chuckle.

I'll save my blunt response to her careless humor for later, and allow myself to become more or less drunk on happiness.

Just for one evening.

I'll deal with my many mounting problems,

namely him,

tomorrow.

After all, it's not everyday you get £11,000 from the government just for putting up with a cramp, stabbing a guy, pulling a trigger and having a short lived argument with your girlfriend...

Well, maybe the last one.