The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

Charlie nodded. He knew what Matt was capable of but wanted the legal system to work, if it could, before asking for a black op to eliminate the killer once and for all. Matt had seen the same hesitation in others. Setting a trained killer on someone, off the record, was risky, a double-edged knife that could cut both ways. Without strict regulations and oversight of some kind, what was to stop the person ordering such a move to they themselves becoming someone’s target?

“I feel your pain, Charlie. I get it, brother.”

Matt sat quietly, staring out the window, watching as yet another train rolled to a stop in the station across the road from them.

“You think he’s working for someone, don’t you?” Matt said, surprised that he hadn’t at first considered this himself.

“That’s why I get the big office!” Charlie said, a look of disappointment across his face.

“Give me the when and where, and let’s get started.” The two stood up and shook hands before Charlie escorted his guest past the assistant’s desk and down the hall to the bank of elevators.

“I’ve arranged for you two to meet at St. Stephen’s Tavern on Canon Row near the bridge,” Charlie told Matt in a whisper as they waited for the elevator to arrive and return him to the lobby. “Be there at seventeen-hundred,” Charlie continued. “He’ll be standing at the bar in the second room and wearing a brown North Face wool cap if you’ve managed to forget his face by then.”

As the elevator doors spread open, Matt stepped in among the men and women, all focused on their cellphones. He turned and reminded Charlie about the promised dinner plans.

“Lois will be pissed if we’re late for dinner tonight,” he stated.

“She’ll be fine,” Charlie responded. “She’s used to my odd hours and our late-night rendezvous.”

With that, the doors closed, and soon Matt was outside breathing in the cool London air. He had a few hours to kill before the five o’clock meeting at the tavern.After spending a half-hour enjoying an order of fresh cooked fish and chips, halibut not cod, at a local restaurant, Matt looked through his phone in search of historic or touristy areas he had not yet visited on his many trips and stays in the area. Once he found two such locations within walking distance, he headed back toward Big Ben and the massive Parliament building.

He surprised himself that he had never toured Winston Churchill’s war room. It was actually a massive bomb shelter in a full basement of meeting, sleeping, and communicating rooms located beneath a government building within walking distance of Parliament, the Prime Minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street, and Buckingham Palace. After spending 10 pounds sterling, about 13 U.S. dollars, on admission, he spent the next hour reading the posters, examining the historical documents, medals, and other artifacts from a time gone by. World War II had ended 75 years ago, but as a history buff, he relished the time spent scouring the museum.

I’ve seen all the movies and read all the books, he thought to himself as he peered through the protective glass that kept the various historic rooms intact from touchy tourists, sticky fingers, and those in search of a great selfie. Standing here where history was made, where the great men and women of our past made decisions that kept the world free is awesome.

For him, when it came to history, he was like a kid in a candy store.

Once he finished the self-guided tour, he ran up the steps to embrace the fresh air once more. The next stop would be Westminster Abbey, just a short walk from the war room. It had rained while he was deep inside Churchill’s now-famous wartime hideaway, and the air had become even cooler. He grumbled at having to pay an admission fee to enter a functioning cathedral. In all the times he had tried to enter before, the facility had either already closed for the day, or there was an event that prohibited entry.

Walking alongside, and often inadvertently directly over the gravesites beneath the stone floor of notables like Sir Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens, and many of the country’s royalty, he recalled the famous weddings that had taken place there, but then remembered the somber day of Princess Diana’s funeral mass. Before exiting the front of the Abbey, he turned and took one last look at the magnificent interior of the building.

I wonder how many of the people buried here plotted against someone or died as a result of foul play. He stood there for a short time until a group of German tourists asked him to move away so they could take a photo standing inside the massive doorway.

Okay, enough of this dead stuff, he said to himself, let’s go catch a killer.

Heading for the tavern, Matt walked between the statute of Winston Churchill to his left and Parliament to his right. Big Ben was still standing straight up into the sky, but the bells were silent and the façade covered as they underwent a massive restoration. Minutes later, he was standing at the back bar inside St. Stephen’s, a pint in his hand, waiting for the brown cap to appear. Right on time, at what American civilians would regard quitting time, five o’clock sharp, in walked Billy Rogers.

Matt watched as the Brit claimed an open spot at the bar about four feet from where Matt stood, ordered a Coke, no ice, and checked his watch. As Rogers looked up, Matt moved to stand in front of him, hand extended.

“Billy Rogers, I thought that was you,” Matt exclaimed. The expression on Roger’s face went from surprise to guarded.

“Let’s grab a table and catch up.”

They’d started with small talk about soccer, rugby, and American football, but their focus slowly moved to what they had most in common – government work. Rogers knew nothing about the man he was sitting across from other than he