"There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen."

Vladimir Lenin

"So, not a manual labourer then."

They were sitting around Jake's apartment a few hours later, a couple of lamps supplementing the dawn light coming in through the windows. Jake came over from the kitchen unit with four glasses of water on a tray, placing it down on a low glass coffee table the others were sitting around. He responded to Josh’s question as he walked.

“No, I lied. Sorry. I never thought anything like this could happen.”

Mike was coughing again. Max stared at the waters on the table, up at Jake, then stood up and walked over to the glass cabinet at the side of the room within which were stored numerous bottles of malt whisky. He took out one of the whiskies, several tumblers, and dropped the lot heavily onto the coffee table.

Paul blinked as he stared down at the bottle, then swore under his breath. He poured 5 large glasses for everyone.

“Ice?”

Paul’s words were more command than request.

“Sure,” said Jake, returning once more to the kitchen.

The others took the opportunity to look around the apartment. It was clearly an expensive one, far beyond the price range of any of them. The taxi that had taken them here had dropped them outside a gated apartment complex that screamed exclusivity and luxury, and they had used a private elevator to reach this place, a few floors up.

The apartment itself was sparsely decorated, but with style. The main living area had the aforementioned glass coffee table and several black sculpted chairs around it, and in one corner a long, right-angled floor-level sofa facing a large and incredibly thin television. Everything was either a deep, glossy black or pure white, including the compact kitchen attached. A single door led into what they assumed was the bedroom.

Max whistled, impressed.

“How in the hell do you have a place in Kensington, Jake?” he asked.

They sank their whiskies as Jake sat down, Paul refilling them and finishing off another in short order.

“It’s not technically my place,” he replied.

“Not yours? Where the hell are we?”

“Well, it is my place, but I don’t own it, is what I mean. My… employers provide it. I have a couple more places like this around the world.”

Curiosity overcame exhaustion as the others turned to him.

“And who are your employers, might we ask?” said Mike.

“I guess I can say… the government.” Jake looked warily around, but he knew that this amount of detail was safe enough.

“Riiight. So, you’re a spy?” said Paul.

“A facilitator, I sometimes say.”

“A spy,” repeated Paul.

“If you like. But probably not in the sense you mean. Not to be rude, but I’m not sure if you have even the slightest idea what you are talking about. Besides, I couldn’t tell you much even if I thought I should. Those I report to are not nice people, and wouldn’t like it if they found out I’d been blabbing. Just think of me as a civil servant.”

“A civil servant! C’mon man, you just shivved a guy in the leg so many times he blacked out! I’ve never seen that going on in Westminster.”

Max’s tone was light and jokey, but his trembling hands and nervous gulps of his drink betrayed how shaken up he really was. The others, too, were uniformly wide-eyed and pale. Jake knew they must be struggling through the shock.

“Look, I do things that wouldn’t look good, and couldn’t be done, if they were public, but they’re necessary. This world isn’t the happy-go-lucky place most people delude themselves into thinking it is.”

“Don’t shit us! Who are you these days? Who were those two back at the uni?”

This was Mike, his voice risen in anger and shock.

"I have no idea, and I don't like that. So, what I'm going to do is, I'm going to leave you here, and I'm going to find out. You will be safe here, nobody followed us and no-one knows this location, and if I'm not back in a few hours you can leave."

Paul knocked back another tumbler and slammed the glass on the table. Glancing up his expression changed to one of puzzlement and concern. He pointed a shaking finger at Jake's side.

"You're bleeding."

Indeed he was, as Jake noticed when he lifted up his left lapel. His white shirt was soaked in blood at the waist, though it was already crusted and dried. A hole was barely visible at his side in the mess through his shirt.

"It's nothing," Jake said, trying to wave it away.

"Nothing!? You've been shot!" Josh cried.

"It must have just grazed me. Look, the blood's dry."

Jake tried to show them the shirt from an angle that hid the entry wound itself, but failed. Mike leaned in closer as the others looked on.

"You have a bullet hole in your gut, Jake. The hole goes right in your side. How are you not bleeding out?"

"I... heal fast, alright. I got the bullet out in the kitchen."

Mike stood up with a look of suspicion on his face, walking over and behind the kitchen counter. He bent down and out of view for a few seconds, then came up holding a handful of crumpled, red-stained tissues. Walking back to the group, he dropped the tissues onto the table where they landed with the clink of metal on glass.

"Nobody heals from a gut wound like that. You got anything else you want to tell us?"

"I..."

Jake's words were cut short at the rattle of an automatic weapon from somewhere outside, the windows of his house cracking and splintering in a thunderous noise that almost drowned out the sound of bullets impacting the walls and furnishings.

Diving back into the kitchen he quickly opened the cupboard below the sink and ripped up the wooden slat at its bottom, revealing a sleek black rifle. Grabbing it and clicking the switch from full automatic to burst he came up firing, sending bullets flying out into the dawn light.

Over there...

He bit his tongue as he held the rifle to his shoulder, sighting on the building the other side of the road from which he'd spotted the muzzle-flare.

He stopped firing after three controlled bursts, crouching behind the counter and waiting for any reply. None came, the silence broken only by flakes of mortar falling from the walls.

"Everyone ok?" he called.

"Jesus Christ..." came Max's voice.

"I thought you said this place was safe," came Mike's.

Paul just let out an incomprehensible mumble.

"Josh? Josh, you there?"

Jake waited for a response.

He peered over the counter to see the three who had responded sprawled down on the floor where they could, Mike and Max taking cover behind the sofa... too thin to provide any protection... and Paul's face just visible through the doorway to the bedroom where he must have dived.

He didn't spot Josh for a few more seconds.

"Shit, Josh..."

Jake ran over to the side of the now splintered coffee table where Josh had fallen, glass underneath him. He had been shot straight through the neck, blood flowing through his fingers in rhythmic bursts as he silently gasped at the ceiling.

The others crawled over and watched impotently as Josh's movements weakened and his eyes dimmed. He died seconds later.