by Angus McLean
‘Fuck!’
Archer sprinted forward now, hands in the air, shouting, ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’
He got to the roadway and the Humvee emptied out. The gunslinger who had shot Bula darted towards him with his carbine raised, ready to finish him, convinced he had taken a Taleban down.
‘Stand down you fuckin’ moron!’ Jacko bellowed at him, debussing with Grunter, both of them wise enough to leave their AKs behind.
The gunner swung his rifle towards them then paused as the two white men confronted him. His gaze went back to where Bula lay still in the dust.
‘What the hell...’
He never finished his sentence because Grunter seized him by the throat with one big mitt and stripped him of his weapon with the other. He lifted the other guy onto his tip-toes and tossed the carbine aside.
Jacko went to Bula and Archer reached them just as the vehicle commander, a young surfer looking dude, pointed a rifle at Grunter’s head.
‘Stand down, boy,’ he drawled, calm and quiet. ‘Do it now.’
Grunter tossed the gunner aside like a rag doll and stepped back, hands raised and his face as impassive as ever. Jacko stood and came over. He had blood on his hands and rage in his eyes.
‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly. He raised his hands to shoulder height, showing the blood on his hands to the Americans.
Archer sucked in a breath through his nose and felt grit in his eyes. The American squad were facing them, guns raised. Compared to his own team, these guys were the stereotypical private contractors in a company uniform of desert boots, sand khakis and navy blue polos, all with fingerless gloves, baseball caps and wrap around shades. Their armour vests were loaded with radios, spare mags and bulging pouches.
Archer recognised them straight away as Black Star operators. Known on the circuit as Death Star due to the high number of lives they both lost and took, they had a terrible reputation for questionable contacts. A couple of their guys were awaiting trial for wiping out an unarmed family in Fallujah the previous year. They were the last guys he wanted to tangle with when everyone was already hot under the collar.
He knew for a fact that many of their guys were either shell shocked vets who should never have been trusted with a gun again, or former soldiers who had been dishonourably discharged. Drug use was apparently rife among their ranks and allegations of looting had been made.
‘We’re private security,’ he told the team leader, ‘we’ve got clients on board and got hit by a couple of IEDs. We’ve got one KIA and a casualty on board; we could do with a medic.’
His gaze shifted to the gunner who’d shot Bula, standing aside rubbing his throat and eyeing Grunter resentfully.
‘Now we’ve got two KIAs, thanks to you.’
‘Ahh thought he’s a Taleban,’ the guy whined to his commander. ‘All them rag heads look the same, sarge.’
‘He’s Fijian, you fuckin’ Dixie inbreed,’ Jacko growled, his nostrils flaring.
The gunner also flared, and stepped forward.
‘Who you callin’ inbreed, boy?’
‘Sergeant, call him off,’ Archer warned, deliberately using the team leader’s previous rank. He put a hand on Jacko’s arm. ‘Leave it Jacko.’
‘Private!’
‘I ain’t no Dixie...’
They were nearly toe to toe now.
‘Sergeant, control your man,’ Archer said forcefully, taking a step forward.
Jacko’s fist flashed out and flattened the young gunner’s nose across his face, and Archer moved between them, pushing them both back. He turned, holding Jacko back, just in time to catch a jab from the gunner in the side of his face.
He shook it off, opened his mouth to speak again, and took another jab.
Enough’s enough.
His own right uppercut came up full force and collected the Black Star gunman under his jaw, lifting him onto his toes and knocking him backwards with his eyes rolling back in his head.
A rifle butt smashed into the side of Archer’s skull and everything went black.
2
The Landon Hotel in downtown Auckland had played host to many notable politicians, celebrities and members of royalty over the years.
For the last month it had also played host to Yassar Al-Riyaz, accompanied by a team of minders and an ongoing procession of highly paid whores. Yassar occupied the penthouse suite, ate his meals either in his room or in nearby top flight restaurants, and spent big at the casino. He bought the piles of meth that his whores smoked and ordered cases of champagne like it was soft drink.
Yassar was a peripheral member of the Saudi royal family, which didn’t allow him a title but gave him plenty of insight into the machinations of terrorism and worldwide criminal enterprises. Even in a notoriously corrupt family, Yassar’s branch was acknowledged as something else. Unlike more high profile members of the family they made no attempt to hide their criminality, earning millions of tax-free dollars providing services to whoever could pay the bill; terrorists, drug dealers, people smugglers, it didn’t matter. Cash was king and no questions were asked.
The minders were part of his father’s crew, and as such Yassar trusted them like he would trust a cornered viper. He knew they fed intel back to his father on his every move, keeping the patriarch up to date with every latest development and scandal in his youngest son’s embarrassing journey.
It annoyed him that he had no option but to keep them on; with no income of his own, Yassar relied on his father to fund his debauchery, while his older brothers actively contributed to the family business.
Until, that was, Yassar finally found his own niche a few short months ago. His financial sense was a family trait, but it was only from necessity that Yassar extended himself. A former IRA moneyman had approached him via another contact and struck a deal to supply arms to African guerrilla groups.
Yassar had begun siphoning off weapons from the shipments his elder brother Kali was shipping to Eastern Europe. A few crates of AK-47s here, a few crates of RPGs there. The money came in and the weapons went out. Before too long Yassar was getting bolder and approaching suppliers himself, undercutting his brother and even supplying weapons to the opponents of Kali’s customers.
Everything was fair in business, he reasoned, until Kali stuck a .45 in his mouth and warned him in no uncertain terms to cease and desist immediately. Their father’s answer was to send Yassar to New Zealand in disgrace to stay out of the way while Kali negotiated a particularly sensitive deal.
Sitting on the massive bed in his suite, Yassar stared at the laptop screen on his knees. The instant message in front of him was from his business partner, Patrick Boyle. They used private chat rooms to communicate, knowing that emails and phones were easily monitored. In coded speak the message outlined that the deal was ready to go as soon as Yassar replied. A shipment of heavy machine guns, mortars, rockets, ammunition and various other pieces of ordnance were currently in the bowels of a Burmese container ship bound for the Sudan.
Boyle had the ship’s captain in his pocket and could divert the shipment to Somalia at a phone call. A Somalian warlord was eager to take the shipment himself and had an electronic transfer waiting for the push of a button.
The diversion would immediately scuttle Kali’s deal, which would cause untold grief within the family, and probably a forthwith recall to face the music. Yassar sighed heavily, uncertain. A trickle of sweat ran down his bare chest. Despite Boyle’s assurances that nobody would know of his involvement, he was certain that he would immediately be the prime suspect.
He knew of the arrangements and had passed the details to Boyle, who took care of the business end of things. He did not relish facing his father over this, or for that matter, Kali himself.
On the flipside however, pushing the button right now would net Yassar ten million pounds sterling of his own. Ten million pounds. Chickenfeed in Saudi terms but with that he could hide for a time while he went into business proper with Boyle. The man was
smart and had plenty of contacts; together they could make a real fortune.
Yassar slowly typed a reply in the dialogue box.
Looking forward to catching up soon.
His trembling finger hovered over the Enter button. His heart beat wildly and he closed his eyes for a moment, procrastinating over probably the biggest decision of his life.
Fuck it, he decided. Kali can go to hell. He’s not the only smart one in our family.
He hit Enter and sat back from the laptop, taking a deep breath.
A few seconds later a new dialogue box opened up from Boyle’s end. No words, just a smiley face.
Yassar smiled despite his nerves and pushed the computer away. He felt better now. Bolder. More in control.
He clapped his hands happily and climbed off the bed. He was completely naked and needed a shower. But before that, he needed a release.
‘Where are you, my lovely?’ he called.
A few moments later the bedroom door opened and an equally naked blonde woman entered. She had implants and a Brazilian, a snake tattoo around her left ankle and a pierced navel. Her name was Brittany and she’d spent the last three days in the suite, satisfying Yassar’s every whim in the filthiest possible ways.
He ran his eye appreciatively over her body and felt a stirring within. She came to him and ran a long fingernail through his wispy chest hair.
‘What would you like, sweetie pie?’ she cooed. Her finger continued down and lightly brushed his member, causing him to twitch. ‘Hmmm...I think I have an idea...’
As she dropped to her knees in front of him, Yassar ran a hand through her long hair and wondered how many of these he could buy with ten million pounds.
3
Archer woke in a sweat, his heart racing and his mind swimming with thoughts he couldn’t grasp hold of, images that darted out of sight before he could see them. But he knew what they were.
He stared at the ceiling above him in the darkness, the fan circling lazily to keep the temperature down in the mid-summer heat. The sheets around him were wet and smelled dank. His hair was wet and his bare skin was slick with it. The figure in the bed beside him was sleeping soundly, oblivious to his unrest.
Archer rolled silently from the bed and padded across the floor out to the kitchen. The moonlight bathed the back yard of the beach house and he stared out the window over the sink as he drained a glass of water. He refilled it and drank again, his pulse gradually slowing and his breathing returning to normal.
He took another draught of water and spilled some on his chin, letting the coolness dribble down into the hair on his chest. A light came on behind him and he saw her reflection in the kitchen window, leaning on the doorjamb, watching him. Long thick brown hair curled down to slim shoulders. The checked flannelette shirt was filled out nicely at the front and barely covered the womanly curve of her hips.
Archer heard her sigh and watched her cock her head to one side as she always did. He topped up the glass of water before turning to face her, unashamedly naked, neither of them at all self-conscious. He studied her silhouette, taking his time to work his way down her body and back up again, feeling her watching him throughout.
‘Trouble sleeping?’ she asked when his eyes again met hers.
Archer nodded silently, pushed himself away from the bench and moved to her, standing close enough to inhale her scent without touching her. Her hand came up to his chest and she ran her fingers through the hair there, reaching up and cupping his neck, drawing him down closer. Their lips met briefly before she pulled back again.
‘Come to bed,’ she told him, turning and leading the way back into the bedroom. Archer heard the bed creak as she lay down again, and he wondered fleetingly at the sense of what he was doing. She was a neighbour and friend, an occasional lover. Nothing more. But it was enough for him right now.
He followed her back to bed.
4
The Monaro was the 2005 model, a fire engine red VZ CV8 with a 346 cubic inch 5.7 litre V8. It drank petrol and rumbled like Muhammad Ali, but it was sleek and powerful and Archer loved driving it. It ate up the roads from his home in the small east coast town of Beachlands, hugging the corners and powering the straights, growling with pleasure as he worked his way through all six speeds, gunning it and tweaking it in equal measure, taking absolute pleasure in the masculine joy of driving a fast car fast.
He took a back road south and got to Walters Road on the rural edge of Takanini, before pulling in the driveway of the Papakura Army Base. The security guard on the gate recognised the car and started lifting the barrier arm before Archer had even come to a stop, but made a point of looking at the ID card he was shown anyway.
Archer eased past the gate and into the camp proper, keeping his speed low as he made his way past the various administration buildings into the heart of the camp. It was quiet this morning, just the odd vehicle and jogger about. One squadron was overseas, and the other would be split between various training exercises and smaller team jobs. The Commandos would be in place as normal, training for counter-terrorism scenarios.
He reached Rennie Lines, the home of 1NZSAS Group, and parked the Monaro in the staff car parking area. Crossing to the solid steel entrance gates, Archer swiped his access card and punched a PIN into the keypad before the pedestrian gate buzzed open, banging closed behind him again.
He made his way into the HQ building, nodding to a couple of regulars as they walked past on the way to the gym. They nodded back, not recognising him but knowing he must be one of the brotherhood to be where he was. It was not uncommon for regulars like them to not know reservists like him. Like Archer, the rest of the small reserve unit were former ‘blades’ who had left the regular force but maintained their skills through training, exercises and where possible full operational deployments.
Passing through reception, Archer ignored the side corridor that led to the individual squadron Interest Rooms and bounded up the stairs instead. The Group Adjutant’s office was on the second floor along the corridor from the CO’s office, and was much smaller.
Archer entered without knocking first, pausing to do so only once he was inside. The Adjutant looked up, a young Major with already-receding hair and a youthful face.
‘Archie, good to see you,’ he enthused, standing to shake Archer’s hand.
Archer dropped into the chair across the desk and crossed his ankle over his knee.
‘How’re things, Troppo?’
The Major grinned and ran a hand through his hair. He was dressed in casual DPMs and had his hair longer than regulation length, as was normal with many operators. Troppo had gained his nickname years ago for catching not one but two tropical diseases while on an exercise in Asia, one having suspiciously similar symptoms to Chlamydia. It had taken quite some explaining to his new bride and was the subject of endless ribbing.
‘Good mate, good. Just gearing up some of the boys for a joint exercise with the cops. All the usual admin shite, you know how it is.’
Archer did know, and it made him pleased he had never been an Adjutant. He’d done six years in the Group, starting with the standard couple of years as a Troop Commander after which he was expected to move into an admin role.
Operations had been his thing though, and with the commitments in Afghanistan he’d managed to stay in the thick of it for much longer than most officers. He had persuaded the CO to leave him running Mountain Troop then, when a vacancy rose on Air Troop, Archer had slid sideways into that.
It had caused ripples among some of the officers but Archer didn’t care; he wanted trigger time. Tours to Afghanistan and Asia had been complemented by a controversial attachment to 22 for a year, allowing him to also go to Iraq, among other theatres. Much longer than the normal “long look” attachment, it had been experimental and highly sought after by more senior officers.
Archer had ended his tour as the most experienced, and the most decorated, Troop Commander in the unit. Refusing further promotion back to the r
egular force, where he would have to take his chances later against more administratively-minded sorts if he wanted to fight for one of the two Sabre Squadron Commander positions when they came up, he had instead gone private. The lure of high pay and higher risk had been too much to resist, and he had loved it until the day Bula died.
He shook the thought from his head angrily and focussed on the officer across the desk from him, who was still talking.
‘So the Old Man wanted to see you about something,’ he was saying, referring to the CO, ‘he’s got someone in with him but wanted you to go in as soon as you arrived.’
‘Is that why I get a text from you at 7 in the morning?’ Archer asked with some puzzlement, and Troppo grinned.
‘Why, did you have company?’
Archer cracked a smile himself, reflecting briefly on the night that had past.
‘How is that neighbour of yours, anyway?’
Archer ignored the question and headed for the door.
‘I better go and see the Old Man; no doubt he knows I’m here already.’
He made his way to the end of the hall, passing the mounted portraits of previous commanders reaching back to Major Frank Rennie in 1955. The current CO was the latest addition to the rogue’s gallery, as it was known among the ruperts, and had been commander of the Group since partway through Archer’s tenure.
Archer rapped on the solid oak door and paused, receiving a sharp ‘Enter’ from within. Stepping into the large office, Archer saw the CO standing by the window in full DPMs including the Group’s bright blue stable belt. He was a tall, broad man with a slight stoop due to arthritis in his neck, prematurely grey and with a slight paunch. Word had it he was near the end of his term and in waiting for the top job in the Army.
He turned his head as Archer entered and nodded.
‘Morning Craig,’ he said, running a quick eye over the newcomer, noting the casual cargo pants and polo shirt. They seemed out of place in the office of perhaps the most powerful man in the military, but were commonplace in such a unit.
