The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  Archer tossed the empty pistol aside and snatched up the Dixie boy’s gun. It was a stainless Walther PPK/S like his partner’s. He kicked the Dixie boy in the ribs, getting his attention.

  ‘You’ve got about a minute to fill me in,’ he said coldly, pointing the gun at the boy’s face.

  The boy groaned in pain and shifted his gaze.

  ‘Who are you working for? The Saudis? IRA?’

  The boy groaned again and Archer kicked him harder.

  ‘Who’s calling the shots, kid? The Agency?’

  The boy struggled to focus through his pain, and bared his bloodied teeth.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he croaked, blood smeared on his teeth as he grimaced, ‘and fuck that nigger boy too.’

  Archer ground his foot down on the boy’s kneecap, producing a squeal. The Dixie boy grabbed for his knee with his uninjured hand, leaving his broken wrist exposed. Archer’s foot was on it in a second, first applying light pressure. The merc squealed again and Archer pressed harder.

  ‘Talk or I’ll fuck you up completely,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll be wiping your arse and jerking off with one hand till the day you die.’

  ‘Fuck man.’ The Dixie boy flailed weakly at Archer’s leg. ‘C’mon man, you’re fuckin’ cripplin’ me!’

  ‘Not yet, but I will. Who’re you working for? Who organised all this?’ Archer knew he wouldn’t have much time.

  The Dixie boy tossed his head at the still form of his boss. ‘He knows man, ask him.’

  ‘He’s out cold; I’m asking you.’

  ‘I dunno man, he’s the boss. I’m just a grunt, man.’ His eyes were wet and pleading as Archer trod harder on his shattered wrist, grinding the broken bone under his sole. The merc’s face was a sickly shade of pale green. ‘C’mon man! I need a fuckin’ doctor, I’m no use to you.’

  Archer’s head twitched slightly in acceptance. ‘That’s true.’

  He calmly shot him between the eyes. The body convulsed then lay twitching. The right leg drummed a brief solo on the floor.

  24

  Archer checked the sergeant’s pulse; out for the count.

  He quickly searched all three bodies, retrieving cell phones and wallets, before wiping down both pistols. He carefully placed them back in their respective owner’s hands.

  Moving to the front of the unit he cracked open the pedestrian door beside the main roller and listened. Sirens sounded some way off, but closer in he could hear the roar of car engines being pushed hard, less than a click away.

  He swung on the chain to raise the roller door, gathered his own belongings and the items he’d seized from his captors, and fired up the cab.

  Within seconds of reaching the main road a Police car flew by him towards the industrial units, another couple only seconds behind it. He spotted a chopper approaching as well and maintained a steady speed as he made his way back towards the city. He tried calling Moore several times on the way, but every time it went straight to voicemail. He left a short message wanting a call back.

  Tucking his phone away, he debated passing the details of the Yank team back to Jedi. Instinct told him to hold back just yet, at least until he’d spoken to Moore and knew the lay of the land.

  For now, he was on his own. He dumped the cab in a Tower Hamlets side road and walked away, covering a mile before hailing a cab to Euston station.

  Two further cab rides took Archer back to Marble Arch, where he spent another half hour scouring the block for a back up team. Finding none, and with his heart rate back under control, he ducked into the closest pub and ordered a large Scotch on the rocks.

  The barmaid was a busty brunette with French nails and a cheeky grin. Her name tag said Becky. She let her fingers linger on his as she gave him his change. Archer knocked half the drink back and let the peaty warmth slide down his throat into his gut.

  So much for a quiet dinner out, he reflected, realising he was still hungry. Instead of a hot pot and a pint he’d killed two men, maimed a third and probably started an international incident.

  He caught the barmaid’s eye and asked for a bar menu.

  ‘Kitchen’s closed sorry love,’ she said, leaning forward on the bar and giving him a full view of her plentiful cleavage. ‘Closed at eight.’ She glanced over her shoulder to check for the manager and gave him the cheeky grin. ‘I could probably whip something up for you though, if you give me twenty minutes.’

  Archer nodded. ‘Sweet, I’ll wait.’ He drained his tumbler and slid another twenty across the bar. He let his eyes linger on her cleavage, knowing she was watching him. ‘I’ll need another drink to cool down.’

  The tops of her breasts shook as she gave a throaty chuckle. ‘No problem.’

  He took the fresh drink to a corner booth and nursed it while he waited, surveying the punters around him. Nobody gave off any warning signals, and no matter how often he checked his phone, Moore didn’t call back.

  Becky brought him a plate of butter chicken on microwaved rice with a garlic naan, and was hailed back to the bar by a punter before she could speak. She rolled her eyes, gave Archer a wink and sauntered back to the bar, tossing him a look over her shoulder as she did so. She was not thin but had a roll to her hips that he liked.

  The sauce was from a jar and the food had been reheated, but he ate hungrily, mopping his plate with the naan and sitting back with a satisfied sigh. Becky returned and cleared the plate, bending over close enough for him to smell her dusky perfume. There was no mistaking her intentions.

  ‘I knock off in an hour,’ she told him, a glint in her eye and her voice soft in his ear. ‘You fancy sticking around for a bit?’

  Archer smiled and nodded. ‘Maybe I should.’ He gave her his empty tumbler. ‘Better make that a pint then.’

  She disappeared and he rubbed his face. The alcohol and the downer after the adrenaline wore off were making him tired. He needed a pick-me-up. He was planning his night with the busty Becky when his phone buzzed. The caller ID showed Private Number.

  Expecting Moore, he was surprised to hear a female’s voice when he answered.

  ‘Craig, it’s Tracy Spencer. We’ve got a goer, he’s coming early. I’ll pick you up in forty five minutes.’

  He was silent as he absorbed the news.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah...yeah, I’m here. See you in forty five.’

  He disconnected and moved for the door, focussed now on the job at hand. Becky intercepted him before he got there, looking confused.

  ‘Oi, what you playin’ at? I thought...’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.’ He smiled what he hoped was apologetically. ‘Work called me in, sorry.’

  ‘Whatev’s.’ She tossed her hair dismissively and turned away. ‘Your loss, love.’

  Archer stepped after her and whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t you worry, love, I’ll see you again.’ Her musk filled his nostrils and she pressed back against him.

  He squeezed her arm and went for the door.

  25

  Tracy slid to the kerb in a non-descript gunmetal grey Saab 9000 Turbo exactly forty five minutes later.

  Archer slung his bags in the boot beside hers and took the passenger seat. A pair of service station coffees sat in the cup holder.

  ‘I figured I should make it worth your while to get pulled away at this time of night,’ she said apologetically as she accelerated away. ‘You look like a long black kind of a bloke.’

  ‘Any coffee’s good coffee,’ he replied, buckling himself in.

  She was heavy on both pedals and used the automatic gears as if they were manual. He steadied himself before taking his coffee. It was hot and strong and the aroma alone was enough to give him a boost.

  Tracy smelled of a popular perfume he couldn’t quite place, warm spicy vanilla, and was dressed for work in jeans and a thermal top. She turned the radio down as they headed for the M25.

  ‘Boyle’s coming over tomorrow night. I had a call from the informant, he’s due at hers
by dawn – he’s promised her a dawn breaker to remember.’

  Archer nodded and savoured a mouthful of coffee. It always tasted better when you were drinking with a girl, he reflected. ‘Is this normal for him to come at the last minute?’ he asked.

  Tracy’s strong hands worked the gears and wheel as she took the motorway on ramp at speed. Archer slipped his cup back into the holder for safe keeping. Tracy noticed and grinned.

  ‘Not scared are you? I thought all you triggermen were tough as nails?’

  Triggermen? If only you knew.

  He grunted. ‘The only things that scare me are women drivers and the tax man.’

  Tracy hit the fast lane and held a steady ninety, reaching for her own cup. Archer passed it to her, pausing to sniff the mouth of it first.

  ‘Cappuccino? No...long black with sweetener.’

  ‘Well done.’ She sipped it appreciatively. ‘And yes, it’s not uncommon for him to come over at short notice. He always contacts her though, to make sure she doesn’t have any other commitments first.’ She snorted. ‘He’s considerate like that.’

  ‘What a catch. By commitments I take it you mean clients?’

  ‘Mostly. She also plays bridge in a local club though, and visits her gran most days.’

  ‘And enjoys moonlit walks on the beach and Tom Hanks rom-coms,’ Archer replied.

  Tracy shot him a sideways glance. ‘Wow, heavy on the sarcasm there, Kiwi.’

  ‘Kiwi? Really?’ He smiled, enjoying her sassiness.

  ‘I’m working with that for now. Colonial’s a bit of a mouthful, Antipodean’s even worse.’ She frowned as she overtook a lorry with one hand on the wheel. ‘And what’s an Antipodean, anyway? Does anyone actually ever go to the Antipodes?’

  ‘Not since early last century. Or maybe around the forties, when we had to save the Poms’ sorry arse. Again.’

  Tracy grinned at his needling. ‘Pom? Is that the best you can do? It doesn’t even mean anything anyway.’

  ‘Prisoner of Mother England,’ he said. ‘Means you’re all still tied to the monarchy with floral apron strings.’

  They fell into a comfortable silence for a time, and Archer let his mind wander back to the events earlier in the evening. It still puzzled him what the motive was for the American mercenaries. If they were working for the Yank government, the CIA or DIA or whoever, they could have just leaned on his own bosses or the Brits and taken over the mission lock stock and barrel.

  No, the back door tactics didn’t fly with that scenario. In the War on Terror, the US got their own way, no issues there. Everything he knew to date indicated something different entirely. There was a different puppet master pulling the strings on this one, somebody unofficial but with significant clout; PMCs did not come cheap.

  Archer turned his mind to the men themselves, the men he’d killed without batting an eyelid. He felt no remorse at all, not a drop. They were cold blooded killers themselves; they knew the score. If it wasn’t them it would’ve been him. Two lay dead and the leader, Carl, faced a lot of difficult questions from the police followed by a life with a crippled arm.

  Archer took a certain malevolent satisfaction from knowing he’d taken them out of the game, particularly the Dixie boy who’d murdered Bula so long ago. He’d gone through all three cell phones, and found they were clearly all burn phones; cheap prepays used for a job then discarded. He’d recorded all the numbers out of them – no saved contacts – and emailed them to himself to check later.

  He wondered again why Moore hadn’t got back to him, and checked his phone. No missed calls, no messages. He tucked it away and watched Tracy in his peripheral vision. She drove with confidence and seemed more at ease now, even excited, without Matthew Livingstone looking over her shoulder.

  He liked her enthusiasm and so far she seemed competent. Time would tell. He had to admit he found her attractive in the way women in the armed forces often were – for some reason guns and girls could be an intoxicating blend. But as with any mission Archer felt nervous anticipation about the task ahead of them, and this was increased by the unknown factor of Tracy.

  He was used to working with highly trained men, combat veterans who had been proven under fire. He’d never gone into the field with a woman in tow, let alone a female spy. It made him feel uneasy. After a time they stopped at a service centre for more coffee and sandwiches and a rest stop for Tracy.

  While he waited for the coffee order he tried calling Moore again, but still got his voicemail. He left another message and scoffed his sandwiches while he waited. He bought some bottled water, chocolate bars and energy drinks as well, and took the lot back to the car. He quickly checked the boot to make sure nothing had been disturbed – he’d just had time after Tracy’s call to go and fetch his bag from the locker where Moore had stashed it, and had beaten Tracy back to the hotel by barely a minute. He had no intention of giving her a heads up on his weaponry just yet.

  When Tracy returned he cheerily offered to drive so she could eat.

  He had no doubt she’d seen through the flimsy excuse but she handed the keys over anyway and eased back the passenger seat. She took a sip of her cup and gave him a surprised look.

  ‘Hot chocolate? What am I, eighty? Is this Horlicks?’

  Archer smiled. ‘Too much caffeine and you won’t sleep. I need you rested when we get there. We won’t get a second chance at this.’

  Tracy didn’t reply, burrowing instead into the plastic bag of food. She came out with a Yorkie bar and held it up questioningly. ‘Just think of yourself then, won’t you?’

  Archer looked confused.

  ‘Not for girls,’ she explained. ‘I can’t have that, I might hurt myself. You obviously haven’t seen the ad.’

  She half grinned then and Archer relaxed, feeling the last of the ice break. He eased back onto the highway and accelerated hard, wanting to make time so they were in place well before Boyle arrived. Tracy was soon asleep and Archer settled into the drive, enjoying the almost empty rural highways and the power of the Saab.

  He mentally ran through risks and potential tactics as he drove, but it was difficult to assess without knowing the real details of the mission. The glaringly obvious risk to him right now was his partner, who was stirring from sleep. She cranked the seat up and rubbed her eyes.

  As if reading his thoughts, Tracy glanced sideways and caught him looking away.

  ‘Worried?’ she asked.

  ‘Not worried,’ he replied. ‘Just working it through in my head.’

  ‘It’ll be alright,’ she told him with the hint of a smile. ‘I am trained, you know.’

  Archer grunted and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘I joined the Army from school,’ she told him, and reaching for her coffee as he dropped into the middle lane. ‘My Dad was a soldier, did all the usuals for his generation – the Falklands, Northern Ireland, the first Gulf War. I grew up on Army bases in the UK and Germany. I couldn’t wait to join when I was a kid, listening to his stories and meeting his mates. I spent a lot of time hanging round the bases soaking it all in.’ She laughed. ‘I liked playing war more than my brother. He went and became a doctor and I spent ten years as an MP.’

  Archer said nothing, draining his coffee instead and staring out the window at the darkness beyond the highway.

  ‘So where exactly are we going?’ he asked finally. ‘Cornwall’s a big place.’

  Tracy was silent for a moment, as if weighing up her answer. ‘We’re going to Hampshire first,’ she replied, ‘the Firm’s got a little place on the coast.’

  26

  The description of “a little place on the coast” was misleading at best.

  Fort Monckton was an ancient fort perched on a cliff top, overlooking Stokes Bay in Gosport. They swapped drivers again before they got there and Tracy seemed to follow her nose in the darkness.

  A civilian security guard met them at a barrier arm on the approach road and Tracy buzzed her window down, letting in a blast o
f cold air. After checking her credentials he stepped back from the car and spoke into a walkie talkie, presumably calling his ops base. Archer and Tracy silently watched him as he frowned and listened before coming back to the window.

  ‘Sorry madam,’ he said in a broad West Country burr, ‘but alternative arrangements have been made for you.’

  Tracy frowned. ‘Are you sure? I wasn’t aware...we’re supposed to be meeting here.’

  ‘Sorry madam,’ he repeated, and gave Archer a furtive glance. ‘I’ve been told to redirect you to the Holiday Inn at Portsmouth. Reservations have been made...’

  He glanced at Archer again and looked uncomfortable. Archer scowled and shook his head in frustration. ‘Was that from Mr Livingstone?’ he said pointedly, and the guard shrugged non-committally.

  ‘’Fraid I don’t know, sir. I just gets me orders like.’

  ‘So much for trust and co-operation,’ Archer muttered darkly.

  Tracy said nothing, just buzzed the window up and did a quick J-turn before heading back the way they’d come. Archer expected her to stop and call Livingstone and when she continued driving instead, he broke the tense silence.

  ‘Is this normal?’ he asked. She stayed focussed on the road ahead as she nosed towards the Holiday Inn.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she replied finally, ‘it’s no big deal.’

  Archer snorted. ‘It kind of is, really, when you get invited into the club but aren’t allowed into the clubhouse.’

  ‘It’s not like that. He’s not trying to exclude you.’

  ‘Course he is, he’s an arrogant snob. Doesn’t anyone ever question Golden Boy Livingstone, or is that just not the done thing in your outfit?’

  Tracy threw him an angry glance. ‘Nobody needs to question him, because he’s bloody good at his job. He’s the go-to guy for us, and this is a huge opportunity for me to be able to work with him. You should look at it the same way – you might actually learn something.’