Red Mist

by Angus McLean

  ‘You’re on your own with that, Pen,’ Molly said with a smile, still blowing hard.

  Penny paused, half looked towards her then looked away again. Her long red hair was tied back, but the peak of her cap hid her face. Molly watched, waiting for her to drop down, but her friend didn’t move. She stayed in position and in a moment her arms started to tremble.

  Molly got her breath under control. Penny slowly moved to her knees, her hands still on the grass and her head lowered. Her shoulders were shaking. She sat back and put her hands to her face, wiping at her eyes. She lowered her hands and looked at Molly. Tears ran freely down both glowing cheeks and she made no attempt to stop the flow.

  ‘I’m on my own,’ she rasped, and Molly felt an instant stab of regret at her choice of words.

  Penny’s face crumpled and a sob forced its way up from deep within her soul, heaving her chest and escaping with an animal-like grunt. Tears came thick and fast and she rocked on her knees. Molly dropped beside her, took her friend in her arms and pulled her close, feeling hot tears on her skin as she cradled Penny’s head to her shoulder and shushed her softly.

  They stayed that way until the well ran dry and Penny gave a big sniff. Molly touched her friend’s cheek tenderly and wiped away a wet streak with her thumb.

  ‘It will get better,’ she said gently, ’I know it sucks right now, but it will get better.’

  Penny gave a sad nod and tried to smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she croaked. ‘You’re right-it does suck.’

  Molly helped her up and shook out her legs. The jelly had solidified and she had retreated from the brink of death.

  ‘At least we caught our breath,’ she said, giving Penny her trademark dazzling smile.

  Molly’s smile was a force of nature, powerful enough to melt a heart or build a bridge. Like most people, Penny couldn’t help but smile in return.

  ‘Race ya to the road,’ she said, and took off down the hill.

  Molly groaned inwardly and gave chase. She had no doubt that, without even trying, Penny was going to be taking the gold on this one.

  Chapter Four

  The sun was setting on the horizon, gold and red and orange filtering across the Tasman towards Piha.

  Lion Rock jutted out from the beach, ruggedly proud and foreboding, a rugged sentinel guarding the shore. Seagulls swooped and coasted on the warm evening air currents.

  Ace stood on the rocks at the northern end of the beach, bracing the butt of his surfcaster against his hip with one hand. The waves were crashing on the rocks a few metres away and he kept a watchful eye out, wary of the freak that would snatch him to a watery death.

  He was using pipi today and had a decent sized snapper in the chilly bin beside him. He was keen to get a second one before dark, then he would be on his way.

  It was quiet here, not another soul around apart from an old Maori boy further down with a rod in his hands and a pipe clamped between his remaining teeth. Ace could smell the smoke as it drifted on the wind.

  It reminded him of his grandfather, a war veteran who said little but knew a lot. He had worked on the railways after the war, then came home to tend to his garden and potter in the shed while his wife fussed after the kids and got dinner ready. Grandad would smoke a pipe every evening while he sat in his old armchair and read by the light of a candle. His Scottish blood stopped him from using the electricity too much.

  Ace’s Dad wasn’t around a lot when he was a kid, so the young Ace had spent a lot of time with his grandparents. He liked it-Nana always spoilt him with baking, there were trees to climb and occasionally Grandad would tell him stories from the war. The next day Ace would act the stories out himself, battling Germans or Italians with a plastic rifle and throwing pine cone hand grenades into imaginary bunkers.

  Ace’s mind drifted to his parents. The waves continued to roll in, and he kept a careful finger on the braid, sensitive to any nibbles.

  His father had been an itinerant worker at best after his time in the Army. Nana always said that he came back from Vietnam a changed man. The long hair, the nightmares, the inability to hold a job. The drinking and violent outbursts.

  He had been an accomplished guitarist though and had gigged his way around the country and over to Oz, spending the remainder of the 70’s and most of the 80’s in a haze. On the infrequent trips home to his “family” he regaled the kids and his devoted/doting/dependent wife with great stories of jamming with Dragon and Hello Sailor, the Finns and Dave Dobbyn. He reckoned he’d dropped acid with Jimmy Barnes and debated politics with Peter Garrett.

  Ace had no idea who those people were until he was older, but it was always obvious where his name had come from. Ace Frehley, the original lead guitarist for Kiss, and his Dad’s long time hero.

  A twitch on the braid tore him back to reality and Ace readied himself, waiting. Another twitch, stronger, nibbling. He let it play, the fish having a good crack at the pipi before ripping at it.

  Ace gave it a jerk to set the hook and started cranking it in, the pole getting a good bend on as the fish gave it guts to get away. Ace loved fishing but he always felt a twinge of pity for the fish he caught. By the feel of it this was a big guy, a granddaddy who had survived a long time on the rocky west coast shoreline only for some joker with a pipi on a string to snag him.

  He continued reeling it in, sensing the fish getting tired the longer he struggled. It was just a matter of time and he was in no rush. The sun was sinking lower and the waves were picking up as the tide turned. He could see the fish now, thrashing just beneath the surface as he came to the rocks. Ace moved forward, still winding, and flicked him up onto land.

  It was a big fella alright, probably close to 10 pounds, and Ace could see the hook snagged good and proper through the corner of his mouth.

  He gripped the snapper with an old rag and freed the hook before standing, lifting the fish to look at him. The fish still thrashed, his mouth gaping open and shut. Ace left the rod behind and walked to the edge of the rocks, the remnants of a wave washing over his sneakers as he got closer. He tossed the snapper back into the tide and watched as he disappeared immediately, diving for cover among the rocks.

  The next wave sprayed his back as he gathered his gear. He stood and made his way back towards the beach, the evening really settling in now and the smell of pipe smoke strong in the air.

  The old Maori bloke was perched on a chilly bin, his rod in his hands. He wore a battered old hat with a feather in the band on one side and a bunch of hooks on the other.

  ‘Done, boy?’ he rasped as Ace got to him.

  ‘Yep,’ Ace said. ‘Home time for me, mate.’

  ‘I saw what you done there.’ The old boy gave an approving nod. ‘That was a good fish.’

  ‘Yep.’ Ace nodded. ‘Didn’t need it though.’

  ‘Aye.’ The old boy nodded too, giving a puff on his pipe, his soft brown eyes resting on Ace’s face. ‘Respect the kaimoana, boy, and feed our children’s children eh.’

  ‘You know it.’ Ace grinned. ‘Take care now.’

  ‘Aye.’ The old boy nodded again, and took another puff. ‘Kia ora.’

  Ace left him to his thoughts and the sea, and made his way back up the black sand to the parking area. A few cars were dotted around, a Kombi van with a peace symbol painted on the side and a Dutch flag draped in a rear window. He caught the whiff of cannabis smoke in the air. He carried on past, the water sloshing in the chilly bin.

  The Nova was sitting waiting, looking every inch the muscle car it was. A pair of surfers were stripping off their wetsuits beside a Hilux ute nearby and kept glancing at the red Nova, commenting to each other as they did so.

  Ace unlocked it, put the chilly bin and disassembled rod in the boot-he loved American cars but it was still a boot to him-and went to get in.

  ‘Hey bra,’ one of the surfers called out, shaking out his shaggy mop and pulling a T-shirt on. ‘That yours?’

  ‘Yeah mate.’ Ace opened the door
.

  ‘Mean. What’s under the hood?’

  Ace smiled inwardly at the guy’s terminology.

  ‘Three fifty V8,’ he replied.

  The surfer nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Wicked man, bet it goes mean as.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ace got in and closed the door. He wound the window down. The previous owner had converted it to a right hand drive, which suited Ace.

  The engine cranked to life with a deep rumble. The stereo sparked up at the same time. Springsteen’s Born to Run. He cranked it a notch higher, shot the surfer dudes a smile and a wave, and rumbled out of the car park. He could’ve chucked a donut but he didn’t; gravel would chip the paintwork, and Ace loved the paintwork.

  He got to the road, waited for a station wagon to go past, and pulled out. The V8 growled and Ace felt a familiar surge of excitement in his chest as the Nova leaped forward.

  A classic muscle car with classic rock music. It never got old.

  Born to Run was just winding to a close when he saw the headlights behind him, coming fast. First one then another, and another, until he could see at least six of them. Even from a glance he could see they were Harleys, and the way they were riding indicated they weren’t just bike enthusiasts out for a ride.

  A pack of wolves moves differently to a bunch of Labradoodles.

  Ace turned the stereo down, dug the phone out of his pocket and shoved it between his legs. His heart was pounding and his grip was tight on the wheel.

  The bikes got closer.

  Vikings. He could feel it without even laying eyes on them.

  It was windy country all around them, nowhere to go, no-one to help.

  The bikes got closer.

  Maybe they’d been staking him out, waiting for him. Maybe this was it. The final chapter for undercover officer Detective Ace Purcell.

  Ace set his jaw and pushed the panic back down. If this was it, so be it. But he would go down fighting.

  Keeping the wheel steady he reached over and popped open the glovebox. The compartment had a false back which he opened by pushing on a top corner and dropping the back panel aside. He checked the rear view mirror again. The bikes were maybe fifty back now, still coming.

  Ace’s fingers found the cold metal and closed around it. He brought the pistol over to his lap. It was an old Browning High Power 9mm, a dated but trusty semi auto that was supposed to have been destroyed. It had never quite made it to the scrap heap.

  He quickly racked the slide to chamber a round, knowing the magazine was full.

  As the bikes got up behind him, Ace kept the gun in his right hand, low on his thigh, his left gripping the wheel.

  The headlights were blindingly bright as the bikes surged forward, the first drawing up beside him as he took an easy corner and came onto a straight. The lead bike bolted past with a roar and he saw the patch on the rider’s back.

  The top rocker read Vikings, the bottom rocker Nomads.

  The patch itself was a crossed hammer and broadsword overlaid by a traditional horned helmet as worn by the Nordic marauders.

  The confirmation that it was them gave Ace a huge surge of adrenaline. He thumbed down the safety of the Browning and readied himself. He had two plans in mind for how he was going to react to the attack he knew was coming, and both invited sudden, violent action.

  As the moment of truth screamed up on him his mind went clear. His senses were quivering with anticipation and his hands were perfectly still.

  The second Harley barrelled past him closely followed by a third. Boxing him in; he could see it now.

  He lifted the Browning just below the level of the window sill, his left keeping the Nova steady on 105.

  The fourth bike went past then the final two came up, two abreast. They slowed fractionally and he sensed their eyes on him.

  They would be the gunners. He curled his finger around the trigger. He shot a quick glance to his right, saw a bearded face looking back at him from beneath the German-style helmet.

  The rider tossed his head as if to say “Hi,” then throttled past to catch up with the pack.

  With that they were gone, red taillights disappearing into the night as the riders took off at dangerous speeds.

  Ace let his breath out in a whoosh. He thumbed the safety back on the Browning, dropped it onto the passenger seat, and gradually slowed to a stop. He sat for a moment, the engine throbbing, the stereo faint in the background. There was no sign of another vehicle.

  He slipped it into Park and opened the door. The evening air was cool on his face as he got out. His legs felt like jelly as he made his way to the shoulder of the road. He reached the grass and leaned over, holding onto his knees with trembling hands.

  Ace vomited, tentatively at first then with gusto, a harsh burst that ripped at his gut. He emptied his stomach into the grass before straightening up, sucking down air and getting himself back under control.

  He stood in the darkness, listening to the thumping of his heart and the rumbling of the Nova’s big block. The birds in the trees had gone silent. Maybe they were scared of the loud bikes and the Detroit steel. Maybe they sensed something darker.

  The thought that he had been about to die seemed surreal. The realisation that he had been about to kill another man was sobering.

  But more than that, it scared him. It scared him that he had not given it a second thought.

  Chapter Five

  Thursday

  The wind from the nearby rowing machine was cool on Dan’s skin as he pounded away at the punch bag.

  His arms were heavy and burning as he landed a combo-left jab and right jab to the gut, left hook to the head, right cross to the jaw.

  He danced back, sucked a breath, moved in again. Left-left to the ribs, right uppercut, move back.

  A buzzer sounded and he gratefully stepped aside, tugging at the gloves. Buck stepped away from the bag he’d been holding and Joe secured the handle bar of the rowing machine before standing up.

  All three men were sweating freely, faces red and muscles pumped. The stereo was belting out Billy Idol, and Billy was right-it was hot in the city.

  Dan guzzled from his water bottle, letting the overflow dribble down his heaving chest. The circuit was only thirty minutes but it was a hard thirty, short intense bursts on each activity. The only relief was the few breaks they were allocated. Even holding the bag was hard work, as each man tried to outdo the last.

  Joe turned off the timer and grabbed his own bottle. He was the smallest of the three but he was deceptively strong, and had a passion for mountain biking and cross country running.

  The gym was small and basic, a bunch of gear crammed into a concrete block the size of a double garage. Even the stereo was basic, a cracked old thing that played CDs but nothing else. The gym itself was made up of gear donated, borrowed or acquired by dubious means, and no matter how long the door was left open, it reeked constantly of sweat.

  Their CIB syndicate had quickly taken ownership of the gym three mornings a week, and it was rare for another officer to come in during that time.

  It was surprising, therefore, when the door opened and someone entered. It wasn’t surprising who it was.

  Kennedy glanced at them, said nothing, and walked over to the stereo. The three men watched as he examined it for a few moments. Finally giving up, he reached down and turned it off at the wall. The gym went silent aside from the heavy breathing.

  Dan took a draught of water, his gut fluttering.

  Kennedy turned and looked at them. He was wearing brown track pants and a matching beige jumper. He had a bag in his hand. Hopefully the clothes it contained weren’t also inspired by the 1980’s NZ cricket team.

  ‘That’s better,’ Kennedy said, giving them a firm nod. ‘Now I can hear myself think.’

  He looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘Remember, I expect you all to portray the utmost professionalism at all times. Blasting out that heavy metal is not what I would cal
l professional. Understand?’

  Dan took a slow breath. He was doing his best to be professional.

  ‘It’s hardly heavy metal though,’ Joe protested, ‘and it is a gym after all.’

  Kennedy fixed him with a beady gaze.

  ‘And I won’t take you answering back,’ he snapped. ‘Any more of it and...well, look out.’

  With that he turned and left, banging the door as he went.

  ‘Careful of the door,’ Buck muttered, ‘that’s hardly professional. I should go and lock him up for...’ he mulled that for a long moment ‘...for being a dick.’

  Dan nodded silently, capping his bottle.

  Joe angled around to get eye contact with Dan. His chest glistened under his faded Speights singlet, and his brow was furrowed.

  ‘What the hell, man?’ he grumbled. ‘What’s his problem?’

  Dan gave him a thoughtful look.

  ‘Don’t know, mate,’ he said slowly, ‘I just don’t know. But I’m gunna find out.’

  ***

  The alarm technician replacing the key pad was a fat guy named Brent. He had a thick beard and curly hair trying to escape from under his baseball cap.

  As he bent over his toolbox, it was obvious to anyone in sight that his shorts were at least three sizes too small.

  Molly had to stifle a chuckle as she walked past, knowing that Dan would have been unable to resist a jibe about the bike rack on offer. The tech straightened up, hitched his shorts up under his round belly, and spied her.

  ‘All done,’ he said, stroking his beard with a gnarled hand. ‘Surprised it lasted this long, actual.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Molly said, pausing at the door to the office with her lunchbox in her hand.

  ‘Yep,’ Brent continued, obviously happy to have somebody to talk to, ‘she was pretty worn out alright. The whole system probably needs a service, really. Hasn’t been checked for a couple years.’ He looked hopeful. ‘Want me to do that?’

  Molly smiled. ‘I’ll check with the boss and let you know. Thanks for sorting that though.’

  ‘No problem.’ He sighed. ‘These things just don’t last, eh. They’re cheap as chips, actual.’