by Angus McLean
The police car behind them was gaining and Archer spied a narrow alleyway to the right. He jerked on the handbrake, spun the wheel and gave it guts as he dropped the hand brake again. The Hyundai responded well, spinning sharply into the alley way and bolting forward. The cop car went past in a skid.
Archer gunned it down the alley, knocking rubbish bins and crap aside as he made for the far end, knowing they had only seconds to get away. He didn’t know whether the Egyptian police had a helicopter, but either way they needed to ditch the Hyundai sharpish.
A rubbish bin bounced off the side of the alley, skittered up the windscreen and disappeared behind them.
Archer glanced at Moore beside him. His face had gone blank again. With the cops on their tail and a terrorist mastermind to take down, the last thing he needed right now was a passenger.
‘Hey!’ he said sharply.
Moore looked at him.
‘Snap out of it,’ Archer told him, hitting the brakes hard. ‘We’re the Division; this is what we do.’
Moore blinked, squeezed the bridge of his nose and nodded. He shook himself like a dog.
Archer set his jaw firmly. He needed Moore to grip his shit, and fast.
Emerging onto a busier road he cut off a van and joined the flow, dropping back into a normal driving rhythm. He followed the road for a few hundred metres before spotting a car park outside a shopping centre. He ducked in and buried the car in the middle of the lot, disappearing into the melting pot.
Moore forced aside the horrific images in his head.
He needed to get back in the game before he got them both killed. Archer cut the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt.
Moore grabbed his arm, meeting his eye. ‘Thanks pal,’ he said quietly, ‘and sorry.’
Archer gave a short nod. ‘All good mate.’
‘I’ve got my shit together,’ Moore told him. ‘Where’re we going?’
Archer dug a cheap cell phone from his pocket and handed it over. He followed it with a wad of cash, mixed Egyptian pounds and American greenbacks-the universal currency of bribes.
‘There’s a text with an address on it,’ he said. ‘You’ll be met there, and you’ll be exfil’d. You won’t know the contact meeting you, but they will ask you “what is blue.” The answer is “skies.” The second question is “says who,” your reply is “Willie Nelson.” Got it?’
‘Blue Skies by Willie Nelson,’ Moore said wryly, ‘it’s got Jedi written all over it.’
Archer grinned and cracked his door. ‘Let’s go. See you back in Blighty.’
With that he was gone, and Moore followed suit. The red Hyundai with the rear damage would be a hot target right now, and it was best he was nowhere near when it was found. He would have felt safer if they’d stayed together as well, but two Anglo men stood out from the crowd and they needed to disappear.
Moore had no prior experience in Egypt or with their Police or security services, but common sense told him that with at least three cops feeling the worse for wear there would be no welcoming arms if they were captured.
Most likely they’d be locked in a dank cell with no consular or legal support and would soon make friends with a heavy phone book, a rubber hose, or maybe even a waterboard.
He stuck his head down and walked purposefully away from the car, not worrying about where Archer was going, just focussing on getting some distance between himself and the car. He paused at a roadside stall selling crappy fabrics and clothes, and spent some cash to grab a thick cotton shirt in non-descript beige and a khaki shoulder bag.
He pocketed the change and ducked behind the stall to whip off his shirt and stuff it into the bag, pulling on the new purchase in a basic effort at disguise.
He threw a few turns as he made distance and stopped at another small shop to buy a floppy bush-style hat which added to his disguise. If anyone saw him leaving the Hyundai they may be able track him to the first stall and get an updated description. The second purchase would make it harder, and he threw another spanner in the works by stopping at another roadside stall to buy another shirt.
Ten minutes after leaving the car Moore had changed again and was feeling more comfortable. Confusion made it harder for him to be tracked and ID’d, and every layer he added to that made it harder still.
He wondered how Archer was getting on. Archer was a good operator, but like Moore, he was in a foreign, hostile environment right now. He grabbed a bottle of water and a local map from a street vendor and downed the water while he walked. It tasted warm and stale but he didn’t care-his body needed fluids right now. If he got the shits he could fix that later-that’s what they made Imodium for.
Moore ditched the empty bottle and checked the phone. The text gave the RV location as a specific room number and a street address. He stopped to check the map, finding the address then checking the street signs around him to zero in on his own location.
The RV looked to be about five k’s away. The chances of getting caught out on the street were reasonable, even in a big city, and that easily doubled when it was unfamiliar territory.
Chapter Fifty Eight
He walked to the nearest taxi rank and took the first cab, a dusty white Toyota that stank of cigarettes and armpits.
The driver looked at him in the rear view mirror, his eyes dark and unfriendly. He was a fat guy with a thick moustache. He could’ve been a brother of the cops from the hotel.
Moore had good enough Arabic to read the address to him and the fat guy grunted before starting the engine and pulling straight out into traffic to a loud honk from another driver. The cabbie didn’t seem to care, just honked back and muttered something unintelligible. Moore wasn’t familiar with Egyptian Arabic, but the curses were basically the same.
He took a few moments to catch his breath and try to plan his next move. No matter how hard he tried though, the gruesome images of Katie kept coming back. The images, the coppery smell of the blood, the taste of bile and tears as his body reacted. He shook his head but they stayed there, in his face and unshakeable.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered to himself, pressing his fists into his eyes, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’
The cabbie eyeballed him in the mirror but said nothing. He pulled up outside a block of grey-looking flats and looked at him again.
Moore thrust a couple of notes at him, more than enough to cover the ride, and got out. The cabbie peeled away and Moore realised why. The neighbourhood was run down and dirty. Mangy dogs loped about and discarded crap littered the streets.
Moore found the stairs on the side of the apartment block and took them to the second floor. It was a five storey block and looked like a throwback to Soviet Russia. The stairwell stank of piss.
The apartment he was looking for was the second one in from the stairs. He knocked at the door. The curtains were closed and the door was solid wood. He heard movement behind the door before it cracked open and a single eye peered out at him.
‘What is blue?’ The guy spoke in heavily-accented English.
‘Skies,’ Moore replied.
‘Says who?’
‘Willie fucking Nelson.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Who? You say who say it?’ He sounded Eastern European, Georgian maybe.
Moore groaned, cursing himself for not just playing the game. He didn’t like Georgians, either. ‘Willie Nelson,’ he repeated.
The guy paused, staring at him with the one eye before opening up. Moore stepped in and was immediately pushed face first against the wall as the door shut. He rolled with it as a hand stripped him of the Smith and cell phone, then the wad of cash. He was roughly spun around and a strong tattooed hand with several rings clamped onto his throat. A suppressed pistol was jammed against his left temple and hot breath filled his face.
The guy had been staring at him with one eye because that’s all he had. The left eye socket was a patch of terrible scarring, lumpy and pink. He and the guy behind him wore black leather jackets and had sha
ved heads. Both were big guys, maybe 115kg each. Definitely Georgians.
The apartment was barely furnished. A manky yellow sofa, a bare table with two chairs, threadbare carpet. Stained creamy-brown curtains. Two light bulbs.
The second guy spoke in guttural English. ‘Willie fucking Nelson get you killed, smart guy.’
Moore said nothing. It was enough for now just trying to breathe.
‘You need exfil.’
Moore managed a slight nod, but even that was enough for One Eye to squeeze harder on his throat. Moore could feel the pressure building in his head and chest. If these guys were the welcoming committee, maybe he was safer on the street.
The second guy flipped through the wad of cash and tossed the captured Smith in his hand. ‘Exfil cost money, hey? Not cheap.’
Moore saw how it was now. These guys were just local contractors, mercenaries paid on a job by job basis. He wondered if One had organised them. It seemed bloody good luck that the cops had turned up to their hotel room not long after One had delivered them there-and he was the only person who knew where they were.
Now he was being held at gunpoint by two thugs who were supposed to be working for the Service, but who seemed more intent on either robbing or killing him, or both. Easy to explain in a shit hole like this.
The second guy was eyeing him, sizing him up. He had a pistol in the front of his waistband and Moore’s stolen Smith in his hand.
‘So you pay, we play,’ the second guy said with a grin.
One Eye chuckled. It sounded like an old Massey Ferg tractor trying to catch. He ground the muzzle of the suppressor into Moore’s temple a bit harder. His finger was on the trigger. Moore registered subconsciously that it was a CZ75, a good weapon and a favourite of Eastern European hoods. The suppressor worried him-only one reason to use it. Shots attracted attention even in shitty neighbourhoods like this.
He tried to talk but only managed a croak. He played on that a second time, and the second guy took the hint.
‘Let him talk,’ he said.
One Eye eased off his grip but stayed in place. His good eye was scant inches from Moore’s face. His breath stank of cheap cigarettes. Moore swallowed, trying to wet his throat.
‘One sent you?’ he rasped.
The second guy gave a barking laugh. ‘One, yeah. Kiwi,’ he said with a sneer.
‘He wants you to exfil me? Where to?’
The second guy shrugged. He tucked the Smith into his jacket pocket and thumbed the cash again. ‘Need more than just this. Exfil cost money, hey?’
Moore frowned indignantly. ‘You’re being paid,’ he retorted, ‘your boss works for my boss, so don’t try and fuck me over, mate.’
One Eye grabbed him harder round the throat and shoved him back against the wall.
The second guy squared his shoulders and cocked his head. ‘You don’t talk like that at me,’ he said coldly. ‘You need us. We no need you, cunt.’
‘Yeah.’ One Eye’s breath could strip paint. ‘Cunt.’
Moore could feel his heart hammering in his chest and he felt cold panic growing deep inside him, blowing up like a balloon. The pressure on his lungs was intense and he began to hyperventilate. So this was how it was going to be. Years of putting his balls on the line for Queen and country, taking the hits, to be capped in a shitty apartment in a place he never even wanted to come to.
Maybe it was karma. God was kicking him in the bollocks for all the bad shit he’d done.
For being a shitty father to Danni, for screwing McGregor’s wife, for ruining the lives of those he’d accepted without question were enemies of the state. For tangling with Jimmy the Blade and his scrote-bag mates, for dragging Wizz into it. For leaving Katie alone and letting her get killed in her bed. For dealing out death and destruction for most of his adult life.
He was falling apart inside, he could feel it. He was losing it. His body felt fucked and tired and achy. He was tired of running, tired of fighting. He was old now; it was a young man’s game. Old bastards like him should be put out to pasture and let the young bucks take the reins.
Moore dragged a dry tongue across his parched lips. He could feel himself going down. Who Dares, Wins…whatever. Who Dares Too Long Gets His Arse Kicked, maybe.
His eyes flicked to his two captors.
The Georgians could see what was happening to him, and they were loving it. The fucking pricks. They were laughing at him. A pair of shit head thugs from an arsehole country that ripped itself apart and ate its young.
Moore felt a stab of anger, of resentment. The disrespectful fucks. Who did they think they were?
They weren’t worthy of lacing the boots of the freshest SAS trooper. Moore had trained those guys, the freshest SAS troopers. They had worshipped him in his day. Jesus, even Craig fucking Archer had held him up on a goddamn pedestal. If Archer could see him now he’d be ashamed.
Moore felt the anger boil up inside. He wasn’t going to let them all down. He wasn’t going down like this. He fought back the panic. Panic was a killer, and he already had two of them to deal with right now-no point taking out his own legs as well. If he was going to survive this encounter he needed to be calm.
He thought of Katie. He pictured Danni’s face. One dead and gone, nothing could change that. The other distanced from him physically and emotionally. He needed to fix that. He couldn’t die here with these pricks.
The two Georgians had at least three handguns between them-one of which was against Moore’s head with a finger on the trigger. They obviously knew what they were doing. Whether they were properly trained or not was another matter.
The international security circuit was full of guys like this. Some were ex-military, some just thugs making a buck. Moore pegged these two as the latter, which was both good and bad. Good because their skills wouldn’t be as sharp, bad because amateurs were dangerous through stupidity.
‘How much?’ Moore said, keeping his eyes on the second guy.
He ignored One Eye, focussing on the leader instead. He wanted all the attention on him.
‘How much more?’ The second guy made a show of thinking, stroking his chin. ‘Five thousand.’
Moore rolled his eyes and looked irritated. ‘Five thousand what? Egyptian? Euro?’
The second guy sneered at him. ‘US,’ he said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together for effect. ‘Greenback, baby.’
Both men laughed and One Eye momentarily glanced at the leader while he cranked up the Massey Ferg.
Speed, aggression and surprise.
Moore’s left hand shot up under One Eye’s right wrist and shoved the CZ towards the ceiling. One Eye involuntarily fired, the noise still like a loud pop despite the suppressor, and a round went through the upper wall.
Caught by surprise, One Eye was off balance, his left hand still on Moore’s throat. He tried to squeeze but Moore was already sliding down and left, getting under his gun hand and breaking the strangle hold.
The second guy grabbed at his own suppressed pistol but his target was blocked by his mate.
Moore got behind One Eye, slamming a double jab into the guy’s kidney and smashing his knee into the side of One Eye’s right leg. The leg buckled and he let out a throaty roar of pain.
Moore grabbed at the flailing arm that held the gun, keeping behind One Eye as he drove another jab into his kidney. He seized the gun hand, twisted down and back. The guy was strong but was distracted by the pain, and his pistol was beside his own head before he even realised.
The second guy saw what was happening, panicked, and fired. The round went dangerously close, punching through the wall beside Moore. His second shot skimmed One Eye’s left shoulder and produced a scream.
One Eye was well off balance now, bent half backwards on a damaged leg, his wrist trapped at an unnatural angle and his CZ75 pointing at his head.
Moore forced his own finger into the trigger guard and jerked back on it. No time for finesse.
One Eye managed to shr
iek before the hammer fell and the round blew his right eye back into his skull. Blood and brain sprayed everywhere, splattering the second guy who was moving in.
The second guy paused in shock, his mate’s blood on his face.
Moore dropped the body, ripping the pistol free, and fired two shots into the second guy’s chest. The guy rocked on his heels, a look of utter shock on his face. He dropped his gun and staggered backwards.
Moore stepped over the body of One Eye and lifted his foot, kicking the second guy backwards onto the manky sofa. Blood was flowing down the guy’s shirtfront. Moore stood over him and took the Smith from the guy’s pocket.
A quick pat down recovered the cell phone and cash. He also carried a switchblade and a set of brass knuckles, which Moore tossed aside. He pocketed the guy’s phone.
‘Who’s paying you?’ he said.
The Georgian’s eyes were screwed shut with pain. The blood flow was steady and he was already pale. He groaned.
Moore grabbed an overstuffed gaudy orange cushion from the sofa beside the Georgian’s hip. He showed it to the wounded man.
‘I can stop the bleeding,’ he said, ‘and get you medical attention. Tell me who’s paying you.’
‘Fuck…’ The guy cracked open an eye and tried weakly to reach for the cushion. ‘Fuck…you…’
‘Live.’ Moore held up the cushion then the pistol. ‘Or die. Your choice.’
The Georgian screwed his eyes shut again. Blood was trickling from his mouth now, a trail of red running over his chin and down his pulsating throat. His skin was pale and shiny.
‘Kiwi…’ he gasped. ‘He…pay…’
‘To kill me?’
The Georgian nodded weakly, barely strong enough to move his head. He coughed wetly and blood flecked his lips.
‘Where is he?’ Moore said. ‘I need to talk to him.’
‘No…I…’ he hacked a wet cough again, ‘I…don’t…know…’
‘He’s in your phone?’ Moore waved the guy’s cell phone at him.
The Georgian managed a weak nod. ‘Yes…only…him.’
‘Thanks.’
