by Angus McLean
Moore was short on time so should be heading through the gates at any moment. Once he did, Archer could relax properly, knowing he had completed his assignment. He intended to fill his belly in the food court, touch base with HQ and get his head down as soon as the wheels left the tarmac.
He felt sorry for his old brother in arms, stuck in the economy section of a budget airline for the best part of six hours. At least it got him out of the country, and he would be met in Dubai by a trusted contact who would escort him back to Auckland for debriefing.
Despite a fantastic effort in taking out the suicide bomber, Natalie Oldham, and thereby preventing a terrorist spectacular, Moore faced a shit storm when he got home. The hierarchy didn’t like dead bodies turning up, especially pretty young women.
Not only that, but apparently MI5 had become aware of an incident involving a local gang and some kind of personal vendetta by Moore. They were doing their best to run interference with the cops-it sounded like he had a friend in the Service there-but he was still wanted for questioning over the incident.
Some Polish bloke was in a bad way in hospital, and one of the gangsters had died as a result of injuries he received shortly afterwards. Apparently he was a haemophiliac and had bled out from a gunshot wound to the arm. Nobody was directly pointing the finger at Moore, but his fancy Jag had been clocked on CCTV parked nearby and he was known to be a friend of the Polish gym owner-and one of the attending cops had ID’d him.
Archer drained the glass and put it down with a clunk. His old friend was in a real mess right now, and he wasn’t sure how things would go when he got back to NZ. One thing was for certain, Moore wouldn’t be walking away unscathed.
Archer stood and walked over to a pillar closer to the departure gates. He leaned against it and waited, hearing the last boarding call for Moore’s flight. Still no sign.
He checked his watch and felt his anxiety-and suspicions-grow. He sent a quick text to Moore’s burn phone, a simple question mark. He had the feeling there would be no reply.
There was still the chance that Moore would arrive at the last second, rushing up with his bag, acting the frazzled traveller. But it was unlikely. Not only would it draw unwanted attention to himself, but that just wasn’t him. Moore didn’t do either late or frazzled.
Archer gave it until 5:20, when he knew the plane would be taxiing into position, ready for take-off, before dialling Moore’s phone. It rang several times before the automated voice message began. Archer disconnected and pushed off the pillar. He had nearly an hour before he needed to board his Qatar Airways flight. No point in sending the balloon up just yet.
He conducted a methodical sweep of each floor, scanning everywhere for Moore.
He was nearly finished when his phone rang.
A fishing trawler was pulling into the docks, men ready at dockside to help unload the day’s catch.
Seagulls swooped and soared above, vehicles moved about, men shouted. The sun shone. A busy working port. Lots of people and activity, a rough world with rough characters. The sorts of characters who didn’t ask too many questions but who understand the basic economy of supply and demand.
Moore heard Archer pick up.
‘Where the hell are you, mate? Did you forget the time?’
Moore smiled to himself. ‘No mate, I didn’t forget anything. But I did realise a few things.’
Archer was silent for a long moment. ‘I saw those Moonies at the airport Robbo. Don’t buy into their mumbo-jumbo mate, it doesn’t suit you. Come to me and I’ll get you a new flight.’
Moore shook his head, even though he knew his friend couldn’t see him. ‘No mate, I won’t be coming to you, and I won’t be on your flight. It’s time for me to make my own way.’
‘Come on mate…’
‘Arch, I’ve made up my mind mate. I’ve had enough. I don’t wanna end up like that prick Jones, some washed up old fuck. I just wanna be happy.’ He watched the fishermen mooring up to the wharf, tying off thick ropes round the stanchions there. ‘It’s a tough gig, what we do. It’s a demanding gig. I’ve done my time, and I’ve had enough.’
They were both silent for a minute. Moore pushed off the wire fence he was leaning on, and began making his way down the dock. The breeze ruffled his hair and felt cool on his skin.
‘So that’s it then,’ Archer finally said. His tone was soft, non-judgemental. ‘That’s you done?’
‘That’s me done, son,’ Moore confirmed.
‘You sure this is the right thing for you? A life in the shadows won’t be easy.’ Archer paused, and Moore could hear him breathing down the line. ‘You know they’ll look for you.’
‘They can try, but I’d suggest they don’t.’ Moore injected an edge into his voice. ‘And don’t you either, Arch.’
Archer grunted. ‘I won’t, don’t worry.’
‘Keep up the good fight, mate. I’d like to say I’ll see you around, but if I do, then something’s gone horribly wrong.’
Archer gave a chuckle down the line. ‘I guess so. I’m sorry about Katie, mate.’
‘So am I,’ Moore replied softly. He felt a catch in his throat and squinted against the sun. ‘So am I.’
They both went silent for a minute. Moore continued walking and reached the end of the dock.
‘You know how to get hold of me if you need to,’ Archer said. ‘Just watch your back mate.’
Moore nodded again. ‘I will. You too mate.’ He smiled to himself. A pair of gulls fought over a scrap nearby, flapping their wings angrily. ‘I won’t be in touch.’
He disconnected and stood there for a long moment, the sun on his face, the breeze on his skin. The pair of fighting gulls parted ways and flew off. Moore pulled the battery off the phone, removed the SIM card and snapped it in two. He carried the pieces with him to a rubbish bin and dropped them in.
He dusted his hands off and turned towards the road. It was time to get moving.
He had things to do.
Chapter Sixty One
Four months later
Bab Al-Toub neighbourhood, Mosul, Iraq
Bobby had the butt of the Remington M2010 tucked in snugly to his shoulder, his right eye focussing down the Leupold scope.
He was flat on a sheet of cardboard, lying on top of a table a couple of metres back from an empty window, six floors up in an abandoned, shelled out apartment building.
His spotter in the next room over was a new guy, Aaron, who hailed from Minnesota. He’d only been on the team two months but had good skills and was keen to learn. They were a new team, but even new sniper teams in Delta were highly efficient. In the last month of deploying together they had claimed six scalps.
Eight hundred yards away was a café in the heart of Bab Al-Toub. The café was always busy and the neighbourhood was an Islamic State hotbed right now, despite constant operations in the city. Bobby hated those fuckers, and every time he dropped a target he counted it as an act of his own loving God. A Christian God.
He watched the activity at the café. It was unusually quiet this evening. Dusk was almost there and business was slow. Intel told them that meant the place was in use right this minute by the bad guys, probably for a meeting of some sort. It was run by a hard core ISIS supporter who was known to play host to senior leaders of the terrorist group.
He heard Aaron’s voice over the net.
‘Got a vehicle coming from the west. White Toyota, tooled up, two on the back.’
Bobby kept his focus on the café itself, the vehicle outside his field of vision at the moment. ‘Roger that,’ he replied.
‘And a guy on a bicycle.’
Bobby frowned. ‘Roger.’ He stared down the lens at the front door of the café. It was green and had a large glass panel in the centre. ‘What’s with the bike?’
‘Looks like an old guy. He’s off it now.’ A pause. ‘The Toyota’s pulling up now. Four heads.’
Bobby could see it now. Parking out the front, both doors opening and men alighting.
Dish-dashes and AK47s all round. The two on the back stood, scanning the area, rifles at the ready.
The front door of the café opened and the owner appeared, a bearded guy in his forties, hard looking. He extended his hands to one of the new arrivals and they embraced.
‘That’s him.’ Aaron’s voice betrayed his excitement. ‘The guy hugging the owner, in the grey robe with the red keffiyeh. That is our target, Zutan. Copy?’
‘Copy that,’ Bobby replied, ‘confirming target Zutan is in the grey robe with the red headwear.’
Zutan was the codename given to the target of this operation. It was easier to use than his given name of Tristan Stevens.
Of all the fuckers Bobby hated, fuckers like Zutan were the worst. Converts to Islam, zealous terrorists fighting against their own countries. He knew this guy was a Kiwi, and today’s operation had come about as a result of his unit’s interactions a few months ago with the two Kiwi spooks.
After some action in Greece, according to Pat, it had been identified that Tristan Forbes, assistant to some politician, had in fact been the mastermind behind an assassination attempt. He had immediately disappeared and had only come back up on the radar a week or so ago. Operating in Mosul with hard core ISIS shitheels, and according to a source on the ground, walking about as if he owned the goddamn place. Well, as far as Bobby was concerned, that shit ended today.
He drew in his breath and curled his index finger around the trigger. In seconds a .300 Winchester Magnum round would send the traitorous sonofabitch to meet his maker.
As he took a bead on the middle of Zutan’s upper back, right between his shoulder blades, something twinged at the back of his brain.
‘The guy on the bike,’ he said, ‘where is he?’
‘Wandered into a shop,’ Aaron replied. ‘Two doors up.’
‘Where’s the bike?’ Bobby kept his focus on Zutan, who was lighting up a smoke. He watched him pass one to the café owner. He had a clear shot and started to exhale slowly.
‘Leaning against the wall by the café.’ Aaron sounded uncertain now, as it clicked in his head. ‘Why would…’
There was a flash of flame from outside Bobby’s limited field of vision and he saw the explosion blow the assembled terrorists off their feet. Zutan was knocked sideways by the blast, dropping from Bobby’s view for a second. The two on the back of the Toyota were blasted clear by shrapnel and explosive waves. The two Delta operators couldn’t hear the screams from their position, but the rolling sound of the detonation carried on the air.
‘Fuck,’ Aaron said over the net.
Bobby moved his scope back to the shop Aaron had referred to and saw a guy in a dirty dish-dash emerge, reaching under his robes as he approached the fallen terrorists.
The man produced a folding stock AK47 and pumped short bursts into the nearest two men on the ground. He continued moving, putting a burst into the café owner as he tried to rise, dropping the guy back down in a spray of blood.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Bobby muttered, watching as the man methodically killed each of the men on the ground.
Another guy burst forth from the shattered café door, a pistol in his fist. The man turned and raked him from waist to throat, then sprayed a longer burst through the front door at somebody Bobby couldn’t see inside the café.
‘Who the fuck is that?’ Aaron wondered aloud.
Bobby stayed glued to his scope, watching as the man reached the fallen figure of Zutan. The man stopped near him, raised the barrel of the AK then paused. Bobby saw Zutan struggling to rise to a knee. He could see blood on the terrorist’s face, either from shrapnel or spray from one of his buddies.
There was a long pause and Bobby could tell the gunman was saying something. Zutan shook his head and raised a hand. The man lifted his keffiyeh away from his head. Bobby could see he was deeply tanned and bearded.
‘Fuck me,’ he muttered, ‘it’s the Kiwi.’
‘Who?’ Aaron wanted to know.
Bobby didn’t reply. He watched as the Kiwi pumped a burst of rounds into Zutan’s chest and knocked him flat, then stepped forward and finished him with a double tap to the head.
That done, he turned and scanned his surrounds.
Bobby saw movement behind him. A guy with an AK coming through the café door. Bobby’s finger stroked the trigger and put a round through the guy’s gut, dropping him instantly. He worked the bolt automatically to chamber a fresh round.
The Kiwi spun and put a burst into him too before dropping his magazine, slamming another into place and backing up to the wall. He looked left and right, spotted the two guys off the back of the Toyota getting to their feet in the road, and engaged them.
Bobby sighted on one and put a round through his neck.
‘Nice shot,’ Aaron commented.
The Kiwi dropped the second guy and began to run down the footpath. People were coming out of nearby buildings, tentatively at first then with more confidence as the sound of firing stopped. A group of ISIS shitheels in their black kit emerged from an apartment into the street, ripping off bursts into the air and shouting. People began to scatter again, providing good cover for the running Kiwi.
Bobby followed him until he reached the mouth of an alleyway and stopped. The Kiwi took a moment to regather himself, the AK back under his robes again. He scanned the horizon for a few seconds before his gaze settled on the building Bobby and Aaron were in. Bobby watched him through the scope.
The guy’s head stopped moving and Bobby was sure he was looking right at him. The Kiwi lifted his right hand in a thumbs up.
Bobby nodded to himself, getting a full view of the guy’s face. It was him alright.
‘Five guys in black in the street,’ Aaron reported coolly.
Bobby turned his attention back to the scene of devastation, sweeping across the bodies of the dead terrorists and the damaged Toyota, the blown-in front of the café headquarters, to the group of five ISIS terrorists in their black gear, waving AK47s in the air.
‘Goose,’ Bobby muttered over the net, borrowing a line from one of his all-time favourite movies, ‘this is what I call a target-rich environment.’
He sighted on one of the men in black and eased out his breath, squeezing smoothly through the trigger pull. The guy dropped and Bobby worked the bolt.
He put aside thoughts of the Kiwi for now and got to work on the trigger.
Chapter Sixty Two
Moore was sure he had pinged the sniper’s position, whoever he was. He heard action back up the street, shouting and shooting, and turned to see the black-clad men emerging.
His job here was done. Time to go. He had a car stashed a few blocks away and a route mapped out in his head. It took him as far as Turkey, and from there, who knew?
He saw one of the ISIS shit-kickers suddenly drop, and guessed the sniper had also spotted them. The other men in black started firing wildly in all directions and making for cover. Another one stumbled and fell to the deck, his arms grabbing at the sky as he went down.
Rob Moore sucked down some air, getting his breathing under control, and spat in the dust.
He cast one last look around, making sure there was nobody close enough to pose an immediate threat.
Satisfied for now, he turned and ran down the alleyway, disappearing into the shadows.
ENDS
Message from the Author
Thanks for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed it, this is the third in The Division series. I’ll be returning soon with the latest case of the Chase Investigations crew. Please take the time to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
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Cheers,
Angus McLean
About the Author
Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.
His experience as a cop and a private investigator give his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainm
ent and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.
His real identity remains a secret.
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Discover My Other Titles
Chase Investigations series:
Old Friends
Honey Trap
Sleeping Dogs
Tangled Webs
Dirty Deeds
The Division series:
Smoke and Mirrors
Call to Arms
The Service Series:
The Service: Warlock
Nicki Cooper Mystery Series (writing as Gemma Russell):
The Country Club Caper
