by David Carter
“You brought them in?”
He nodded. “They were a sample order for our new clients. Mr Lombardi ordered me to get rid of them along with your biker friend, as he didn’t want to expend resources babysitting a roomful of girls; it was too risky, so I did what I was told. Then during the night while I was guarding your friend, I removed his gag to give him a drink of water, and we started talking. I asked him why he foolishly came alone to the docks. He told me that he’d overheard a conversation between the governor and Mr Lombardi at The Underground when he was there trying to pick up some ‘chick’, as you bikers would say. He said he was half drunk, and noticed there was no security detail outside the governor’s office, and wandered up there to make out with the girl. But when he reached the office, he heard voices, and listened to them conversing through the door.”
“But why did he feel it was necessary to ride all the way out here and see for himself?”
“I asked him the very same question. He said that what they were doing was so wrong, and that he didn’t want the MC to be a part of it. So he rode out here to put a bullet in Mr Lombardi’s head—mine, too. At that point I clubbed him over the back of his already beaten head to shut him up.”
“Then what happened?”
“After Mr Lombardi’s clients had sampled the merchandise, he told me to execute the girls along with your friend and to bury them in the woods. It was just unlucky for me that some young couple and their dog discovered their bodies. And believe me, I was severely punished for my mistake—which is why I feel I could use a friend. My days working for my uncle are numbered. I’d like to make them count.”
Blaze was furious on the inside. He would have loved nothing more than to stab Vino through his heart then and there. But instead he stayed composed. “So you mean the night when you and I did that delivery to Archer’s nightclub, I was actually transporting a truckful of underage girls to sell as sex slaves?”
“Yes,” he replied meekly.
“Fuck!” he spat. “If I’d had known that I’d have shot you and let them go!”
Vino made a suggestion. “Maybe we can work together and stop the deliveries, yes?”
“How can I trust you? You used a fucking bench saw to cut up one of my best friends!”
“I was only following orders. You kill when it’s necessary, do you not? Mr Lombardi wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me if I’d said no.”
Blaze had to admit he was right. “How do you want to go about it, then?” he asked.
“I will do whatever you ask and prove my loyalty to you when you sense an opportunity to strike,” Vino replied.
“All right,” he reluctantly agreed. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
They shook hands, then Blaze returned to his bike on the pier and loaded up his saddle bags with the fresh shipment of coke after Mr Lombardi had given his approval. Then just before Blaze started his engine, he thought he heard a faint scream.
“Did you hear that?” Blaze asked Trigger.
“Hear what?” he replied.
“Thought I heard a woman screaming.”
“Probably just a seagull, man.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
But Blaze couldn’t shake the feeling inside of him. Something was wrong. “Have you seen Sanchez?” he asked Trigger.
“I saw him come out of his cabin briefly when we arrived. Pretty sure he went back inside, though.”
Blaze pulled out his phone and called Ryan. He remembered what Ryan had told him at the Marble Lane Cafe when they met up for breakfast: he always had his cell phone turned on.
Ryan’s phone went straight to voicemail.
Now Blaze was certain something was amiss. It wasn’t like Sanchez not to be present while a shipment came through his docks. He felt uneasy in the knowledge that Archer knew about Ryan and Sandra’s visit to Smuggler’s Point. And more disturbingly, he knew that Sanchez wouldn’t let something so intrusive to his operation slide.
Blaze dismounted his bike and quickly ran back along the pier towards Vino.
“You okay?” Vino asked him.
“I’m calling in that favour,” Blaze replied.
Surprised, he said, “All right, what do you need?”
“When you’re done here, drive up the incline and hide your car somewhere, then come back down without being spotted and take a look inside Sanchez’s cabin—if and when you think the coast is clear. Then call me on my cell and tell me what you saw.”
“Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”
“Just call me, all right?”
“All right, I will.”
Blaze turned and hurriedly walked back to his Harley. He mounted it, fired up the engine, and led the SAS out of Smuggler’s Point.
Chapter 47
The SAS made it back to Brighton without any mishaps. Blaze pulled over as soon as they’d entered the city boundary.
“Why have we stopped?” Spider asked.
“We’re splitting up.” Blaze replied.
“What for?”
Blaze put on his best poker face. “Mr Lombardi slipped me a message when we were loading up,” he lied. “I need you to take the boys and head to the east warehouse and drop your loads there instead. Take mine and Danny’s parcels with you. He’s coming with me.”
“Why? What’s going on, man? I thought you said we were heading west?”
Blaze heavily exhaled. “Mr Lombardi got a last minute tip off from one of his dirty cops in Brighton—saying there might be a welcoming committee waiting in ambush. I was ordered to check it out and report back. You’d better keep an eye out for trouble on the east-side, too.”
Spider seemed to accept his answer; Blaze hated himself for not telling him the truth.
They parted ways without further conversation.
Blaze and Danny hid their bikes behind a timber yard about one kilometre out from the west warehouse.
They ran the distance within four minutes. “You’ve been working out!” Blaze said, between rapid gasps. “I could barely keep up!”
Danny enjoyed finally having the wood over him at something.
They crept towards the warehouse, keeping to the shadows of the busted and broken fences that lined the worn footpath that wound through the industrial area.
Everything looked quiet. “Let’s take a closer look,” said Blaze.
They got as close as they dared without being spotted. They waded through the mess of a scrap metal yard whose contents had spilled through the rotten fence and onto the pavement. They squatted behind two forty-four-gallon drums that sat just inside the now non-existent fence line, in search of the ambush.
But nothing seemed amiss.
Blaze noticed an old beat up Bedford van parked on the kerb of the road outside of the quiet warehouse. It appeared as if it hadn’t been moved for quite some time. Apart from that, the street was empty; the night was completely still; there wasn’t even a cloud in the sky. Then, just as he was about to move in closer, something caught his eye as he gazed upon the warehouse rooftop. I see you, fuckers, he thought. He’d spotted an operative lying flat on his belly on the rusted corrugated iron; the bright moon rays reflected off his helmet visor. “It’s a trap!” Blaze hissed at Danny. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”
As Blaze turned around, he bumped over a rusty, old gas bottle. It banged against the empty drum he’d been hiding behind and made a loud, metallic CLANG!
The doors of the Bedford van flew open and six operatives burst out onto the road, heading straight towards the sound. The Bedford’s headlights flicked on, revealing the two men scrambling out of the junk yard some one hundred metres up the road. Watson was surprised to see Blaze.
“Targets confirmed!” Watson relayed across the radio from behind the wheel. “Bobby Blaise is primary objective! All units move!”
“Run!” Blaze yelled.
Blaze and Danny tore off down the road, with bullets pinging off the tarmac in all directions, nar
rowly missing them as they made their getaway.
Blaze could hear the Bedford’s engine revving loudly behind him. “Split up!” he shouted.
They each went their separate ways. Danny stayed on the footpath, backing his pace to make it back to his bike before he was mowed down.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
A bullet ricocheted off the tarmac and bored into his calf muscle. He cried out in pain as he limped on.
Blaze sprinted down a narrow alleyway between an old concrete yard and a truck repair shop. The Bedford was too wide to follow him. He jumped the wooden fence and tried a few door handles of the trucks parked around the back. Finally, the door of a yellow Mack opened. But before he’d even got one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to haul himself up, he was poleaxed from behind. His head left a sizeable dent in the door.
He fell to the ground, unconscious.
The operative pinned him face down in the gravel with his boot, then opened his helmet visor, to call it in. “Primary target disabled. All units report back to ground zero.”
Danny limped for all he was worth, but the Bedford van was gaining on him. He stood no chance; he left a trail of blood a blind man could follow.
He rounded a sharp bend in the road and saw a tractor parts yard with a hole in the wire mesh fence that surrounded it. He clambered through as best he could before the chasing vehicle came speeding past.
Luckily, there was no guard dog.
Danny cursed under his breath as the Bedford screeched to a halt. The driver noticed Danny had suddenly disappeared after rounding the corner. The operatives dispersed in all directions, scouring every inch of the street and neighbouring properties to the tractor parts yard.
Shit, I’m trapped, Danny thought, as he hid behind a giant tractor bucket attachment. He tore a strip off his T shirt and wound it around his bleeding leg.
Just as he was cursing himself for boxing himself in, two operatives crawled through the hole in the fence after noticing a streak of blood on the pavement. The lights on the end of their rifles moved in a calculated fashion over the various tractor parts scattered inside the fence line. When they came within a few metres of Danny’s hiding place, the operatives heard a voice in their ear pieces, “Primary target disabled. All units report back to ground zero, over.”
One of the men replied, “We are still in pursuit of secondary target. Please advise, over.”
“Primary target is priority. Return to ground zero immediately, over.”
As the operatives turned around to leave, Danny bumped his leg on an old wheel nut half buried in the dirt as he shuffled around to get comfortable; his leg was killing him. He winced loudly from the sharp pain that shot through his leg.
“Hands where I can see em!’” one of the operatives shouted.
“Don’t shoot! I’ve can’t move! I’ve been hit!” Danny yelled with his hands up.
“Get him in the van and patch him up,” one of the operatives said to the other, then radioed ground zero with a status update.
Blaze came to only moments after he’d blacked out. While the operative relayed the message of his capture over the radio, Blaze discreetly gripped a handful of gravel in his right hand. Then as soon as the operative had finished relaying the message, Blaze looked up, and said, “Hey, asshole —”
Startled, the operative looked down.
Blaze flung the handful of gravel in his face.
The operative cried out as the mass of sharp stones pelted him. Blaze capitalised on his momentary advantage and kicked his legs out from beneath him.
The operative hit the deck.
Blaze swooped on top of him and knocked him out with a flurry of vicious blows to his face. The operative never stood a chance.
Blaze heard his ear piece crackle as a message came through. “Secondary target captured, medical assistance required, over.”
Shit, they got Danny, Blaze thought. He stared at the unconscious operative laying on the ground. He ain’t waking up anytime soon.
Blaze checked the cab of the yellow Mack truck. The keys were in the ignition. He smirked to himself as a crazy idea formed in his mind.
An eye for an eye, motherfuckers.
Chapter 48
Blaze fired up the engine of the Mack truck. It rolled forward slowly after he put it in gear. He stopped for a moment, after lining up the steel framed gates—sealed together with a brick sized padlock. Horsepower trumps small, inert objects every time, he convinced himself as he revved the engine. “What do you say, chum?” he chuckled as he looked at the unconscious operative strapped into the passenger’s seat.
He dropped the clutch. The Mack’s wheels spun on the loose gravel before it finally bit and shot forward. Blaze gripped the wheel tight, and held on for dear life just before the truck made impact.
CRASH!
The gates exploded outwards as the Mack powered straight through. The padlock was no match for the runaway truck. The windscreen resembled a spiderweb; it cracked in a million places after the impact. The headlights were shot. But Blaze didn’t care. “Fuck yeah!” he shouted in excitement as he bounced the heavy vehicle over the kerb and onto the road.
He turned on the operative’s radio he was wearing. The commissioner was desperately trying to make contact with him. “Alfa One, come in, over. Alfa One, do you read me? Over.”
Blaze spoke into the mouth piece. “Alfa One is currently incapacitated, over.”
“Please repeat, Alfa One, please repeat, over.”
Blaze grinned. “Please await instructions for the prisoner exchange, over,” he replied, then turned the radio off.
He reached for his phone and called Zoe. This should prove my theory once and for all, he thought. Zoe picked up on the third ring. “Fancy going for a drive?” he asked her.
“What do you mean, go for a drive?”
“I need your help, babe.”
“But we literally just put on a movie,” she protested.
“We put on a movie?”
“Yeah—Ellie’s here having a girls’ night with me. And don’t you dare tell anyone; but we’re watching Grease.”
Blaze shook his head. “You can’t be fucking serious, are you?”
“It’s a classic!”
“I don’t believe you,” he teased. “I thought you had a bigger cock than all the boys in the MC put together,” he joked.
She cranked up the volume on the TV. He heard the voice of John Travolta and Olivia Newton John singing Summer Nights through the speaker. “Believe me now, asshole?” she said.
“You’re getting soft in your old age,” he chuckled.
Her voice turned serious. “So what’s so important that you want me to get off my ass and go for a drive?”
“I need you to do a pick up,” he replied.
“Are you drunk again?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s Danny: I think he’s been shot. But before you and Ellie get all hysterical on my ass, I don’t think it’s too serious.”
“What! Where are you?”
“It’s a long story. Take my Mustang and drop Ellie off at the Brighton Hospital emergency entrance. Danny will be there shortly. Call me once you’re positive he’s safe with no one suspicious hanging around, then I’ll give your further instructions.”
“Okay, babe. I will.”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Bring your video camera.”
“Okay,” she replied, sounding curious.
He clicked off and smiled to himself. I knew she wasn’t the rat.
He turned the operative’s radio back on. “This is Alfa One. Come in, bitches.” he snickered.
A stern voice replied, “This is New Zealand Police Commissioner Peter Stuart. “What is Alfa One’s status? Over.”
“Alive, for the moment, over.”
“And what are your terms for his safe release, over.”
“Do you still have my associate in custody?”
&nb
sp; “Yes. He’s en route to a secure facility to have his injury treated.”
“Change of plans. Drop him at the Brighton Hospital and leave immediately. And no tricks—or Alfa One is dead. Got it?”
“And what assurances do I have that he will be returned unharmed, over?”
“Well, that’s entirely up to you. You must be prepared to let me walk away after the exchange, over.”
The commissioner hesitated. There’s no way you are walking out of this alive, asshole. “All right, I agree to your terms,” he lied. “Where will the exchange take place? Over.”
“Brighton City Square. Look for the big yellow truck in the centre with the cracked windscreen. You can’t fucking miss it.”
Chapter 49
The main CBD in Brighton was a ghost town except for the odd gas station or fast food restaurant that was open at all hours. Blaze navigated the Mack truck through the dense city until he reached the epi centre—otherwise known as Brighton City Square. The square was a large, beautified landscape where people could get away from the hustle bustle of the office and sit on a park bench while sipping a latte from a coffee cart and listening to the laid back music from talented buskers trying to make a quick buck. There were large water fountains, flower gardens, and strange but interesting metal sculptures erected throughout the square.
The square was boxed in by high rise office blocks and multi-level car parks. It was the perfect location for a shooter to identify and nail his target.
Blaze slowed the truck to a stop just short of the square. He slapped the operative awake, and ordered him to switch places with him. He resisted at first, but the shiny barrel of Blaze’s Glock persuaded him to toe the line. The operative drove the Mack up and over the kerb and onto the wide cobblestone path that wound its way through to the centre of the square. Blaze instructed him to stop. He disengaged the engine.
“Now what?” said the operative.
“You sit there and stay quiet,” Blaze replied.
