by Angus McLean
Ingoe led the way to a solid steel vault door, which he unlocked with a swipe card and a PIN code. He swung the door open to reveal a walk in armoury and hit the lights. Archer ran his eye over the racks of weapons inside; assault rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, sub machine guns, handguns of various makes and models.
‘I could’ve sworn it wasn’t Christmas yet,’ he muttered, and Ingoe grinned wolfishly.
‘You’ll need a big and a small,’ he said, ‘and I guess probably a covert chopper.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ll be in the workshop, come through when you’re ready and you can run them in.’
Archer walked the length of each rack, scanning the handguns and sub machine guns. It was standard for a Special Forces operative to have the flexibility to make mission-specific selections, and he had always had strong personal preferences.
He quickly found a Sig Sauer P226, the standard military sidearm, and put it to one side. It was a robust 15-shot 9mm that he’d used for years, and he knew it was reliable and accurate.
The choice for a compact sidearm was harder. He had no real preference in this area, but knew a conservative choice would usually be best. He tossed up between another Sig, either the P229 or the P250, and the Glock 26.
He selected one of each and set them aside for now, before moving on to the sub machine guns. The Heckler and Koch MP5 was the universal choice, and he took a short K-PDW off the rack, hefting it in his hands. With a stubby barrel it unleashed a devastating 900 rounds a minute, and he’d used it before.
He took all five weapons with him through to the workshop and found Ingoe waiting with an array of holsters and magazines laid out before him on a bench. He nodded approvingly when he saw Archer’s choices.
‘No surprises there,’ he commented, before leading the way through another heavy door into a soundproofed 35 metre shooting range.
Paper human targets hung at the far end against the bullet trap wall, and the lights were bright. An extractor fan whirred but the scent of cordite was still heavy. They stood together at a bench and loaded magazines for each of the weapons, working silently and efficiently, before both donning earmuffs and safety glasses.
When he was ready Archer moved up to the 20m mark with all five weapons and a box of magazines. Ingoe dimmed the lights a touch and observed as his new operative test fired the full size P226. A series of sets at different ranges satisfied him that it was a good selection, before Archer moved on to the three smaller pistols.
Each was put through its paces with 100 rounds being fired through it, and Ingoe’s experienced eye could tell that Archer was more comfortable with the Glock than either of the Sigs. It was neither here nor there; all were excellent tools and personal preference was important. A man’s familiarity with a gun was crucial when his life depended on it.
The MP5K took a 30-round magazine and Archer emptied five of them in short order, moving between targets at different ranges and raking them with short bursts of 9mm before Ingoe called a halt to proceedings.
‘Now you’re just showing off,’ he said, cranking the lights back up.
Archer popped the empty magazine from the MP5K and double checked the chamber before putting the weapon with the others on the bench and stripping off his safety gear. He gave a satisfied grin across the bench at Ingoe.
‘Haven’t had a good shoot up for a while,’ he commented.
Ingoe grunted. ‘Best you get some practice in then,’ he replied. ‘You’re going live in two days.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Archer replied, reaching for a cleaning rod.
Ingoe looked at him. ‘It’s a different world, sunshine,’ he said. ‘Just have your wits about you. It’s not like the Group.’
Archer ran the rod down the barrel of the Glock. ‘We’re all on the same side though, aren’t we?’
Ingoe gave a wolfish grin. ‘Ever heard the term ‘smoke and mirrors’?’
Archer cocked his head quizzically.
‘What you think you see ain’t always real. Magicians use smoke and mirrors to create an illusion right in front of you, so you think they’re doing one thing when in fact they’re doing another.’ Ingoe held his gaze. ‘That’s what this world is all about, Archer. Get used to it fast.’
8
Archer sensed trouble as soon as he pulled into his street. He could see a dirty grey Nissan Navara ute parked in the driveway of Jazz’s house, blocking in her own car. She was usually at the gym at this time of the day, so it was unusual for her to be home and he’d never seen the truck before.
He eased past her tidy little bach with the wind chimes tinkling from the apple tree out the front, buzzing down his window and cutting the radio as he did so. He didn’t hear anything over the rumble of the Monaro, so turned into his driveway, stopping short of the garage and getting out.
He took his time walking to the letterbox to collect his mail, the salty breeze warm on his face and the smell of freshly mown grass all around. Seagulls swooped and squawked overhead, and a crash of breaking glass sounded from next door, followed by muffled voices.
The mail got discarded as Archer bolted across his front lawn and leaped the low side fence, arriving at the side of Jazz’s place within a couple of seconds. He moved quickly and quietly along the side of the house towards the rear, the sound of an angry male voice getting louder as he got closer.
He heard Jazz’s voice now, a pleading ‘Please don’t,’ followed by the thump of heavy footsteps from the kitchen out to the small back deck.
Archer stepped into view to see a large man in a checked Swandri and jeans standing near the back door, a beer can in one hand and the other one clenched. He glanced right and saw Jazz standing just inside the door, holding a tea towel to her wrist. Her body language was submissive.
‘Afternoon neighbour,’ Archer called out easily, walking around the edge of the deck towards the three steps that led to the back lawn.
The other man turned and scowled at him, and a look of relief crossed Jazz’s face.
‘Who’s this?’ the other man growled at her without taking his eyes off Archer.
‘I’m the neighbour,’ Archer replied with a friendly smile, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. ‘Craig. And you are?’
‘Not interested, bud,’ the man replied, and Archer quickly sized him up.
About his own height but wider in the shoulders, carrying some weight but probably very strong. Blonde curly hair and unshaven, probably mid thirties. Looked like a fisherman or labourer.
‘Oh well.’ Archer ignored him and glanced to Jazz, who hadn’t moved. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re popping over for dinner later? I got some nice T-bone-‘
‘I said, not interested, bud.’ The man moved now to the top step, chest puffed out and looking angry. From there he stood a good two feet taller than Archer. ‘Take a hike.’
Archer continued to ignore him. ‘I also put a nice Reisling on ice earlier, I thought-‘
‘Hey!’ The man’s tone was sharp. ‘I’m talkin’ to you, bud!’
‘And I’m talking to the lady, so if you’d stop interrupting I’d appreciate it,’ Archer replied calmly. He gave Jazz a smile, noting that the man had edged forward now and was leaning down as if to touch him. ‘And did you want me to take Jojo for a run?’
‘Bud!’ The man’s beer breath was hot and strong as he leaned down into Archer’s body space. He placed his left hand on Archer’s right shoulder and squeezed. ‘I told you-‘
Archer looked pointedly at the hand on his shoulder then up at the other man. ‘And I’m telling you, friend. Take your hand off me or I’ll hurt you.’
His voice was calm and quiet, but full of menace. The other man held his gaze, a pulse in his flushed neck jumping like a frog. He didn’t move his hand.
‘Jazz, are you okay?’ Archer asked evenly, not looking at her. ‘Who is this monkey?’
‘Not really. This is Jason.’
‘Ahh.’ Archer nodded his understanding. Jazz had told him about her abusive ex-partner, en
ough detail for him to have taken an instant dislike to the man without ever having met him. ‘That explains a lot then.’
‘So you must be the soldier boy from next door,’ Jason sneered, the pressure from his hand not easing. ‘Take a hike, bud. This is nothing to do with you.’
‘Hmm.’ Archer set his jaw. ‘Unfortunately, it is. So I think you need to move your hand, then get in your truck and drive away.’
Jason sneered malevolently and didn’t move.
‘You’ve got five seconds, friend,’ Archer told him calmly. ‘then I’m going to move you. Understand?’
‘You-‘
‘Five.’
‘-can-‘
‘Four.’
‘-kiss-‘
‘Three.’
‘-my-‘
‘Two.’
‘-hairy-‘
‘One.’
‘-balls!’
Archer’s left fist drove straight forward into Jason’s crotch, smashing into his scrotum then gripping tightly and twisting. His right came up and easily swept the other man’s arm away. Jason’s breath exploded out in a strangled wheeze and his hands instinctively went to his groin, the beer can hitting the deck and spraying foam.
He scrabbled at Archer’s hand, which remained locked tightly on his testicles.
‘I told you to move,’ Archer told him softly, ‘you need to talk less and listen more.’ He cocked his head slightly as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Maybe that was the problem in your relationship...I don’t know. But it’s time for you to go now.’
Jason gasped like a landed fish, his eyes bulging. A bead of sweat was rolling down his forehead.
‘Nod if you understand.’
Jason nodded.
‘Now I’m going to let go, and you’re going to leave. You won’t come back. Are we clear?’
Jason nodded weakly again.
‘First, you’re going to apologise to the lady. Then you drive away. If I see you here again, I will hurt you properly. If you contact her again, I will hunt you down.’ Archer’s gaze was cold and flat and there was no humour or fear in his eyes. ‘Understand?’
Jason managed a third weak nod.
‘Good.’
Archer released his grip and Jason doubled at the waist, cupping his crotch and sucking in shallow breaths. Behind him, Jazz breathed an audible sigh and wiped her hands on the tea towel.
‘Now apologise,’ Archer told him.
‘Fuck...’
‘Don’t be nasty, just apologise and go.’
‘Ho..mo...ahhh.’
Jason looked up at him with anger back in his eyes, and Archer realised immediately that he was on more than beer. He straightened up and glanced back at Jazz.
‘Fucken slut,’ he spat.
Archer grabbed him by the left arm and yanked him forward, causing him to stumble down the steps onto the lawn. Jason’s other hand flashed to his pocket and came out with a Stanley box cutter knife, ready to slash forwards. He started to do so, and Archer reacted instantly.
He pulled forward further, jerking Jason off balance again and side stepped at the same time, outside the knife hand. His right hand locked onto the knife hand and squeezed it closed and turned, the heel of his left hand jabbing straight and hard into Jason’s right eyebrow, opening up a cut which bled immediately, then slamming it again.
He twisted the knife hand towards him, weakening the grip, and landed a left hook into his opponent’s ribs, then again, and again. As Jason folded sideways Archer wrenched the knife from him and tossed it aside, pulled him downwards by the arm and gripped him by the throat. He swept Jason’s legs from under him and drove him to the ground flat on his back.
There was a whoosh of air being expelled beneath his body weight as he landed on top of the other man, still holding him by the throat. Jason’s face was red now and Archer eased his grip slightly, locking the bigger man’s wrist under him and bracing his leg across Jason’s closest knee.
The bigger man was pinned and unable to move, but the anger in his eyes had not diminished. He tried to buck, but to no avail. Archer gave his throat a squeeze.
‘Don’t be silly. You have three options here, bud.’ He paused to ensure he had Jason’s full attention. ‘One, we lie here and wait for the cops, and you go to jail. Two, we get up, I beat the living crap out of you, then we wait for the cops and you go to jail. Or three, we get up and you drive away, never to be seen again.’
Even in his chemically-enhanced state, Jason could see he was not going to win this fight. He closed his eyes and nodded slightly. Two minutes later he was backing his ute out of the drive, his testicles throbbing and his throat aching, but with a sense of having dodged a bullet. He knew that if he ever ran into that soldier boy again, he was going to better prepared. Next time, and he promised himself there would be a next time, he would kill him.
Archer waited until the ute had disappeared from view before turning back to Jazz. She stood on the deck with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth turned down and her brow furrowed. There was sadness in her eyes.
They stared at each other for a moment before she turned and went back inside without a word.
Archer shook his head in frustration and headed home. If the silly bitch was going to be like that, she could shove it.
9
Bad-Bad Leroy had pissed and moaned alright when Cody got home.
He’d been angry that not only had she been humping her skinny ass off but worse, she’d arrived home to their shitty flat with a beat up face and a worse attitude than normal.
It took him all of sixty seconds to call her “manager” Delton, a skinny no-chest half caste Maori/Croatian bitch with a penchant for knives and his own girls. Delton rocked around in his pimped-out black Cadillac XTS, all swagger and bravado, and got the rundown from Leroy.
He checked her face like he was a goddamn doctor or some shit then held her chin in one bony hand and leaned in close. She could smell stale pot and KFC on his breath.
‘Don’tchu worry, baby,’ he said softly, in what she imagined he imagined was a cool, soothing tone. ‘Delton knows people. Gonna get shit done, yo.’
With that he turned and walked out, snapping open his cell and hitting a speed dial button. Cody knew he had a direct line into a cop and figured that was who was on the other end. She watched him go and wondered why he always talked like he was Snoop Fucken Dogg.
Then Leroy started with his whinging shit again and she figured maybe talking to the cops was a better option.
Outside in the massive Caddy, Delton had the cell clamped to his ear. He waited for a few rings, inhaling the new-car smell of the Caddy. He knew the car was pretentious, he knew the fuel consumption was measured in metres per litre, and he knew it stood out like a stripper in a church, but he loved it. He’d been pulled over by more cops and had more tickets in this car than he’d had his last ten cars, but who fucken cared. This shit rocked, baby.
What Delton was concerned about right now, was that crazy-assed A-rab fuck in the hotel suite. Nobody smashed Delton’s girls around but him. He hated the Five-Oh, man he fucken hated them, but right now he knew he needed them. Delton had gotten smarter over the years-been a time, he woulda rocked up there with his posse and popped some caps at that camel fucking biatch, but those days were gone. No way was Delton going back inside again.
The man at the other end picked up. His tone was bored and flat. ‘What?’
‘Cuz, we gotta sit-u-a-shun,’ Delton spelled out. ‘You gotta take care of it, dig?’
‘Really?’ The guy sounded like the veteran cop he was.
‘Yeah really, yo. I’m handin’ you a fucken ra-pist on a plate, cuz. He’s got drugs and whores and shit up there; this is the career-maker you been waitin’ for, yo.’
‘What it sounds like is a pile of bullshit to me, Delton.’ The guy was on the verge of hanging up. ‘I’m sicka you jerkin’ me round with your “hot tips.” All it ever is is you wanting me to take out one of
your competitors.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Delton drawled, ‘’less you want me to let slip about you gettin’ jerked off by a certain lady in my employ, you’ll take this one seriously. Dig?’
10
It was midday and Yassar was still in bed, accompanied by a pair of prostitutes who had become his favourites.
Ahmed had his men in place as usual but he could tell they were all getting bored. For men hardened by war babysitting a spoilt brat while he got drunk and defiled himself was both disheartening and lacking any sort of challenge.
Ahmed himself was constantly poised, walking a wire over the hell he would face should he cock up his assignment. The Saudis were not known for their tolerance of failure. Ahmed had managed to manipulate a judge to dismiss a drink driving charge, and had paid out thousands in damages when Yassar had smashed up a hotel room in a tantrum.
The rape of the girl was certainly going to be the biggest challenge, and he was struggling to see how it could be made to go away. This was not Australia; corruption was low and it was very difficult to manage such situations.
The patriarch of the family, Yassar’s Sheikh father, had been made aware immediately and a plan was in place to deal with the situation, but Yassar was not going to like it. Ahmed was waiting on a phone call to be made this afternoon from the Sheikh himself, informing Yassar of the plan. He had warned his team to be ready for the biggest tantrum yet.
As he stood watching the traffic below, his phone buzzed and he tapped the Bluetooth. It was Kholini, one of the senior men in the Sheikh’s security detail and Ahmed’s immediate boss. As the other man made his greetings, Ahmed observed a pair of cars pull up below and double park half on the footpath. They were both unmarked Holden Commodores, which he knew were standard Police cars, and the four people-three men, one woman-looked every inch Police in their off-the-rack suits and sensible shoes.
One of the men hitched his belt at the right hip, a sure giveaway that he was armed. The four officers walked determinedly towards the entrance to the hotel below him.
Kholini spoke with a calm urgency. A phone call had been made and the Police were on the way.
