by Angus McLean
Ahmed nodded to himself. ‘I see them,’ he said, ’they have just arrived.’
Kholini continued to speak and Ahmed listened without interrupting. The plan was being brought forward, with some necessary tweaking, and he had thirty minutes to complete his end of it.
‘No problem,’ Ahmed replied confidently. ‘He will be there. I will see to it.’
‘And the other part?’ Kholini queried. ‘We need maximum exposure, Ahmed. This must be all over the media tomorrow. Understand?’
‘I understand. I’ll be in touch.’
Kholini disconnected and Ahmed immediately keyed his walkie talkie, calling his men to him. They only had a couple of minutes to act. Kamal and Dhara were brothers, Saudi Arabian Army veterans of the first Gulf War. They were battle hardened and ruthless, and had worked with him as a Close Protection Team for several years now.
‘The Police are coming,’ he told them. ‘They are here to arrest our principal. There are four of them and they are armed.’
He glanced at each man in turn. Kamal was the older of the two, with a heavy moustache. Dhara was the slicker brother, with styled hair and a Don Johnson-style stubble-or George Michael, as Kamal liked to tease him.
‘They are to be taken out. They will not take our principal. I will move him, you deal with the Police. Are we clear?’
Both men nodded without question and paused to bump fists before moving.
11
Archer had arrived early at HQ to beat the traffic.
The day started with handing over the Monaro keys to a whiz-kid techo who looked about twelve, then being escorted upstairs by Ingoe for more briefings.
As they waited for the lift a forest green Holden Colorado rolled past, heading for the exit. The driver was a big unit, well over six foot and very broad, a rugged looking character in his late twenties. Archer did a double take as they made eye contact, and the other man gave him a brief tilt of the chin in acknowledgement.
Archer couldn’t recall his name but recognised him as a cop, a member of the Special Tactics Group that he’d trained with before. The STG were the Police SWAT-style unit, nicknamed the ‘Super Tough Guys.’ Ingoe gave the other man a nod as the wagon went past, and glanced at Archer.
‘Yes,’ he said in answer to the unasked question. ‘One of us.’
Archer raised his eyebrows. ‘How many?’
Ingoe smiled faintly. ‘Enough. You’ll get to meet them all in due course, they just don’t tend to be around at the same time.’
Most of the morning was spent being briefed by Ingoe in more detail on his mission, and then being issued with more kit. He was the proud owner of a new iPhone, laptop and identity card.
New ID documents complete with legend would be ready the next day, Ingoe told him. He was to take the Glock 26 with him and report to the Group’s Killing House at Ardmore the next day for a training session with a couple of other specialists.
They were done by lunchtime and Ingoe escorted him back downstairs. They crossed the garage to a work bay where a couple of technicians were at work on the Monaro. Archer watched in silence as they finished installing a state of the art alarm system to help protect the other couple of bits of wizardry they’d already put in. His mind drifted to the mission.
The target was protected by an expert CP team, all armed, and ensconced in the Presidential suite of one of the top hotels in the city. He needed to be snatched subtly, and it was up to Archer to decide how. He had three restrictions; no publicity, no collateral damage, and only four days to do it.
A surveillance team had been on him round the clock for the last week so working out a pattern was easy. Archer already had the bones of a plan in his head; he just needed to get the lay of the land for himself so he could flesh it out. He knew the best way to impress the Director-and Ingoe, for that matter-would be to get the job done quickly and quietly, ahead of schedule.
The cops had intel that he was smashed on drugs and using hookers almost constantly, both factors which threw up fish hooks to be managed. The Special Investigations Group, the spooks’ contact point in the cops, was closely monitoring the activities but were unaware of the planned rendition.
Archer had no interest in the inter-departmental politics and was working out a timeline when Ingoe’s phone rang and he stepped aside to answer it.
A frown creased his face and he looked up at Archer, jabbing an urgent finger at the Monaro. Archer was moving already as the former RSM disconnected. The technicians jumped back as Ingoe barked orders.
‘Our guy at SIG just called. The cops’re going there now to arrest him for raping some girl. They’re out of their depth; his team won’t let him be taken. SIG’re trying to get it stalled but no dice so far.’
Archer opened the small satchel he was carrying and removed the Glock, slapping a mag into it and racking the slide. He clipped a hip holster onto his belt and secured the weapon, tucking a second magazine into his pocket and tossing the satchel onto the passenger’s seat as he fired up the Monaro, the throaty roar filling the basement garage. He eased back out of the work bay, buzzing the window down and killing the stereo. One of the techs ran to open the exit gate.
Ingoe put a hand on the windowsill and walked beside him as he manoeuvred out of the tight space. ‘We’re trying to get hold of the cops and will get back up there as quickly as we can. You need to intercept the cops before they get in the door.’
‘I’m on it.’ Archer paused long enough to buckle up then slipped it into gear.
Ingoe stepped back from the window now. ‘There’ll be a bloodbath-get up there and stop it!’
The tyres squealed on the concrete and the Monaro jumped forward like a horny jackrabbit.
12
Ahmed walked straight to the master bedroom door and pushed it open.
One of the whores was snapping photos of the other posing with Yassar on the bed. All three were completely naked, and an empty Bollinger bottle lay on the floor.
Yassar glared at him as he entered. Neither of the women made any attempt to hide their nakedness from the bodyguard; it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it before.
‘What do you think this is?’ Yassar demanded, dragging a silk pillow over his crotch. ‘Get out!’
‘The Police are here. We are leaving.’ Ahmed paused. Nobody moved. ‘Now!’
‘Who the fuck...’ The photographer started to speak but stopped when Ahmed turned to her.
‘Stop talking,’ he said coldly, stalking to the bed. He jabbed a finger at the other whore. ‘Move!’
Yassar tried to muster himself, but they could all see it was in vain. Ahmed snatched a pair of trousers off the floor and threw them to him.
‘Your father’s orders,’ he said simply.
It was enough. Yassar began to struggle into his pants, both whores standing back to watch silently. Loud voices sounded at the foyer, followed by a burst of gunfire. One of the whores shrieked and Yassar looked up in alarm.
Ahmed remained impassive, trusting his men to deal with the problem. He waited until Yassar had pulled on his shirt, handed him a pair of shoes, and ushered him towards the door. More shooting sounded, a mix of a sub machine gun and pistols, accompanied by a scream and thudding.
As the two men pushed through the bedroom doors, one of the prostitutes spoke up.
‘What about us? What the fuck, man?’
Ahmed stopped in the doorway and drew his weapon. It was a Ruger P89 he had strapped to his hip every minute of the day. He turned and brought the gun up. One of the whores screamed, the scream cut short when Ahmed dropped her with a double tap to the chest. The second one froze on the bed, too scared to move. Ahmed double tapped her too before turning away and hustling Yassar along with him.
Yassar dismissed the incident as quickly as it had happened. Life was cheap in his world and a pair of prostitutes meant nothing.
They heard a longer burst of fire followed by running feet, another burst and a thump.
‘Clear,’ K
amal shouted.
Ahmed led Yassar into the foyer, where they were joined by Kamal, who had a Mini Uzi in his hands. Two policemen lay on the floor outside the door, their chests ripped open by rounds. Neither even had their weapons drawn.
Dhara lay face down near the elevator doors, which were jammed open on a woman’s leg. Blood flowed steadily from his head. Ahmed glanced inquisitively at Kamal, who shrugged.
‘One of them hung back, and got him,’ he said simply. ‘I took care of them.’
‘Good.’ Ahmed nodded and moved to the stairs. ‘We must go.’
‘I will clear the way.’ Kamal led the way and opened the door. He entered the stairwell and was back a moment later. ‘It is clear. I hear shouting though.’ His dark eyes glittered with excitement. ‘More Police will be here soon.’
‘No problem.’ Ahmed nodded and ushered his principal through the door, before pausing and turning back to his comrade. ‘One more thing.’
Kamal waited expectantly, and Ahmed shot him in the face at point blank range. Blood and brain matter sprayed the wall across the foyer and Kamal’s body dropped in a heap.
Ahmed paused for a moment. He had fought alongside Kamal for several years now and they were closer than brothers. But orders were orders.
He turned and saw Yassar watching him, a sick look on his face. Ahmed switched back to the task.
‘Let’s go.’
13
Yassar crossed the foyer of the Landon and made for the front doors. His black Lexus pulled up as he reached the doors, and the concierge opened his door for him as he reached the car.
Giving the liveried man a curt nod, Yassar slipped into the backseat and caught Ahmed’s glance in the rear view mirror. He gave Ahmed an inquisitive look.
Ahmed nodded abruptly. ‘Still there,’ the older man said.
Yassar let out a sigh of frustration and rubbed a hand over his face.
‘Why me?’ he whined. ‘Why this?’ He bumped his forehead against the seat back in front of him and let out a groan. ‘It’s all such a mess!’
Ahmed studied him in the rear view mirror. On the way down the stairs he had filled him in on the plan. Yassar didn’t like it, but being who he was meant this was not the first time such drastic measures had been taken. He had given Ahmed his agreement, as if it mattered, and had quickly got his head in the game.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ahmed said coolly, ‘they are fools. If we move fast and decisively, we will make our rendezvous. We will go.’
Yassar flopped back in his seat and Ahmed moved smoothly round the hotel to the exit, indicating correctly and within moments was merging onto Symonds Street. Traffic was light and he headed north towards the city centre, constantly checking his mirrors.
‘Silver Mazda, three back,’ he said, ‘dark blue Subaru, inside lane.’
Yassar sighed again and squeezed the bridge of his nose. His head was throbbing.
‘Lose them,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sick of these fools.’
Ahmed’s look in the mirror was questioning. He knew what such an overt move would mean.
‘Lose them,’ Yassar snapped. ‘Now!’
Ahmed accelerated smoothly, cutting inside the car in front and causing it to brake hard as he swerved back. He saw the silver Mazda immediately try to catch up but it’s progress was stalled by the people mover he’d just cut off.
He allowed himself a smile and gassed it again, hitting eighty as he flew down Symonds Street. The silver Mazda fell out of view as he turned right onto Grafton Street and he felt a buzz of satisfaction.
Suddenly he caught a flash of movement behind him and looked up sharply, seeing the blue Subaru flying up behind him.
Ahmed scowled to himself and put his foot down, but the Subaru had serious grunt and bolted after him. Ahmed switched to Plan B, and slammed on the brakes. Yassar was thrown forward with a curse and the Subaru driver reacted too late, overshooting before he realised and skidded to a halt twenty metres ahead. Ahmed moved forward and collided with the front left wing of the Subaru, shunting the surveillance car sideways across the centreline.
He floored it and rammed the Subaru into a station wagon that had stopped in its lane then steered away and accelerated again, leaving the Subaru behind.
In his rear view mirror he saw the silver Mazda racing after him, overtaking traffic on the outside and approaching the wrecked Subaru.
For the second time Ahmed skidded to a halt, snatching his own Mini Uzi from under the driver’s seat and jumping out. The Mazda was going way too fast to stop in time now and Ahmed stood in the middle of Grafton Rd, bracing the stubby sub machine gun with both hands as he snapped off short bursts.
Sparks flew from the body of the Mazda and he saw the windscreen shatter. The driver locked up and went into a skid, still swerving to try and hit him. Ahmed back pedalled, only a couple of metres from the Mazda as it came past him.
He pinned the trigger back and hosed the last fifteen rounds along the passenger’s side, blowing out the windows.
The Mazda went airborne and rolled a complete 360, smashed into an oncoming light truck and flipped again before skidding on its roof into the kerb and flipping onto its side on the footpath. Ahmed tossed the Mini Uzi back into the Lexus and hit the gas.
Archer raced up the outside of the traffic, ignoring the blast of horns and swerving left to avoid a head-on with an Indian taxi driver as he accelerated heavily along Wellesley Street. He felt a clip on his rear wing as he cut too close to a car but carried on, overtaking again and making ground. A hefty Suzuki 1100 motorbike carrying a surveillance officer was rapidly catching up behind him.
He saw a head appear from the left rear passenger’s window, followed by an arm and a flash. A second flash came and Archer accelerated harder. The shooter had to be Yassar himself, and he was confident the financier was no marksman.
The head disappeared and the black Lexus leaped forward again, slipping right over the centreline and driving straight at the oncoming traffic. Cars swerved and immediately there was a pile up, one car sideswiping another as it took evasive action, another running up the back of both of them as they braked hard.
Archer cut up the inside of a courier van and crushed the pedal down, surging after the Lexus with the engine starting to growl as they merged onto the northbound motorway.
Ahmed hung wide, cutting across both lanes as he merged at over 100. He got into the outside lane and gunned it.
The red Monaro was flying behind him, slipping between the inside and centre lanes to avoid a collision as Archer smoothly worked the transmission and goosed the accelerator.
A light delivery truck was hogging the outside lane and Ahmed drifted left, clipping the front panel of a hatchback as he did so. The hatch went into a spin behind him, directly in front of the Monaro, and Ahmed allowed himself a tight smile.
Archer stabbed the brake pedal down and dropped the gears, jaw set with determination, and slipped left, missing the spinning hatchback by a hair’s breadth then gunning it hard as he swung wide again to get into the outside lane.
Yassar leaned out of the right rear window now, a pistol in his hand flashing as he pumped the trigger. His aim was better now and Archer was closer. The first round went wide but the second skipped off the Monaro’s bonnet, causing Archer to flinch without losing speed.
He cursed and accelerated under a third round, seeing the Suzuki biker haring up on the left. Too eager, he thought, and sure enough a couple of seconds later Yassar was jabbing his pistol out the left rear window.
A shot flashed out and the biker swerved, over-corrected and lost control. The bike tipped right and the rider spilled into the middle lane, landing heavily as his bike skidded in a spray of sparks.
Archer hung right on the approach to the Harbour Bridge, seeing the Lexus veer left across the motorway into the left lane. He dodged a family wagon and a motorcyclist and followed it, a suspicion forming in his mind as he thumped across the dividing strips. The harbour stretched ou
t below them, blue and sparkling, dotted with small boats and a couple of wave runners.
The Lexus raced up the bridge, sideswiping a taxi and pushing it into the median barrier, and as it neared the crest, the brake lights suddenly flared and it skidded to a halt, slewing across the lane.
Archer was still several lengths back and pumped his own brakes, slowing rapidly at the same time as the driver’s door and right rear door flew open on the far side of the Lexus. Both men alighted and took cover behind the car.
He jerked the handbrake on and snapped the steering wheel to the right, skidding to a halt side on across the lane. A burst of automatic fire sounded and the passenger’s window exploded inwards as Archer dived out onto the road, drawing his own weapon as he did so. He rolled behind the rear wheel, more shots impacting on the car body, and sneaked a peek underneath. He could see a pair of feet beneath the other car just a few metres away and quickly lined up his front sight. He snapped off a double tap from the Glock, seeing the left foot kick out and the knee above it hit the ground, a scream sounding across the gap.
He squeezed another double tap, the leg jerking with the impacts, but still the guy didn’t fall.
Archer moved to the rear wing of his car and threw a quick look around, just in time to see Yassar moving. Archer started to move too but saw the second guy appear over the boot of the Lexus, a machine pistol in his hands. A stream of rounds blasted the back of the Monaro and sprayed Archer with glass shards before he got down again. He sneaked a quick peek and saw Yassar had climbed onto the railing of the bridge, a cell phone in his hand. He was facing out towards the harbour, the phone to his ear.
‘Don’t move, Yassar!’ Archer bellowed, aiming across the boot at him.
The other man glanced back at him and smiled cockily.
‘You’ll never take me, you filthy capitalist pig,’ he sneered, and tossed the phone out into the blue.
A split second later he followed it, stepping out and dropping from sight. Archer was up and running, checking the Lexus as he did so. The driver with the chopper rose awkwardly, the Uzi’s barrel coming round. Archer pumped two shots at him, the first punching him straight in the chest and the second taking a chunk of his temple off as he fell backwards.
