Getting Home

by Angus McLean

  Getting Home

  Early Warning #2

  Angus McLean

  Copyright 2020 Angus McLean

  Introduction

  Thank you so much for buying my book. I am excited to share my stories with you, and hope you enjoy them.

  If you’d like to know about new releases, sign up to McLean’s Hitlist at http://www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at writerangusmclean@gmail.com.

  Early Warning Series:

  Martial Law

  Stand Fast

  The Division series:

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Call to Arms

  The Shadow Dancers

  The Berlin Conspiracy

  No Second Chance

  Chase Investigations series:

  Old Friends

  Honey Trap

  Sleeping Dogs

  Tangled Webs

  Dirty Deeds

  Red Mist

  Fallen Angel

  Chase Investigations Boxset 1

  Holy Orders

  Deal Breaker

  The Service Series:

  The Service: Warlock

  Nicki Cooper Mystery Series:

  The Country Club Caper

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Author Page

  Bibliography

  One

  The chill of the autumn night was easing now that Curtis was on his second smoke.

  The first had been a cigarette, a starter to get the day going, and the second was a point of meth that he shared with his wife, Lena.

  The buzz of the P – pure methamphetamine – got his senses pinging and staved off the chill.

  He shifted the Beretta semi-auto in his lap, feeling the weight of it. It was a 1301 Tactical in 12-gauge, traded some years back for meth. The extended tubular magazine gave it a 6-round capacity plus one in the chamber, which Curtis always took advantage of.

  Lena eyed him as his fingers stroked the receiver and came to rest on the trigger guard.

  ‘You love that fuckin’ gun,’ she said.

  Curtis crooked a smile at her. ‘Yes I fuckin’ do,’ he agreed.

  The glint in his eye unnerved Lena. Years ago he had looked at her with desire like that. The only thing he seemed to desire these days was guns and crack.

  He saw their niece, Shavaunne, approaching on foot. Behind her was the mouth of a quiet residential cul-de-sac. They were parked in The Gardens, the “first class” part of Manurewa. He knew the cul-de-sac was quiet because they had been parked in the truck – a red and silver Ford F150 – for the last two hours. Dawn had broken in that time.

  Shavaunne and her brother Dice, the big lump of psycho, had been watching a house all night. In that house were a man and a woman, and today they were going to die.

  The previous afternoon, the woman had shot and killed Shavaunne’s other brother, Jaysin, and his dog, who was only known as Bastard.

  Curtis cracked his window as Shavaunne approached.

  ‘Still there,’ Shavaunne said without preamble. She was shivering and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoody. She looked like she needed a hit.

  ‘Any movement?’

  ‘They’re up,’ Shavaunne said, eyeing the small glass meth pipe still in Lena’s hand. She sniffed the fumes wafting from the truck, desperate for a taste after a night of watching.

  ‘Where’s Dice?’

  ‘In the car.’

  ‘He good to go?’

  Shavaunne grunted, her eyes on the pipe.

  ‘You deaf, cunt?’ Curtis’ tone was sharp. ‘He good to go?’

  ‘Yeah, fuck, ’course he is. Fuck man, it’s cold as shit out here.’

  ‘You want some?’ Curtis dug out his tobacco tin, which he always carried. He opened it to show her the gram bag inside and she practically started drooling.

  ‘Yeah, fuck man, I want some. Fuck yeah.’

  She reached through the window for it and Curtis gave her the eye. She withdrew her hand quickly. He reached under the car seat and produced a sawn-off over/under shotgun. The butt had been removed to leave just the pistol grip and the twin barrels were no longer than six inches. It was a .410 that he had taken off a dealer.

  Shavaunne’s eyes gleamed as she took the gun and a handful of spare shells.

  ‘Go cover the back and we’ll go in the front,’ Curtis said.

  Shavaunne nodded and went to step away, but Curtis grabbed her thin wrist. He ignored the anger that flared in her eyes – Shavaunne didn’t like being grabbed.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘they killed your brother.’

  She hissed like a cat and jerked her arm away. Curtis turned to Lena.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Two

  Gemma Dobson drained a last pouch of so-called fruit juice and dropped it in the bin. God only knew what was in it, but she needed to stay hydrated and the sugar would give her a boost.

  They had some serious walking to do today. Roughly half-way home now, she wanted to get her hands on a car. Do that, and they could be home in under an hour. Bikes would do, but she wasn’t counting on that either. More than likely she figured they’d be walking.

  The last two days had got them from Freemans Bay in the city here to Manurewa, weathering the gauntlet of gas fires, jammed roads, thugs and cop killers. She had drawn her weapon – a Glock 17 taken from a dead cop – three times and pulled the trigger. One man had died for sure, and she guessed probably another one. It hadn’t given her nightmares as such, but she was still processing the fact.

  ‘Good to go?’ she said.

  Alex nodded and adjusted the straps on his day pack. Two days ago he’d been a colleague she had barely known. Alex Parker from IT, a bespectacled, geeky young guy with dark hair and the complexion of a lab rat. Since then they had travelled together, slept under the stars, looked out for each other.

  His mother hadn’t made it home yet and he had elected to continue on with Gemma. She felt good about that.

  ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’

  They moved towards the front door and Gemma was about to open it when she caught a flash of movement in her peripheral vision. Hurrying across the neighbour’s front lawn onto the driveway was a skinny girl and a massive, hulking man. The girl clutched a pistol of some sort in her hands. They were heading towards the side of the house where she knew they could get around the back.

  ‘Shit.’ She saw them disappear from sight and was about to open the door,
figuring they could race out the front while the bad guys were at the back, when she saw two more people coming into the driveway. A man carrying a shotgun and a woman beside him. ‘Fuck.’

  Alex had seen them too and his eyes were popping out of his head. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Who’re they?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter who,’ Gemma hissed, already moving. ‘We need to get out.’

  She’d gone through the house last night, checking their security, and she knew that the pair going round the back had one obstacle in their way. The back fence was six-foot tall and there was a side gate at the back corner. The gate was bolted and padlocked from the inside, due to a burglary some time ago.

  The huge man would struggle to get over that, she figured.

  They reached the laundry and she checked out the window. Sure enough, the man was battling to heave himself over the gate. The girl was sitting on top of the gate, one leg either side, trying to help him over.

  Behind them, the front door rattled. Gemma and Alex looked at each other.

  The front door smashed in and they took their cue.

  Gemma yanked the back door open, the Glock in her hand, and stepped out. The girl was looking down but the guy saw them and grunted something as Gemma brought the Glock up.

  The girl turned, grabbing for her own weapon, and Gemma fired. The girl flinched and lost her balance as the bullet whizzed by her shoulder, and she fell off the gate.

  ‘Go!’

  Gemma pushed Alex towards the back fence and followed him as he crushed his mother’s flowers and scrambled up the fence. She threw a leg over the top and tumbled over at the same time as the back door crashed open and a shotgun boomed. Splinters showered her as she rolled to her feet in the back garden she’d landed in. Alex was already halfway across the lawn.

  Gemma raced after him, heard a thud on the fence behind her and instinctively veered to the right. The shotgun boomed again and a window shattered in the rear of the house as she cut around the side. She made it to the road as Alex sprinted past, white as a ghost.

  ‘They’re shooting at us!’ he yelped, as if she hadn’t noticed.

  Gemma ran after him, the day pack bouncing on her back as she ran for her life.

  Curtis got to the road, his chest heaving. It was another residential street and there was not a soul in sight.

  He scanned in all directions, the barrel of the semi-auto shotgun moving with his gaze. If he saw either of those fuckers, no matter how far away, they were going to cop a load of buckshot.

  Shavaunne and Dice reached him, panting and scowling. Curtis glanced past them, seeing Lena still coming.

  ‘You two,’ he hissed, ‘go find these cunts. You see them, they die. Get it?’

  Shavaunne nodded and hurried off to the right, the sawn-off shotgun in her hands. Dice lumbered after her like an ox.

  Lena finally caught up and bent over with her hands on her knees.

  ‘How…the fuck…’ she wheezed.

  ‘Too fuckin’ slow,’ Curtis grated. He looked at her as she spat a thick string of saliva. ‘Need to lay off the smokes, babe?’

  She raised a middle finger in response and spat some more.

  ‘Come on,’ Curtis said, ‘move your fat arse. These fuckers aren’t getting away from us again.’

  Three

  The crunch of feet on the gravel driveway announced visitors, but I had already seen them coming.

  Rusty and Sophie Van Dijk were a retired couple who lived on a small block across the road. Archie and Jethro, the Border Collie, raced out to meet them. We had eaten already but the oldies were still working through cups of tea and breakfast inside. Rusty ruffled Archie’s hair and my son led the older folk up onto the deck where I waited.

  ‘Vee heard the commotion lasht night, Mark,’ Rusty said, his Dutch accent still as thick as when he had emigrated years ago. He shook my hand firmly. ‘Are you okay?’

  I nodded, not quite sure where to start.

  ‘Vee shaw shome of it,’ Sophie said. ‘Vee shaw you were not hurt, but…shome of them…’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Bad people.’

  I nodded again. ‘Two carloads of them,’ I said. ‘They came with guns and were going to kill us.’

  ‘We stopped them,’ Rob said from behind me. He stepped out onto the deck, a steaming cup in his hand. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and had the Browning High Power holstered on his hip. ‘We stopped the bastards before they could hurt us.’

  Archie listened with wide eyes, looking at me when he heard his Poppa swear. I motioned for him to go inside but he ignored me. Stubborn like his mother. I ushered him inside and shut the door. He didn’t need to hear this conversation.

  ‘How many of dem did you…did you, ahh…’ Rusty seemed lost, maybe unsure whether he could even ask.

  ‘Three or four of them,’ I said. ‘It was dark, so I’m not sure exactly how many.’

  Rusty nodded, his face sombre. ‘Dis ish no good,’ he said. ‘Dis shouldn’t be happening here in dis country.’

  ‘It remindsh me of shtoriesh from our parentsh,’ Sophie agreed. ‘Back home during the war, with the Nazish.’ She shook her head, her eyes welling up. ‘Murdering bashtards,’ she muttered.

  Rusty put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ he said softly. ‘It will be okay. The main thing ish that vee look out for each other, yesh?’

  He looked at me when he said it, and I could see the strength behind his eyes. This was a man that meant business. I gave a short nod.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘We need to have each other’s backs and help each other out.’

  ‘And if those scumbags dare to come back,’ Rob said, ‘they’ll get more of the same.’ He nudged me with his elbow. ‘Eh, boy?’

  I nodded again, not really knowing what to say. Last night I had killed three men, maybe more. Earlier that day I had killed three others. The day before that I had bashed two more with a baseball bat. It hadn’t been a normal week.

  I looked from Rusty to Sophie to Rob. Three retired folk in their twilight years. They should have been enjoying the quiet life, pottering in the garden and attending club outings and visiting the grandkids. Instead here they were, donkey deep in a national emergency, planning to deal out some lethal justice should anyone come and have another crack at them.

  I had no doubt that it wasn’t just words. People tend to underestimate older generations, but they forget what these people have been through. These three, and the two inside, were the Baby Boomers who had grown up post-World War Two. They weren’t reliant on technology. They didn’t expect someone else to do it for them. They had a use for everything and a general knowledge of most things.

  I had the feeling they were exactly the sorts of people who would get through a situation like this, and I was pleased to have them around me.

  ‘I think it’s best that we make some plans,’ I said. ‘It’s a state of martial law now and I can’t see it ending quickly. We’re going to have to fend for ourselves for some time.’ I opened the door. ‘Come in and have a brew.’

  Four

  Sweat was pouring off both of them by the time they stopped running and pulled up in a small residential park.

  Gemma leaned back against the slide and put her hands on her hips, gasping for breath. For the second time in three days she had jumped more fences than she could remember and run so hard for her life she thought she would either throw up or pass out. She checked her watch. 07:35. She was pretty sure it was only about five minutes since they’d left Alex’s house, but it felt like an eternity.

  She shrugged her bag off and dug out a water bottle, raising it to her lips.

  Alex had collapsed onto the bottom of the slide beside her, lying back on his bag and doing a good impression of a corpse. His shirt front was drenched in sweat. She was impressed that he’d managed to keep going – he was certainly no athlete, but fear obviously worked wonders.

  She was about to
take a drink when the sound of an approaching vehicle reached them. It was a loud, grunty beast and her immediate reaction was one of dread. She knew who it would be.

  ‘Hide!’ She dropped the bottle and left her bag on the ground, scurrying beneath the playground tower which was home to the slide, a fireman’s pole and a cargo net. The Glock had jumped into her hand already and she crouched, watching through the slats of the playground. She didn’t know where Alex was but didn’t dare to call out.

  The park was on a main road that ran back towards Manurewa, and the playground was set back from the road, closer to the side street that it backed onto.

  Roaring down the road towards them was a red and silver monster of a ute, some kind of American job. Gemma’s gut tightened and she knew her instincts had been right. This was them – whoever they were – and they were hunting Gemma and Alex like prey.

  She gripped the Glock tighter and watched as it slowed. The passenger’s window buzzed down and she saw a woman staring out, straight at her. The truck slowed more and she could see a man behind the wheel now, a big man.

  Instinct told her that he was the guy with the shotgun, the one who had nearly killed her only minutes ago. She decided then and there that if he came for her again she would shoot the bastard cold dead.

  Mark had told her a saying years ago, one he’d been told by a firearms instructor; “Better to be tried by twelve than carried out by six.” Meaning it was better to explain your actions to a jury than be dead in a coffin.

  Her eyes fell to the black day pack she had left on the ground just a few metres away. It stood out like a Goth at a barn dance, and she was sure the woman must have seen it.

  ‘Gemma?’ Alex sounded tense and surprisingly close.

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘Gemma?’

  ‘Shush. They’re looking.’

  She saw the woman turn and say something to the driver, then the truck began to ease away from the kerb. It picked up speed and disappeared from view.

  Gemma let out her breath and came out, grabbing her bag and straightening up. The fallen water bottle was half empty and she quickly drained the rest of it, stuffing it back into her bag in the hopes of refilling it along the way.