Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  He was back there again. Like so many involved in law enforcement, he lived it, breathed it, and dreamt it. For a while he stood and rewound his own internal video, playing back the scenes that stayed with him. He’d dealt with a lot of what society would consider nasty people, but his adversary had left a scar, and not just a physical one.

  As he went through his ‘exit strategy’, locking the house down, conducting a final sweep and then walking to his car he became aware that he was now laughing about the old days, about the people that formed a major part of his life, albeit they now lived in an unread chapter of a dusty book, lost on a dark shelf in a nameless repository.

  ‘Only remember the good parts, Jack…’

  He jumped into the TT, placed the key into the ignition and twisted it gently to start her up. As reliable as ever, the dashboard ran through its own checks before igniting the silky V6 which came to life with a satisfying purr.

  He put the gearbox into drive and exited, turned left, then right, and drove out onto the main highway. Moments later he arrived at the airfield, parked up and watched a Cessna 182 on finals, another fortunate holiday home owner flying in from one of the cities for a break.

  He became lost in the moment, observing the intricate adjustments of the aircraft as it glided down onto the grass landing strip.

  At the exact moment its wheels touched the runway, a black Porsche shot by, a slender arm waving from the driver’s window.

  “Bollocks!”

  Cade had been napping, and she’d caught him square on the jaw. He hurriedly turned the key once more and engaged Sport. The Audi Launch Control ensured that it took off like the proverbial feline as he allowed the gearbox to take over. Although she was moving at a rate of knots, he soon tucked in behind her.

  A flash of his headlights and a wave of the hand indicated that he wanted her to pull into a layby. Unexpectedly, she bought it and did as she was instructed.

  “Old habits eh Jack, nice, you haven’t lost your touch.”

  Now both of the German cars sat ticking over in the layby. He beckoned for her to join him. She left her vehicle and walked towards him, her dress fighting against a breeze in a Monroe-esque moment, causing a few male heads to turn as they sped past.

  She got to the Audi and leaned in, a little too far, knowingly displaying her breasts.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” she asked mischievously.

  “There will be if you don’t slow down, miss…” he countered.

  “Well, are you going to punish me?”

  “I might, if I catch you doing it again.”

  “Well, be here tonight at six o’clock, I will be coming through at two hundred kilometres an hour and if you catch me, you can discipline me. But only if you catch me!”

  The fantasy was becoming reality – he knew she had a long journey ahead, so reined her in.

  “Look, you take it easy on the way. Be careful, there are some shockingly bad drivers here. I miss you; it feels like I have known you forever. See you about six? Dinner’s on me.”

  Still in role, she curtsied and replied, “Whatever you say officer,” before strutting back to her vehicle.

  He leant out of the window and called her back to his car.

  “By the way, miss.”

  “Yes, Jack, what?” For once she looked serious.

  “By the way, I’m in the lead!”

  With that he pressed the accelerator pedal fiercely and allowed the Audi to skip off the gritty layby, all four wheels fighting to gain traction on the loose surface. As the Bridgestone tyres gripped the smoother carriageway, he was off, racing up to a set of bends and leaving the incredible girl in his wake, stood in the layby initially, but then running as fast as her spectacular legs and heels would carry her.

  “Jesus Cade what have you done? She’ll be…furious!” he provided a brief commentary on how things might have been in the cockpit of the Black Panther. He knew she would be angry, possessed almost, but he couldn’t help being amused.

  “But think of the make-up sex, Jack! You can’t lose! Worst case, you’ll be covered in her lipstick!” He laughed at his own internal dialogue.

  They retraced their steps from the day before, although this time the cars were more evenly matched. He knew he was down on power but had all-wheel drive on his side, which when coupled with his superior driving skills meant a sure-fire win.

  The cars ducked one way then the other, tyres scrabbling for grip, hands flicking left and right, dashboard needles responding in millisecond bursts, feet dancing on brake pedals, eyes peeled, ever watchful on the road ahead.

  “Time for a power anthem, Jack,” he announced to himself as he switched on the Bose twelve speaker system. Springsteen leapt from the front set as the E Street Band offered brilliant support from the rear. The New Jersey singer belted out Born in the USA as Cade played the drum section on the leather-clad steering wheel.

  His moment of indulgence with The Boss allowed her to tuck in very close to his stern and now the Cayman lay in wait, poised like a ravenous big cat, ready to pounce upon its prey, the Panther and the Gazelle.

  Inside the Porsche all was quiet, no music to distract her, she was more than happy with the soundtrack the engine provided. She tapped the window switch for a second; all the better to hear the flat-six reverberate off the rocky walls of the pass that they were busy navigating.

  Seeing a slowing group of vehicles ahead she sprang into action, a familiar double-tap on the paddles threw the car forward and in two seconds she was past Cade and the slower procession.

  As they cleared the next set of bends, he followed suit.

  This was entertaining; nowhere near as pleasurable as seeing her spread-eagled on his stainless steel worktop, but fun, nonetheless.

  The two Teutonic creatures continued to dance, the Mongoose versus the Cobra. They eventually slowed once they reached Tairua, baulked in heavier traffic as she made faces at him in the rear-view mirror and generally teased him. Nevertheless, as soon as they left the town, any flirtatious thoughts evaporated as they found themselves catapulted along State Highway 25.

  His phone rang.

  “Jack, it’s me, I win yes? We are up Duck Creek soon, I win, please, let me win…”

  “OK, OK, I can’t believe I’m giving in like this, but yes, you win.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say Elena Dimitrova is the greatest driver on the Earth!”

  “I’m sorry, your s-s-signals are breaking up, I can’t h-h-here you…”

  “Jack! I know you can. Stop it. I win!”

  “OK, yes, you are the greatest. Now go easy, not everyone wants to race you. Get to Auckland, change the tickets, buy some filthy underwear and come home. Deal?”

  “OK deal, but I buy clean underwear? Love you, Jack Cade, my sexy Information Security Consultant man. See you at six. Ciao.”

  She deliberately changed down a gear to make the most of her farewell; the Cayman dropped itself onto the road, grabbed the tarmac and tore off up the gradient on State Highway 25A towards the Kopu Bridge. Between the two lay one of the best driving roads in the world.

  Cade indicated left and turned towards Whangamata. He slowed, looked right for as long as he could, and watched the ‘Panther’ slowly blend with the horizon; he contemplated following her, an extra chance to spend time with his newfound lover, but decided it smacked a little of over eagerness.

  Instead, he slipped the TT into sport and settled in for an aggressive drive to the coast.

  Today was a good day and with any luck it would be an even better night.

  Chapter Six

  The Boss had finished his pounding anthem about Vietnam. Jack switched over to the local radio whose cheesy DJ reminded everyone to put out their recycling and remember the roadworks on State Highway 25A.

  “Clearly they forget to inform you about the bloody roadworks on the Tairua Road my friend!” He muttered this to the radio, as if, by chance that would ma
ke a blind bit of difference.

  He slowed to a halt behind a Ford Transit van; in stereotypical dirty white it had had a typically hard life. He smiled – his days of sitting on British motorways in traffic jams were a thing of the past. If this were such a road, behind such a van the door panel would have been inscribed with the classic line ‘Wish my wife was this dirty’.

  There were some things he really missed about the motherland.

  Meanwhile, about fifty feet in front of him a bored-looking road worker stood holding a ‘Stop/Go’ sign which was currently bright red. He couldn’t see any reason for his presence so assumed the chaos was around the next corner.

  A large freight truck had stopped in front of the Transit.

  Cade’s phone rang.

  “Jack my boy, JD here, just seeing if you are en route to Tauranga?”

  “I am indeed you old fox, I’ll try to drop in for coffee on the way back. Elena has gone to Auckland, trying to change her flight; it transpires that she truly loves me. Give my love to Mrs D.”

  “Indeed, it’s only Day Five Young Jedi, tread with care…”

  Cade cut him off in mid-flow.

  “Anyway, tell me, anything new on our amorous Brit – the one I’m trying to gather Intel on in Tauranga?”

  “No my lad, nothing new, you’ve got the address and vehicle details. Just see if you can get that Canon of yours whirring away and capture some damning evidence.”

  “Will do John.”

  “Right I must go, got a game of golf with Sharon.”

  “Sharon?”

  “It’s a long story my boy, a long story!”

  “Aren’t they always Daniel, OK, I’ll drop in later.”

  “Good man, catch up then.”

  Cade paused – then spoke, JD picked up a rise in tension.

  “John, the other night Elena and I had a race with a young guy in a red Volkswagen Golf – a flash one.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s behind me…”

  “And…So what?” It was a classic intelligence question.

  JD was from the old school who believed that if asked a question six times you always got the answer. Four more to go.

  “And I’m not sure mate. Maybe just me but…”

  “Jack?”

  The cell phone had dropped out of coverage, no other plausible explanation for it. He’d ring back.

  The Golf had rolled forward, so far that Cade could no longer read the number plate. The same male was behind the wheel, this time however, he looked ‘different’.

  Something in Cade’s subconscious kick-started a familiar cycle of training; of muscle memory, apprehension and a return to the old days of surveillance and countersurveillance.

  He cursed for allowing himself to break the habit of a lifetime and get too close to the Transit. He felt trapped.

  Looking right he saw a steep rocky bank and to the left a previously unnoticed even steeper hillside lined with dense vegetation, trees, ferns and bushes. He discreetly released his seat belt and leant into his glove box, all the time trying not to take his eyes off the Golf. He ran his fingers around the void until they latched onto the non-slip surface of an ASP baton. Why he had it was his business, but right now he was glad he did.

  “Why is this traffic not moving?” He mused, all the while trying to look relaxed. His senses were spot on.

  The Golf rolled forward again and only stopped when its bumper made contact with the Audi. The Transit’s brake lights suddenly went off, and it rolled forward about two feet. The doors started to open.

  Instinctively he drove the Audi forward and jammed the doors shut. He’d damaged the TT, but he knew it wasn’t catastrophic.

  “Shit, I knew it, this is wrong.” He punched JD’s number on speed dial.

  “Go.”

  “Get the local boys to my location now – you know roughly where I am. Three vehicles, one white, one red and one HGV, I’m boxed in, road works somewhere approaching Staircase Road. John they only sprang up today. Tell the boys in blue there’s been an RTA, be vague, be anonymous and don’t tell them how many involved. I don’t like it John, I’m going active. It’s them…John, look after Elena.”

  JD knew not to argue, knew that his student was well trained and knew this would end in tears.

  Before Cade exited his car he carried out a rapid evaluation of his surroundings: Golf behind, one occupant, Transit, at least one in the driver’s seat and possibly more in the back – for now they were trapped. The truck plus one – or maybe two on board and lastly a road worker with a stop-and-go board.

  In every sense, he was outnumbered.

  The road worker moved towards him, placing his hand underneath his high visibility orange vest.

  Cade’s inner dialogue immediately saw it and announced it – “Gun.”

  The Transit door started to open.

  The window of the truck lowered, and suddenly a heavily tattooed arm appeared. It grabbed the road worker by the hair and dragged him into the door with such violent force that he collapsed onto the tarmac.

  Cade saw it, acknowledged it and made his decision. So far the whole incident had taken twenty seconds.

  He ran to the Golf, pulled the driver’s door open and struck the male occupant in the face. He was holding the ASP in his right fist and by doing so had created a formidable weapon of opportunity.

  His decision was perfect. The male was immediately stunned but had not let go of a Glock pistol that was now sat impotently in his lap. Cade hit him again, and again. Sensing he needed to escalate things further he dragged the male from the car. As he did so he slammed the heavy door onto his head. Looking right he became aware that the truck was reversing. Having little time to observe what was unfolding he turned his attention back to his newfound enemy. As he did so he heard a horrendous collision.

  His foe was trying to rid himself of a low-level concussion but failing dismally, struggling to get off his knees. Cade swung the ASP back behind him and as he did so he heard the familiar metallic swoosh as it engaged.

  Now three times longer it became far more useful and in Cade’s hands far more potent. Continuing the rearward arc he gained momentum before he began to thrust the metallic bar forwards and straight at the driver’s throat.

  The ASP contacted just below the Adam’s apple – fracturing the cartilage instantly and rendering the driver incapable of any further action. He gasped for air, both hands clutching at his neck. His eyes bulged, the hunter now the hunted and rapidly drowning in his own blood.

  Cade no longer considering the driver a threat, reached into the VW, picked up the Glock and placed it down the front of his trousers.

  Seconds had passed. He ran towards the Transit but realised what the dreadful noise was. The truck had reversed into the Transit door. The timing, for Cade at least, was highly fortuitous as the Transit driver had been trapped, rather hideously, as he tried to escape. He too was gasping for air as the door, rammed firmly into his ribcage, ensured that every breath would be one towards his last.

  Cade carried out another rapid evaluation. Golf – down. Transit – possible threat. Road worker? Unconscious. Truck – unknown? Friend? Or foe?

  He walked towards the wagon, his senses at the highest state of readiness. He removed the Glock, his thumb connected with the magazine release as he walked, but then due to a lack of time he paused. Normally he would whip out the magazine and check it; instead he looked at the polycarbonate holder as it sat in its housing. Sixteen rounds indicated – one possibly up the spout. He gently dragged the slide backwards on the familiar Austrian weapon and revealed the last round. The whole process took seconds. He walked quickly; ensuring each footstep was deliberate, offering a strong platform should he need to start firing.

  He could hear activity in the back of the Transit. Whilst the doors were closed, he felt relatively safe. A muffled voice shouted something vague, but he wasn’t in the mood to reply. If they were friendly, they would wait.

&
nbsp; He darted around the front and looked in through the passenger window. Clear. There was no obvious doorway from the cargo area to the cab. Whoever was in the back was going to have to remain in situ until he decided what to do. Fortune favoured him further as this model had no sliding side door.

  He grabbed the ignition key, ran to the rear and locked the doors, adding another level of security, then pocketed the key.

  Gun at the high-ready, he approached the truck and pushed the weapon out in front of him, looking tactically over the sights straight at his target – the least likely to offer any opposition.

  “Driver, show me your hands or I swear I will shoot you!”

  One huge heavily tattooed hand appeared on the window frame, followed by another, although this time un-inked.

  “Good. I’m coming to talk to you, stay where you are and leave your hands exactly where I can see them. Do as I say and you will not be harmed.”

  He walked up to the truck, arcing out into the road and in doing so allowing himself an earlier view of the cab. He was greeted by the nervous face of an old friend – The Seaweed Collector.

  “Talofa Filemoni – my Samoan Warrior. You OK?”

  Despite his enormity, he looked petrified and stammered slightly as he replied, “Talofa, yes, boss. I am good.”

  “Thank you brother, you did really well. Look my friend, we haven’t got long; I don’t know what happened here, but it’s not good. They are not after you or your family. The way I see it, we have only a short time. The driver of the Transit is dead, it wasn’t your fault; he would have shot either one of us, probably both. We are friends, yes?”

  The warrior had a thousand-yard stare and was clearly frightened.

  “Filemoni concentrate, I know about your background, OK? I know you are on parole for murder, I also know that even the authorities had a lot of sympathy with you; if it was my child, I would have done the same. Now look, we have to act quickly here or we are both in a whole heap of trouble. It’s a quiet road, but we need to move and we need to move now. OK?”