Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  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.

  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

  pul ed 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,’ Kamal 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 stairwel 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 w
ill 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 col ided 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