------------------------------------------------
Chuck Miller, the CIA station chief, was back in the US Embassy in Canberra, talking to Headquarters in Langley over a secure video link. The agent at the other end, Matt Lockland, was fairly junior. Chuck Miller snarled at him,
"Where's my fucking drones?"
Matt replied,
"On the way Sir. Ten of them. They should get there tomorrow afternoon. We're delivering them to the Williams RAAF Airbase at Laverton, close to Melbourne. It’s all been cleared with the Australian military. Our men can operate them from here. You'll have executive control."
Chuck Miller was pleased they were finally on the way. Some form of fucking progress was good to see. But he wasn’t done with Matt Lockland. He snarled again.
"What about my operatives?"
Matt Lockland remained calm. He said,
"Yes Sir, they'll be there soon as well. Three squads of ten men. All Level One. First squad arrives tonight, your time. The next two tomorrow morning. They'll make contact immediately. They'll be reporting directly to you."
Miller was again pleased but determined not to show it. He snapped at Lockland,
"All right that's good enough I suppose. What about my satellite coverage?"
Lockland was ever patient.
"Yes Sir, that’s done too. They've all been re-tasked. We've got live blanket coverage of the Greater Melbourne area. Very high res. We've got analysts working on it already. You can pull up any of it on your console there. Raw feeds. Analysis. Projections. They’ve only just started so I don’t think they have much yet. But they will soon."
Chuck Miller simply replied,
"All right, good."
Then he terminated the connection. He sat back in his chair. He sighed. The last few days had been stressful. But now, or at least soon, he’d have men on the ground, satellites over-head and combat drones ready to roll. He felt better. This fucking asshole was going down. He didn’t care too much who went down with him. Just so long as the job got done.
-------------------------------------------------------------
I went out on a kill late on the Thursday afternoon. Stole another car. I took along my shotgun in the carry bag then put it under the seat, once I had the car. For this one I also took along my baseball bat. The target was someone not on my original list. He was a target of opportunity. But it was something I felt strongly about. Have you ever been a few days late on your credit card payments? The fucking banks start calling your mobile phone on auto-dial. Five or six fucking times a day until you answer. Pay up asshole. Pay up asshole. Pay up asshole. The telephone companies are even worse. If you do answer but don’t make an immediate payment they keep you on the fucking autodial until you do. Pay up asshole. Pay up asshole. Pay up asshole. Fucking infuriating. Well in my research into the bankers I came up with a name, Tony Jensen. Years ago, as an MBA student at Monash University, he wrote a thesis recommending this practice and outlining its advantages - not the least of which was how it deftly side-stepped numerous consumer protection laws. Anyone who does an MBA is, by definition, an ass-licking sycophant. His recommendations were adopted. He gained a position at the National Australia Bank as an analyst. Other banks also adopted the practice soon after. Now it would have happened anyway. Sooner or later the opportunistic scumbags would have seen the opening. But Jensen was the one who first suggested it. He still worked for NAB, some kind of research manager, chief assistant to the assistant chief or some shit like that. He had a house on Warrigal Road in Cheltenham.
A little bit of social engineering - simply calling his office and pretending to be a relative - gave me the information that he was expected home around 7:00 PM on the Thursday. His wife was away in Sydney. They had no children. Perfect. I got to his house early, let myself in - easy enough with the right lock picking devices and a bit of skill - and waited for him to get home. He came in the front door just after seven. These asshole financial types are always very punctual. I was waiting behind the door holding a baseball bat. I swung it at him, as hard as I could. I heard a couple of ribs cracking, as he fell to the floor screaming out in shock and pain. More shock than pain at this early stage - but that was going to change. I proceeded to beat him to death with the baseball bat. I would smash it into him a couple of times, then scream at him,
“Pay up asshole.”
I hit him a few more times. Paused. Then I screamed at him again,
“Pay up asshole.”
You get the picture. I broke both of his arms early on as he tried to shield himself. Like that was going to fucking work. There was lot of blood already splattered all over the place, and all over me. I continued hitting him for a couple more minutes. Everywhere, legs, shoulders, stomach, chest, just being careful to avoid the head. I wanted to smash him into a bloody pulp. I wanted him to suffer. This had been building up for quite some time. I clearly had some anger issues. Finally, when he was no longer moving and barely making a sound any more I swung the bat at his head a couple of times, hard as I could, cracking his skull open, and smashing it in - killing him.
I drove away feeling quite satisfied. I was covered in blood. That was very foolish. If I got picked up on the way back it was all over. But it was worth it. It felt so fucking good, I could hardly believe it. That more than made up for a gazillion harassing phone calls. I drove back along the Nepean Highway, towards the city. I passed Glenhuntly Road. A car pulled in behind me. Far too close. Fucking tailgater. Un-fucking believable. But I couldn’t kill him. Too risky. I partially turned and scowled at him. He must have seen me. He gave me the finger. I saw red. I screamed out,
"Skunk Fucker!"
I slammed on the breaks. He hit into the back of me. I grabbed my shotgun from where I’d placed it - under the seat - got out of my car and headed back towards him. He was quick, quicker than the others. He jumped out of his car when he saw me coming, armed with a shotgun, drenched in blood. He started running like a terrified little chicken. I gave chase, gripping my shotgun firmly. He was heading towards the shopping center on Matilda Street, just a few blocks away. But I was angry and he obviously lacked the basic common sense to be sufficiently desperate. He was far too slow. I caught up with him easily. I winged him with the first shot, fired while I was running forward. He fell to the ground, blood spurting from his right side, arm hanging loosely. I stood over him, pointing the shotgun at his head. He wasn't defiant now, or rude. He was blabbering, begging. I calmly reloaded the shotgun - the pump action scares the shit out of them - and then I let him have it. Point blank range. Blew his fucking head off.
I raced back to my own car. I was so exposed where I was. Other cars were passing by, speeding up to get away. No doubt some of them were frantically calling for the police. I took off down Williams Road. An indirect route would be best. I drove through Prahran and Toorak and back into the city along the M1 freeway - before finally getting back. I ditched the stolen car in a quiet empty side street in North Melbourne. I put my weapons in the smaller carry bag and cleaned off the blood as best I could. I walked back to the Hotel, walking quickly, hoping no-one would look at me too closely. I made my way down to the Hotel Basement Garage. I still had my electronic pass. I put the shotgun and the baseball bat back in the large bag in the boot of my MX-5 and then I changed into a spare set of clothes. I’d thrown a few in the boot when I set off. They were very similar to the ones I was wearing. Natasha wouldn’t notice. I knew I'd been foolish. Killing the tailgater was a stupid unnecessary risk. But I just fucking hate fucking tailgaters. I remembered that there had been an alert from the hotel management earlier in the week about cars being broken into. They had reminded all guests not to leave valuables in their cars. I grabbed the large bag, locked it with a padlock and took it with me up to my room. It was important to me. Weapons, tools, some spare cash. I couldn’t afford to have it stolen. Fucking thieves and criminals everywhere. You can't trust anyone.
Natasha was waiting for me. As I came int
o the living room she asked,
"How'd it go?"
I replied,
"Pretty good. No problem."
She saw the bag I was carrying. She was curious.
"What's in the bag? Why did you change your clothes?"
I tried to be dismissive.
"Small accident. Nothing to worry about. But leave the bag alone. OK?"
She shrugged.
"Yeah, OK. Want to get some dinner? What will we order?"
She was making every effort to be normal, despite the fact that she was still locked in the tight little silver chastity belt and wearing nothing else. I replied,
"Sure. How about some roast chicken? We still have a couple of bottles of Merlot from last night. That'd go well."
She smiled.
"OK."
We sat down together. Then she broke. She turned to me frantically, desperately, crying out,
"Oh Brian. Please let me out of this thing. Please. Please. I want to fuck. We can fuck. Oh, come on. Please. Please."
I smiled back at her. It was so fucking funny. Teasing her like this. I replied calmly,
"Just three more days to go honey bun. We have to finish what we started."
She whimpered, stamped her feet, screamed out,
"Oh no. No."
Then she raced off into the bedroom slamming the door behind her.
------------------------------------------------
Assistant Commissioner Michael Branton was in his office in the new Spencer Street Police Headquarters. He was being visited by the Special Operations Group Commander David Morton. They were discussing the murder in Cheltenham earlier that day. And the road rage incident that followed. It was starting to get dark but they both knew they'd be there for a few more hours. David Morton asked,
"Do we think it was him? Any evidence?"
Michael Branton replied,
"Oh, I think it was him. I just can’t think of a motive. The guy he killed had no connection to him, no importance. The media reported on it briefly. They haven’t connected it to anything else. Not yet"
David Morton asked again,
"Evidence?"
Branton replied,
"Not much yet. A few witnesses at the road rage site, the Nepean Highway near Glenhuntly Road. No positive IDs. We're looking through the traffic cams now, all of them around the area. Probably get a hit. Nothing yet for Cheltenham though. They’re still going door to door. Forensics is on it. We might get lucky. He used a fucking baseball bat for Christ’s sake!"
David Morton grimaced.
"The guys gone fucking psycho. We're going to have to put him down."
Michael Branton sighed. He was starting to get a lot of pressure on this one. And it was only going to increase. He said,
"I have no problem with that, believe me."
David Morton waited for a few minutes while Branton flicked through some more screens, then he asked,
"Given any more thought to DCI Jack Williams?"
Michael Branton looked up.
"No. Haven’t had the time. He's dirty though. I know that. It’s a curious coincidence that the former deputy commander of Organized Crime went missing in Italy when Jack got that job. Now the Commander's gone missing, also in Italy. If he doesn’t turn up Jack will probably get his job."
David Morton agreed,
"Sounds highly dubious. Who's he working for?"
Branton looked angry. He replied,
"There's some evidence it’s the Russians. One of their criminal gangs."
David Morton cut in.
"The government?"
Branton laughed. Then he replied,
"No. One of the other gangs. But you know what this means. That they killed Billy and now possibly Nigel, while they were in Italy vacationing with their families. They're killing cops."
Morton snarled,
"And Jack Williams is in on it."
Branton nodded.
"Looks like it."
Now David Morton was angry. He growled,
"Just say the word and I'll rip his fucking balls off."
Michael Branton didn’t respond to that. They needed more evidence. He asked Morton,
"Do you remember that guy we went to see Williams with, Chuck Miller? What do you think of him? You know who he is?”
David Morton replied,
"Oh him. CIA obviously. One of their spooks."
Michael Branton added,
"More than that. We're pretty sure he's their station chief here."
David Morton nodded.
"Yeah. Well they want Brian Samuals as much as we do. He killed their Ambassador along with the Premier. Perfectly understandable."
Michael Branton was careful how he made the next point.
"I think he's going over our heads. Bringing in his own people. He's talking to our military. The politicians. He's not as constrained in his methods as we are. He might kill Brian Samuals for us."
David Morton shrugged.
"That wouldn’t be a bad thing. would it?"
Branton replied,
"No. I suppose not. Pisses me off when they all just go around us like that.”
Morton shrugged again.
“Let’s just take him down before he kills anyone else."
Branton replied,
"I couldn’t agree more.”
------------------------------------------------
Svetlana went to check Charlie Samuals place a couple more times. As did Boris and Vadim. They didn’t find him. Charlie and Wendy had gone to Sydney for the week. Finally, Svetlana called Alexander Mendeleev. He was the man in charge of the thirty gunmen Dmitri had sent along to help her. They met in a Bar in Carlton. Mendeleev brought along three of his guys. The five of them sat down in a corner to discuss business. They were left alone. They had this feel about them that everyone else in the bar picked up on easily enough. Danger. Do not fuck with. Svetlana hadn’t wanted to deal with Mendeleev at all but now that she wasn’t getting anywhere she was willing to get all the help she could. She wasn’t used to operating like this.
She complained to Mendeleev,
"Jack Williams isn’t giving us anything. We've got nothing else to go on. Fucker could be anywhere."
Mendeleev was fairly simple in his approach to most things. He asked,
"You want us to kill Williams? No problem. Easy."
Svetlana snarled,
"No. Not yet. And I want to do that myself when the time comes. I have something very special in store for Jack."
Mendeleev smiled. He wished he could watch that. Svetlana was legendary. She then said,
"Mr. Alexandrovistch will be working on it. Working his connections. He'll have to come up with something. We're stuck."
Mendeleev asked her,
"What do you want us to do?"
Svetlana snapped back,
"Just lay low. Be ready."
Then she got up and stormed off.
One of Mendeleev’s men, Anton, was staring at Svetlana as she walked off. He exclaimed,
"Man. Check out that ass. I would love to have some quality time with that."
Mendeleev laughed at him.
"No. You most definitely would not. She'd spit you out in three seconds."
Anton disagreed.
"No. No chance."
Mendeleev laughed again. Grabbed his friend by the shoulder.
"Let’s get some drinks and I'll fill you in on the legendary Svetlana Araknilova. After which you can go back to your room in the hotel, jerk off and thank the gods you didn’t go after her ass just now."
They stayed at the hotel until well after midnight. Got blind drunk. Staggered back to the Hyatt in Parliament Square, singing together. They sang a modified version of an old Russian drinking song which began,
"Oh Svetlana. Svetlana. Svetlana. Went into a bar with a duck."
It was crude and derogatory. But she didn’t hear them singing it. So, none of them died that night.
Chapter 12. The N
ight of the Garrote.
On Saturday night, I arrived at Abernathy’s house in Mondale Street in Toorak at 8:00 PM precisely. Timing was important if this was all going to work. Thirty minutes at each house. Another fifteen minutes to travel between houses. Thirty to get to the last one since it was in Prahran, the next suburb over. I had carefully mapped out the routes I would need, memorized the streets. I wanted to move smoothly between targets - discretely, unremarkably. These were rich suburbs. If anyone - outside or inside one of the houses - raised the alarm there would be cops everywhere in no time. Then I wouldn't be able to finish the job which would have been very disappointing to me. I might even get caught. Maybe I should have done Jack Williams first. Too late for that now.
I had my Glock and my Uzi holstered under my shoulders. I brought the shotgun too. Tailgaters! You never know. I had a couple of knives secured in place, one on my right leg the other at my hip. Easy to slide out. I had the garrote tucked up in one pocket, my lock picking tools in the other. I stole another car. Put the shotgun under the front seat. Stealing the car was easy enough using one of the electronic devices Uncle Charlie gave me. It would be reported missing, but I only needed it for one night. I couldn’t use the Mazda MX-5. Left it back in the hotel. As I had now realized, if anything went wrong it was an easy link back to my hotel booking. I’d done all my research. Memorized names and faces of family members. I’d confirmed that the targets were all at home that night. No last minute changes. I didn’t want any surprises. I was as well prepared as I ever would be. I was looking for a neat clean series of kills with no complications. It didn't work out as planned.
I parked in front of the house, and walked to the front door. To any neighbor watching just another visitor. No skulking about. I got in through the front door easily enough using the lock picker. I drew out my Glock and held it out in front of me. I walked on into the living room. Mr. Abernathey was watching television with his wife Susan seated beside him. Their two children Edgar and Matilda, a boy and a girl, aged ten and eight, were playing on the floor with their IPads. Good, everyone accounted for. No unexpected guests. They were startled when I entered the room. Terrified. Nobody moved. Mr. Abernathey behaved reasonably well under the circumstances. He remained still, on the sofa. He looked up at me. He begged me,
101 People to Kill Before I Die Page 12
