101 People to Kill Before I Die

by Anthony O'Connor

Svetlana said,

  "Good."

  Their business was done, but Alexandrovistch was curious about something else. He asked,

  "Svetlana. I hope you managed to save the Nagant revolver. Your great grandfather’s weapon. It’s beautiful, too beautiful to lose."

  Svetlana replied,

  "Yes, I did."

  Alexandrovistch was genuinely concerned.

  "You shouldn’t really be using it though. It’s not always reliable. Why do you?"

  Svetlana replied slyly, lusciously,

  "Why do I do anything? Because I like it."

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  Mr. Cheng was unhappy. And when Mr. Cheng was unhappy he expected everyone around him to feel the same way. They had arrived in Melbourne from Hong Kong on Tuesday night. They'd all checked into the Hyatt Hotel in Parliament Square. Four men to a room added up to fifty rooms. He took the penthouse suite for himself of course. But now it was already Wednesday morning and nothing had happened yet. He was pacing up and down the living room in his suite. His closest aides were waiting anxiously. Mr. Zhang was there, watching on, waiting patiently. Mr. Cheng was ranting and raving, speaking rapidly.

  "I have twenty informants here, all over the place. I pay them fucking good money. So, where's the fucking information I need? Cocksuckers."

  No-one had any idea where Brian Samuals was or even where to start looking. Neither Zhang nor any of the aides wanted to admit this directly. They shuffled about nervously. The boss was a real cunt when he was angry.

  Mr. Cheng decided to go for a walk. He knew that Australia was a safe enough place, he only took one body guard with him. But the rest would not be far away if they were needed. He stripped down to jogging pants and a shirt. The body guard, Mr. Wu Fang, was a big man, thickset and muscular. He remained heavily dressed, wearing a large jacket which concealed a number of weapons - a machine gun, a couple of pistols, several knives. Mr. Cheng didn’t believe in taking chances. He took a brief brisk walk around several city blocks before returning to the hotel. Mr. Wu kept up with him easily, looking around warily at all times. They returned to the lobby around eleven in the morning. They passed two Russian men seated at the side of the lobby. The body guard bristled. They didn’t feel right. Something about them. He moved in a little closer to Mr. Cheng and kept his eye on them as he and Mr. Cheng walked past them. Nothing happened.

  Mr. Cheng decided to visit the second floor below his. All the rooms there were booked by him for his entourage of fighters and gunmen. There were two other floors also. He walked into one of the rooms unannounced, flanked by Mr. Wu. He was instantly outraged by what he saw. There were at least a dozen men in the room and a dozen girls. They were engaged in brazen acts of fellatio and fornication. There was a lot of laughter and loud squealing. The girls were all young and pretty, a mixture of Asian and Caucasian. They were all completely nude.

  Mr. Cheng ran around hitting the men in the back of the head, screaming at them. Ordering them to stop. Even without Mr. Wu hovering in the background they could not react in any other way than with abject submission. They separated themselves from the girls, and stood there uncertainly. Mr. Cheng ordered the girls to leave. They could see that this old guy was nuts but all the young men were clearly terrified of him. Mr. Wu was standing in the corner, hatchet faced, ready. He scared the bejesus out of them. They fled for their lives, running out of the room naked, not daring to stop even to get dressed.

  Mr. Cheng addressed the men remaining. He spoke rapidly as always.

  "We are here to find and kill the asshole who murdered my son. Until then no fun, no play. Get fucking serious. I'll cut your fucking nuts off if I catch any of you playing around again. Cocksuckers."

  He stormed out of the room. He went into more of the rooms on the same floor followed closely by Mr. Wu. Similar scenes played out. Before long he was almost frothing at the mouth, apoplectic. The long corridor was quickly full of naked girls running for their lives.

  Mr. Zhang had arrived on the scene by now with some of his aides. He urgently instructed his aides to rush after the girls. Try to intercept them. Pay them money. Find them some clothes. Couldn't have then running out onto the street. Cops. The media. Couldn't kill all of them.

  Mr. Cheng returned to the Penthouse Suite still screaming out insults to no-one in particular. Mr. Zhang and Mr. Wu accompanied him. They both knew that the boss would continue to be like this right up until the moment he had Brian Samuals’ severed fucking head on the ground in front of him and was happily pissing on it.

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  Victor Krikov and some of his men were staying at the Hyatt Hotel in Parliament Square. The rest were at the Regency just down the street. There hadn’t been many rooms left in the Hyatt after a sudden increase in unexpected guests from China just before they arrived. Around eleven in the morning Krikov was sitting in the lobby with his second in command Vassily Karpov. They'd just been down in the basement parking level, handing over to Svetlana Araknilova a supply of weapons and ammunition. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to want anything else from them. They were drinking. Light beer. What an abomination that was. They saw two Chinese men walk past them at a brisk pace. One of them looked like a body guard, heavily built, buff, overdressed, obviously carrying any number of concealed weapons. He stared at them, rather unpleasantly. But they weren't going to start anything here. They didn't even know who he was. The other one was just odd. A lot older. Obviously, the boss. Dressed for jogging. Almost comically manic. Rushing forwards. Obsessively compulsive just in the way he walked. They watched them rush on by with some amusement.

  Karpov took another sip of his beer and then shuddered. He was still thinking of Svetlana. He spoke with a thick Russian accent.

  "Phwow. That fucking bitch gives me the creeps."

  Krikov laughed.

  "You’re not wrong. I assume you've heard the stories."

  Karpov nodded. Krikov continued speaking.

  "Yeah. She’s a piece of work. The further we are from her the better."

  Karpov sighed.

  "She looks good though. Nice body. Nice ass. Very nice."

  Krikov laughed again.

  "Sorry comrade. She only likes girls."

  Karpov groaned.

  "So I’ve heard. What a waste. What a fucking waste."

  They finished their drinks. Too early for another one. They were waiting for further information from Alexandrovistch regarding the location of Brian Samuals. They had to be ready to roll at a moment's notice. Krikov's cell phone rang. It was Alexandrovistch. Krikov responded,

  "Yes Sir."

  Dmitri Alexandrovistch got straight to the point.

  "They're transporting Boris Ivanov and Vadim Smirnov from the lockup in Police HQ to Barwon Prison this afternoon at 4:00 PM. I'll text you some further details. I've got the route they'll be using. Type of cars. Registrations. Number of guards. Weapons. Their security is light. They're not expecting any trouble. I want you to intercept, break them out and then kill both of them. Kill all the guards too. No witnesses."

  Krikov replied,

  "Sure boss. Any more on Samuals?"

  Alexandrovistch snapped back,

  "No."

  And then he disconnected. Krikov looked up at Karpov, smiled.

  "That was the boss. Looks like we've got a job to do. We're going to kill Boris and Vadim. Intercept a prison transport this afternoon."

  Karpov grunted back,

  "Good. I never did like those two assholes."

  Krikov elaborated.

  "I'll get the details on how many guards shortly. Whatever it is we'll take twice that number. You organize a truck. Something hefty. We'll drive it in front. Then come in from all directions. Make sure you get a jammer to cut their comms."

  Karpov was smiling. Something to do. He snapped back,

  "Sure thing."

  There was a sudden commotion as several naked girls ran o
ut of one of the lifts into the lobby. They were squealing out loudly and looking around desperately. Hotel staff rushed to their aid. They were soon dressed in whatever was available - a few towels, robes. They were starting to calm down. Some Chinese men arrived in the next lift and approached them, slowly, peacefully. Krikov and Karpov watched with some amazement as sizeable amounts of cash were handed out to the girls and to the hotel staff. Soon everyone was happy again. Karpov turned to Krikov and said,

  "I wonder what that was all about."

  Krikov replied,

  "Fucked if I know."

  They were both bored. The sooner they could find Brian Samuals and blow his fucking head off the better.

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  Early on Wednesday afternoon the CIA station chief Chuck Miller was meeting with Assistant Commissioner Michael Branton and Commander David Morton in Branton's office at Police HQ in Spencer St, Melbourne. Michael Branton was not happy. He was directing his wrath at Chuck Miller.

  "Why the fuck did you have undercover guys at the hotel? Why didn't you tell us?"

  Miller was of course determined to say as little as possible. He just said,

  "But I did."

  David Morton snorted. Then he said,

  "After we were attacking. Don’t be an asshole. You're lucky we didn’t kill any of them. Or all of them. Why were they there in the first place?"

  Chick Miller knew that he had support from the highest levels of his own government and theirs. He didn’t have to say anything. But he did want their continued cooperation - for what it was worth. He was non-committal.

  "I had a few indications. Nothing definite. Just a hunch really."

  David Morton snorted again.

  "A hunch, my fucking ass."

  Chuck Miller ignored him. He looked at Branton. Branton stared back at him. Branton asked him directly,

  "Do you have any more men here, undercover?"

  Chuck Miller replied instantly,

  "No. None at all."

  Branton continued looking at him. He didn’t trust the little prick. Not in the slightest. He said to him,

  "You will share all intelligence with us? Everything you have?"

  Chuck Miller smiled.

  "Of course I will. That's the agreement."

  Branton and Morton looked at each other. They both knew just how much that was worth. Branton then asked him,

  "What about the drones, the Predator Drones? I'm told there's ten of them at Williams Airforce base. What are they going to be used for? Are they armed?"

  Chuck Miller was evasive.

  "I don’t have the full picture there. They'll be run by the military - ours in liaison with yours. I don’t have control of that."

  Branton repeated the question.

  "Are they armed?"

  Miller replied,

  "I don’t know. I don’t think so."

  David Morton glared at him.

  "You're a fucking liar mate. Straight out fucking liar."

  The meeting was over. Chuck Miller walked out of the office. He was furious. If they were back in America Commander David Morton's career would be over, effectively immediately. Or something far worse.

  When he was out of the building Chuck Miller put in a call to Richard Gaiter the leader of his new group of gun-men. The survivors of the Casino attack had been merged into the new group, the previous leader, Colonel Saint, had been one of the three men killed by the Russians. He asked him,

  "You all ready? Got all your weapons?"

  Gaiter replied,

  "Yes Sir. Ready to roll."

  Chuck Miller then told him,

  "Good. All our intel feeds directly to me. I'll keep it from them as long as possible. It’s important we get this asshole first. Before the locals get him. If you can avoid it don’t kill him. We'll take him to one of our sites. Find out who he’s working for."

  Chuck Miller had changed his thinking since the Casino fiasco. He now felt that Brian had to be in collusion with someone, maybe the Russians, though they had been trying to kill him too. Maybe some other Russians. In any case he was now keen to capture Samuals and interrogate him. Then kill him.

  Gaiter added,

  "We'll teach him who not to fuck with."

  Chuck Miller replied, with some enthusiasm,

  "Oh yeah. You can bet your ass on that."

  Then he disconnected. He put in a call to the US-Australian military liaison unit at Williams Air Force Base to check on the status of the Predator Drones. The commander of the unit and the second in command were both CIA. They reported directly to him. There was a secret agreement in place, signed off on by the Australian Prime Minister. He was weak and gutless, and desperately eager to please. Chuck Miller had full operational control of the drones. He was primarily interested in their surveillance function. Eyes in the sky. He now wanted to catch Brian Samuals alive - well, to begin with. But he knew that the drones were fully armed. They were ZQ-1 Predator Drones Mark Three each equipped with four Hellfire missiles and a pair of 30 mm, M257A Machine Guns with plenty of ammunition. One on each wing. Fully targetable. The drones also had a self-destruct capability with enough C4 to take out anything within fifty meters. And he had ten of them. He'd happily blow the fucking shit out of Brian Samuals if it came down to that. Consolation prize.

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  All day Wednesday, in various locations around Melbourne, the different police groups waited patiently for further intel and orders. Federal Police including the Counter Terrorist Unit, NSW Police and Victoria Police. Around two thousand officers in total, dedicated to the task of hunting down Brian Samuals and killing him. Any talk of capturing him alive had long since vanished. Assistant Commissionaire Michael Branton and Commander David Morton worked on strategy and logistics. How were they going to move so many men once the target had been located? What if he’d moved out of the city into the country? While they were working on this most of the police units went to firing ranges around Melbourne. They spent the afternoon firing at man sized targets from twenty, fifty and a hundred meters with pistols, shotguns and light machine guns. Thousands of rounds of ammunition were expended. They all wanted to be in perfect condition when the time came to take the asshole down.

  The SAS anti-terrorist squads had arrived at Hopkins Barracks at Puckapunyal, just an hour and a half north of Melbourne. They spent most of Wednesday practicing urban assaults. Available intelligence indicated that this was the most likely required scenario. Small groups of troopers storming private houses. Flash grenades, forced entry, suppression of any possible resistance, elimination of target. Most of the firepower was to ensure nobody got in their way. The actual target would be put down with a single high velocity round to the brain stem. This ensured they couldn’t react in any way, not even a finger twitch. Two or three rounds, just to be sure. Maximum aggression, overwhelming force, and tight machine-like precision. They were ready. But you could never get in enough practice. Train hard, fight easy.

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  Boris Ivanov and Vadim Smirnov were in the back of a van being transported to Barwon Prison. They were being held pending extradition to Europe - on a long list of charges brought up by Interpol. They would be sent to Berlin initially. It was around 4:00 PM in the afternoon on the Wednesday. They'd been interrogated for two days but with far too much restraint and a certain lack of expertise they both found puzzling. But they didn’t know much and their interrogators knew that and were not really that interested. Only one of them showed any real interest and he got bored too very quickly. This would change no doubt once they got to Germany. They'd killed a lot of fucking Germans. They wore prison fatigues and were in handcuffs. The handcuffs were attached in front of them and linked via a chain to metal slots in the floor. There were two police guards in the back of the van with them. Both armed. But they looked bored. Not really paying attention. There was a driver and a b
ackup in the front. An unmarked car followed them with two more officers in it. All of them just had pistols as best Boris could tell, nothing heavier. Pretty light. Insulting really. Boris and Vadim were both steadily looking at the guards. If a chance presented itself they'd be ready.

  Suddenly something slammed into the side of the van. The van started to tip over. They heard another loud crashing sound. Something else smashing into the car behind them - and then the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire. There was a mad scramble as bodies tumbled over each other, twisting and turning as the van ended up on its side. Boris and Vadim were much quicker and vastly more experienced than the two young guards. They managed to lock onto their heads with their legs, twist and fall, snapping their necks, killing them instantly. They were able to retrieve keys and release themselves. They scrambled to get the guards' weapons. Boris got a Berretta, Vadim got a Ruger P89. They both found a couple of spare clips of ammunition. What odd choices for weapons? Vadim was astonished to find a silencer for his weapon. Why did the guard have one of those? But they had no time to think of any of that. Someone was opening the back of the van. They looked at each other. It would be Alexandrovistch’s men doing this. And they weren’t there to give them a kiss and a pat on the ass.

  When the van door opened they burst out guns blazing, maximum aggression. They caught the first few by surprise. Centre body mass and head shots. They fell to the ground, dead or as good as. The escort car was only a few yards away. It was partly crumpled in having been hit side-on by a small truck. They lunged for it as someone opened up on them with an automatic. As bullets slammed into the car body, they took stock. Six assailants remaining that they could see, heavily armed, automatic weapons. They glanced inside the escort car. Two dead bodies, riddled with bullets. They could see two more weapons though. Also pistols. But not reachable. They fired a few shots in the direction of their attackers. Just to show they could. They were massively outgunned.