by Thomas Ryan
Cunningham saw Red and Ross. “What the hell are you two doing here? Why aren’t you at the back of the restaurant?”
“We heard shooting,” Red said.
“Moana,” Caldwell yelled.
He and Cunningham turned together and raced back to the restaurant.
Moana lay on the floor, disorientated. The shooting continued but she had no sight of the shooters. When Caldwell leapt over her she assumed it was safe and made to rise. Caldwell jumped over a body in the doorway and she was alone. She made it to her knees and peered over the top of the upturned table. Someone jumped from the floor and ran towards her. She recognised him as one of the four men. This one had not escaped with the others. Moana raised her gun. Hand steady, calm she fired into his right shoulder. The impact of the bullet spun the terrorist round. She scrambled to her feet. The terrorist managed to pull himself upright. Moana shot him in the leg.
She turned her attention to Sami Hadani. He was running into the kitchen making for the rear entrance. Moana flung aside the upturned table blocking her way and pointed her gun at him.
“Sami Hadani, you are under arrest. Stop where you are.” The other men who had shared his table stood. Uncertain. Moana swung her gun in their direction. “Sit down.”
They dropped back into their seats.
Hadani stopped. Moana moved forward. She recalled Caldwell’s words. Shoot him in cold blood. But she couldn’t. She was a New Zealand police officer, not a killer. Hadani saw the hesitation and turned, crashing through the rear exit. Moana chased after him.
She caught him on the steps.
He swung his case and it connected with the side of her head, sending Moana reeling. She fell backwards off the step and crashed to the ground. The impact caused her gun to fly from her hand. Sami swung his case again. She turned and took the brunt of it on her shoulder. Moana’s head spun but she forced herself to her feet. During her kick-boxing training and the amateur bouts she had fought she had learnt to take a punch. But Hadani was a big man and although the weight training had strengthened her upper body she would be no match for him if the fight continued too long. As she scrambled to her feet she looked for her pistol but couldn’t see it. Sami turned to run. Moana dived at him, landing on his shoulders. Two thumbs jabbed into his eyes. Then she dropped her arms into a lock round his throat. He cursed. He let go of the case to pull her hands loose then flung her away from him. Moana slid across the dirt. Sami rubbed at his eyes. Face red and teeth grinding, Moana climbed to her feet and rushed forward, smashing her knee into Sami’s groin.
“You bitch.” He pushed her away. They both took a moment to catch their breath. Sami Hadani was not tall, he was thickset and much stronger but Moana didn’t care any more. She positioned herself between Sami and the lane that led to freedom. His only escape route.
“Put down the case, Mr Hadani. Lie on the ground. You are under arrest,” Moana managed to gasp out. She looked around. Where the hell were the two officers guarding the rear entrance? “Put down the case, Mr Hadani. Do not do anything silly.”
As soon as the words had left her mouth he ran at her, swinging his fist. She fended off the blow. It jarred her arm. Then he rammed her with his shoulder catching her under her breasts. She was propelled backward into a wall. It stopped her from falling. He punched her in the face. Lights exploded in her head, blinding her. She reached out and managed to grab his jacket. He punched her in the stomach. She retched vomit into his face but held her grip. He turned to break free. She swung her right arm round his neck. Her left arm followed. She locked them in place then lifted her legs pulling all her weight back against his throat. Sami tried to shake her free, but Moana squeezed tighter. Sami stepped backward and crashed her into the wall. Moana grunted. But hung on. He threw his head back onto the bridge of her nose. She screamed with the pain but kept squeezing. Anger replaced the pain and a surge of adrenaline gave her added strength. Sami began to stagger. She squeezed tighter. He was on his knees. Choking. She gritted her teeth and squeezed harder. She was now on her backside, Sami sitting across her lap. He had gone limp. No movement as she squeezed harder and harder.
Then arms pulled at her. Not Sami Hadani’s
“Fuck off he’s mine!” she screamed.
He was hers.
But hands prized her arms apart. Hadani was taken from her hold. She couldn’t see through eyes swollen shut. Then arms held her. Cunningham’s voice was in her ear, offering comforting words, soft, gentle. Her head fell against his chest and then she wept.
Jeff stood in front of Sami Hadani. The big man sat up, his back against the wall, his grey eyes fixed on Bradley. Bruised lips broke into a grin and displayed a row of bloodied teeth. An attempt at laughter brought a grimace of pain.
Jeff wanted to kick him. His mobile phone rang.
“Jeff Bradley.”
“Mr Bradley. I have your woman and I have your Kosovan family. Very touching to have them all so close. I think I will take them home with me.”
Zahar rang off.
“Zahar, Zahar . . . Fuck it.”
“You think you are so clever but Zahar will have the last laugh,” Hadani said then spat blood at Jeff.
Jeff leaned closer. His fist was closed and raised, ready to strike.
“Jeff!” said Cunningham. “What the hell was that?”
Jeff opened his phone. He tapped in Mary’s number. “That was Zahar. He says he has Mary and Kimie and the kids.” No answer. He dialled the number of Mary’s SAS escort. No answer. He dialled the house.
“Where the hell is she, Jeff?” Cunningham asked.
“I took her out to the vineyard. There’s no answer from her guard. No answer from the house. Jesus, I need a car right now.”
“We can do better than that. I’ll bring in the police helicopter.” He pulled out his mobile and moved away a few metres to make the call. “Damn it. It will be at least half an hour. It’s refuelling.” Cunningham tossed him the keys. “Take my car. I’ll follow in the chopper with reinforcements. I have to clean up here but we won’t be far behind you. And don’t do anything stupid.”
As Jeff climbed into Cunningham’s car Caldwell jumped into the passenger seat. Jeff threw him a quizzical look.
Caldwell held up the Glock Cunningham had given him. “Just drive, I have a gun.”
49.
Jeff parked beside the Boundary Fence four-wheeler. The lights in Kimie’s house were on and the front door wide open.
“What do you think, Caldwell?”
“I think we leave the car here and move to the house via that shed and stay in the shadows.”
“You have the gun. You lead,” Jeff said.
“Why don’t I give you the gun and you can play point?”
Jeff grinned. “Get moving, I’m right behind you.”
The SAS soldier assigned to protect Kimie and Mary lay face down in the hallway, two bullet holes in the centre of his back. Jeff knelt beside the body. He placed two fingers on the guard’s neck. Then the wrist, “No pulse,” he said turning to Caldwell.
He didn’t know the young soldier, but the kid was SAS and that made him family. Another name on the reckoning list he would shove down Zahar’s throat when the time came. Jeff got to his feet and smashed his fist into the wall. The plasterboard crumbled under the impact, a puff of white powder sprinkled onto the carpet. Jeff shook his wrist and blew onto his knuckles.
“Okay, so he has taken them,” Caldwell said. “But I think it’s safe to say Kimie and her kids and Mary are hostages, not dead. If Zahar’s purpose was to kill them he would have done that here.”
“You’re probably right, but who knows what the hell is going on in that asshole’s head?” Jeff said. “What do we do now?”
Caldwell shrugged. “Tonight they were escaping, leaving New Zealand. It’s all turned bad and now there’s been a change of plans.”
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“When Barbara and I spoke to Demi Myftari, I asked him how Zahar and his men had planned to escape. Demi said everyone would have their documents returned, lay low and over the next days or weeks they would fly out on various international airlines and return to wherever it was they came from, except for Zahar. Demi said he had other plans. Even with a new passport he would never get through immigration. Too easy to recognise.”
“How about a boat?”
Jeff shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it. A launch wouldn’t get them far and I think we can rule out a yacht. Sailing into the deep blue sea takes experience and I doubt Zahar has ever sailed in his life. However he would never have come to an island without alternative escape routes. And now we have Hadani and the rest of Avni Leka’s business associates there are no hiding places for him. How about a small plane? Big enough to take four or five?”
“It has to take off and land,” Caldwell said. “We might be out in the countryside but they can’t just take off and land in a paddock. Not a small jet.”
“No, they can’t, but this is New Zealand. We have crop dusters and there will be a number of small airfields that could handle a small plane with a good pilot.”
“And how do we find out where this airfield might be?”
Jeff held up his mobile phone, “I’ll ask Brian to find out.”
“One thing though, a small plane isn’t going far, is it? Could it reach South America? He can’t head to Australia. We can alert their air force. They’d shoot him out of the sky as soon as he came into range.”
Jeff’s mobile phone rang. “Jeff Bradley.”
“Bradley, I have allowed enough time for you to get to the vineyard. I trust I now have your full attention.”
“You have my attention, Zahar. What do you want?”
“I want a helicopter, capable of carrying eight passengers and can cover a distance of two hundred kilometres. You have one hour to organise this. When I call again I will give directions. Any delay and I will kill a hostage. I think the little girl will be first.”
The phone went dead.
Jeff stared at the phone and then at Caldwell.
“We have one hour to find him a helicopter. Whenuapai air force base is close, let’s get there right now. While I’m driving, you phone Brian and tell him to set up the helicopter. The police chopper is no good. Too small.”
Jeff stood next to Brian Cunningham, watching the Iroquois helicopter’s blades build to their familiar whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The sounds reminded him of his military days and the memories came flooding back. It always surprised him how a smell or sound could trigger such reactions. A military psychologist had explained that war was trauma, and like all traumatic experiences it stayed in the psyche until it was exorcised out. However for Jeff, the sounds and smells never brought on a sense of dread, only regret. The truth was, he missed the Special Forces and times like this were a reminder of how much.
Cunningham said, “A relic from the past, I know, but they wouldn’t let us have one of the new NH90’s. They cost seventy million dollars each so I was told. This was a take it or leave it.”
“The Iroquois will do,” Jeff said.
“Jeff, there is something we need to discuss,” Cunningham said. “Whatever it is Zahar intends to do, he is not going to let anyone walk away from this. Mary, Kimie and her children will be killed.”
“I know it,” Jeff said.
“They cannot get on the helicopter. You know that, don’t you.”
Jeff stepped closer to Cunningham, bringing his face to within inches, eyes wide, jaw set firm. “Don’t tell me, Brian, let me guess. You’ve brought in D Company to take everyone out. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“I’m not a murderer, Jeff, and neither is the squadron. No, this time I have no plan. Do you?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Jeff said, with one last aggressive stare before he turned away. He checked his watch. An hour had passed. “Why the hell hasn’t Zahar rung.” He paced.
Then the call came.
“Yes, Zahar, tell me.”
“Bradley, you are not playing games, this is good. The young girl will be very grateful. You have ten minutes. The Huapai Golf Club. Come in slow. One of my men will guide you in with a torch. Any tricks and your loved ones will die. And be reminded I have missiles, I can blast your aircraft into shredded metal.”
The phone went dead.
Jeff ran to the helicopter, Cunningham and Caldwell close behind. The three climbed in.
“Huapai Golf Club,” Jeff yelled to the pilot. “And get up to 1000 feet.” He received a thumbs-up. Jeff had little doubt the pilot would know where it was. The airbase was close and they would have flown over it daily. Jeff knew it as well. He had become a member when he inherited Boundary Fence and had played there many times.
As the helicopter lifted off the ground, Jeff took hold of the parachute he had requested be made available.
“What are you up to?” Cunningham asked.
“I need to get on the ground before you do. The chopper pilot will pass over once looking for the torchlight. I’ll jump and be on the ground before you land. Zahar and his men have made a smart move. He has any number of landing spots to choose from. Knowing the course gives me an advantage. Once I’ve jumped, make sure the pilot circles slowly, and when you get Zahar’s signal move slowly toward it. Hopefully I will get to Zahar before you land.”
Cunningham nodded. “Not bad. A good plan.”
“Whatever happens, Brian, protect my friends.”
“Count on it, Jeff.”
Jeff knelt and pulled the chute pack straps over his shoulders and secured the chest straps, then bent forward and secured the leg straps. Cunningham came close and checked all the fittings were locked down. The pilot had slung a static line near the door. The doors of the Iroquois had been left open. Jeff slung his legs over the sill. Cunningham secured the static line to the rip cord.
He leaned close to Jeff’s ear. “Now don’t forget when jumping from a chopper the blades stop the chute developing. You’ll have a short drop before it catches,” Cunningham said.
“Great, you just reminded me why I hate parachuting.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be on the ground before you can blink. Don’t forget to roll.”
Jeff nodded that he was ready, then moved down to stand on the Iroquois’ landing rail. He looked down. The golf course was located in the rural lands that skirted Auckland City. There were lights along the highway and the odd lonely lamppost down country lanes but not in the centre of the golf course. It was going to be like jumping down the shaft of a coal mine. Calculations buzzed in his head. He recalled his training. Freefalling would max out at 120 mph and then the fall speed would be 1000 feet every five seconds. On a normal jump he would count to ten and pull the cord. That wasn’t about to happen here. Jumping from 1000 feet if he started counting to ten he would be a hole in the ground before he got to six.
Cunningham watched the pilot. He received a thumbs-up.
Brian tapped Jeff on the shoulder. “One thousand feet,” he yelled into his ear.
Jeff pushed off and disappeared into the black.
Jeff plummeted. He counted to two and then felt the jolt. His chute had deployed and the harness pulled at his shoulders. In a few seconds he would hit the ground or a tree or worse power cables. Even though he had some control over the canopy it was no use. If he couldn’t see he couldn’t avoid obstacles. Now he remembered why he hated night jumps. There were always injuries in training. And now the ground was racing towards him and he had no bloody idea where it was.
There was no horizon to focus on to keep his head positioned.
Now he could hear his instructor screaming in his ear, “Bradley, bring your knees and feet together. Turn into the wind. Reach up and grasp the risers.” Jeff followed the remembered i
nstructions. “Now with your legs reach for the ground.”
Jeff looked down at his legs stretched out in front of him. Where was the ground, where was the ground. Then his legs collapsed under him. Training and instinct kicked in. He rolled sideways, moved his head to one side and tucked in his chin and elbows. When he pushed down to raise himself up, his hand sunk into sand. A bunker. Lucky me, he thought, a soft landing. He unsnapped the straps. The chute could stay where it was. One of the club’s green keepers could gather it in the morning. He’d buy him a beer next time he played.
Once free, Jeff moved stealthily into the middle of the fairway. He could hear the chopper but not see it. Trees blocked his vision. He ran through the tree line to the next fairway. He searched the darkness and the flashing lights came into view. The Iroquois swung round to begin another sweep, then he perceived a change in rotor sound and looked up. The helicopter hovered. Its nose swung north, then moved forward and at the same time descended. This was it. Through squinting eyes Jeff searched for the torchlight. He spotted a glow underneath the treeline on the first fairway. A torch waved back and forth. Four hundred metres he guessed. He ran towards it.
The Glock Cunningham had given him appeared in his hand. He had few ideas on what to do but as he sped across the expanse of mown grass he tossed ideas about in his head. Zahar and his men had no idea he was on the ground. They had no idea he was running toward them. They’d be looking skyward. The noise of the chopper would cover his boots crunching on dead leaves and fallen branches. He had the element of surprise.
He was still three hundred metres away but the chopper was closer. The chopper’s lights silhouetted figures on the ground. Jeff could see four men standing, spread out. Not offering a single target, clever, professional even under stress, impressive. Bayonet training came to mind as Jeff closed. Charging bags of straw dressed as enemy soldiers. Rifle thrust forward and then the scream as the front foot pushed forward and the steel rammed into the bag. Another foot stamped onto the bag next to the blade and then the blade pulled clear. He had already decided this was a bayonet charge. Attack without fear, gain the upper hand and unnerve the enemy. Eighty metres; and the chopper was starting to swing back and forth as it prepared to drop the last few feet.
