Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  “The agency is your best source for the information. A good laminator and a small picture will fix it up. Use a legal name, register a vehicle in that name, insure it through a different agency of Helping Hands. This is all possible. Within a couple of weeks we can get you an ID, but investigate the history of the name. If you are going in, you’ll want a criminal from the other side of the country. If you’re working with clean, then make the man clean. Prison time is dangerous because gangsters know men in prison. Are you getting all of this?”

  “Should I use a dead man?”

  “Be careful with dead men, they show up as dead when a search is run on their names. I personally like taking the name and enrolling it in university. Doing that brings all manner of applications from credit card companies. Then you can work up a history, a portfolio so to speak. Enrolling in university, in Sydney, would give you a proper history and reason for being there. Never use credit for anything you don’t want people to know you have. Your history can include books but not bullets. You see?”

  “Gosh, Uncle, why did you teach me none of this before?”

  “I don’t want you doing this thing. In my opinion the action in Melbourne was the end of it, but if you are set on doing it then I will provide you with everything I can to help.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consider everything you say carefully, but I think I will be killing these men one way or another.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I thought I’d stop in the diner in town. Would you like to come?”

  “No. I have work that needs doing. Say, I’ve had some trouble with foxes since you left. At first they were just taking rabbits, but they started in on the chickens last week. Would you like to take a stab at them?”

  “I can do that. It’s been a while.”

  “Stay the night. I’ve got some interesting things to show you.”

  “Interesting? In what way?”

  “First, I picked those up a couple days back.” Ginger indicated a crate in the corner of the kitchen. Inside was a couple dozen sticks of dynamite. “We’ll be popping some stumps tomorrow. There are a few things about dynamite I’d like to show you. I also got one of these.”

  “Blimey. A night scope.”

  “That should make it easier to take a fox, eh?”

  “Easier to take a lot of things.”

  The night scope was ungainly but it had a terrific range. It was clearly not designed for close work. Terry got one of the foxes that night; he took another in the morning light along with four rabbits. He took the tails from the foxes, cleaned and skinned the rabbits and slept the morning away while Ginger cooked.

  “I’ll tell you, Uncle,” Terry said over a cup of coffee. That scope was not designed to work with that little rabbit gun. It’s much too long range for that. You should send it back.”

  “Finish your chow, mate, I got another surprise for you.”

  After breakfast, Ginger told Terry to grab a shovel. They went into the barn and Ginger moved a tractor out. He instructed Terry to dig under where the tractor had sat. Terry did not question, he just dug until he hit cement. He dug around the extent of the square block which had a large ring set into one side.

  Ginger ran out the cable on the hoist they had used to pull the Holden’s engine. It was chained to the main beam of the barn. He hooked the loop and drew the concrete block back. It was hinged on one side. Underneath the block was a set of stairs that led down to a security door. Inside the door was a dark room that smelled, not musty as you would expect, but clean and slightly oily. When his uncle turned on the fluorescent lights the sight floored Terry. It was a climate-controlled, subterranean arsenal.

  Terry’s words were disjointed and slurred. It was as though he was drunk or had taken a beating.

  In the room were shotguns, pistols, automatics and sniper rifles along with sealed boxes of ammunition. It was not new equipment, some of it was quite old. There was a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun like the ones used in the old Cagney movies. There was a 7.63mm Tokarev from the 1940s. There was a Stoner 63A Commando from 1967. There was an entire rack of M16s and another of AK47s. There was a box of hand grenades from WWII, rocket launchers from Israel and a wide variety of pistols. There was also a 1986 Mauser SP66; a German made .308 sniper rifle. The crown jewel for Terry was the .50 caliber Barrett. Someone had written on the cover of the box “One shot, one kill, death from afar!”

  “Gawd awmighty! Where did all this come from? When did you dig this pit? Why didn’t you tell me about it? Do they all fire? Have you got rounds for this monster? Oh, there we go. How on earth did I miss all this? Gawd! This is like a dream come true. When did you get this?”

  Ginger stood there with a face as expressionless as the concrete slab. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and the silent system sucked it up.

  “Uncle, say something.”

  He could maintain the stone visage no longer and smiled broadly. “Mate, many of these weapons were used by your father and myself in the early years. The more recent ones were shipped to me. That big killer came from the Gulf War, actually, I think it was the Iran-Iraq war. It was bound for Iran and got diverted here. We dug this thing out and poured the concrete before you were born. We sealed it tight and installed the air and electric systems ourselves. I never wanted to show it to you.” His smile disappeared. “If you hadn’t been so determined, I never would have. You got yourself set on hunting the biggest game in the country and I told you I was going to give you all the support I could. I still don’t like it, but I can’t let you go off and get yourself killed.”

  Terry was like a half disciplined child in a candy store. He wanted everything and felt awkward touching anything. Finally he settled on the Thompson. He picked it from its handmade oak cradle and took one of the three drum cartridges as well. “I can’t believe it. This gun is older than you. They were never supposed to be sold to anyone outside of the bobbies. Gawd, it’s beautiful.”

  “I don’t know how well that still works,” Ginger replied. “I haven’t fired that monster since… well, for years now.”

  “Let’s take it out.”

  “Clean it first.”

  “It’s clean.”

  “How do you know a cockroach didn’t crawl into the breech and die? I taught you better than that. Disassemble it and clean it. Emotions and firearms have no place in the same room. I told you about going off half-cocked. You can’t use a tool until you know how to use it, and by God this one is no different.”

  “It’s lighter than I would have expected. How did you get it?”

  “It’s four kilos with a 27mm barrel. The drums weigh about a kilo apiece. We got it from a man who knocked off an armored car, in America, then moved down under. He mailed it to himself in pieces. He’s not alive any more.”

  “Did you…”

  “No. I didn’t do that many jobs with your dad. No, this man was old and had no more need to kill a room full of people.”

  “Well, that was nice of him.”

  “I should say. This is one of the finest short range weapons ever made. This one was made in the mid twenties so it has the Cutts Compensator on the barrel. It uses the .45 caliber automatic round. The jacket on those shells is slightly longer than the pistol round and uses a 230-grain load. The shells are reloadable so pick them up after you’re done. That gun is too old to use in a modern action. It’s too unique and identifiable. I’ll let you use it around here but take my advice and leave it here. Remember never call attention to yourself.”

  “All right. I understand. I would like to try it out though.”

  “Go hook up the trailer to the tractor and we’ll go back and have some fun at the tree line.”

  Ginger’s insistence that each gun be disassembled, cleaned and oiled before use shortened the time and number of weapons they took to the tree line with them. The .50 caliber sniper rifle was indeed a marvel of destruction. The armor piercing rounds blew through tree trunks like butter. The incendiary rounds l
it them up. Nobody was close enough to hear the automatic fire so there was no curiosity from the neighbors.

  The dynamite instruction was almost as interesting as the old guns. Of course there were no bridges or buildings to demolish, but Terry picked up the idea of directed energy easily. He never knew how much there was to be learned or how many types of explosives could be made. Though he never reached a level of real proficiency, he did learn enough to hold his own in a conversation.

  Terry stayed at the farm for a week instead of the one day he had planned. He disassembled every weapon in the bunker, oiled and reassembled them. He shot every weapon in the arsenal, broke them down and cleaned them afterward. It was quite an education for someone who thought he knew guns. He learned the inherent flaws and strengths of some of the different, older designs. He also found a cache of cold hard cash.

  The crate was on the bottom of a stack of crates full of ammunition. Terry was looking for shotgun shells when he found it. They were small bills but there were enough of them to fill a rocket crate. It caused Terry to think.

  After a week, Terry could hit a beer can at half a mile in a crosswind, with the Barrett. He was no Commando, only because he had not gotten the training. His physical condition was extraordinary, his eyes were clear and strong and his hands were rock steady. He could run for an hour without breathing hard. He may not have been able to beat an Army Ranger in hand-to-hand combat, but his upbringing had taught him so much more than military training would have. He could rebuild an automobile from the ground up. He could weld with an arc welder, a MIG welder and an oxy-acetylene torch. He had little experience with a TIG welder, but he could hold his own with it. He could throw any good knife accurately at 30 feet, a hatchet at 40 feet and a cut down woodsman’s axe at 60 feet. He was a prime specimen of manhood and had no issues with his self awareness. He could do whatever needed to be done whenever it was required. He felt like a superman.

  Ginger Kingston was about 50 at this point. While he was not an old man, he was no longer what he had once been either. A life of working hard and playing hard had left their marks. He had a bit of bursitis, a bit of arthritis and his knees were showing signs of wear. Years of cigars and alcohol had no good effect on him either. He could no longer run the way the younger Kingston could, so Terry was surprised when his uncle said it was time for some training. Ginger had not meant that Terry would be training, he was training himself. Terry had left for Orange and Ginger trained every three days, taking one day off after three, and then starting over again. He would never be in the shape he had been when he was young, but the excess flesh melted from his bones and he began packing on muscle again. It made him feel so good he had no desire to pick up a drink. After three months, he did not look like the man he had been. It was as though he was reversing his age.

  Terry spent his days in research and training as well. Some of the bodybuilders at the gym had tried to get him to enroll in the competitions but he simply told them he was not interested. He said he couldn’t stand the thought of shaving his whole body. In truth he simply wanted nothing to do with the spotlight. He couldn’t attract attention to himself.

  Every other week he would visit the farm and practice with the firearms, mostly the armor piercing sniper rifle. He joined his uncle in training while he was there and was amazed at the transformation. It was not long before they began to train in hand-to-hand combat and Terry had a rude awakening coming. He no longer felt like such a superman as the man who was twice his age trounced him regularly.

  Ginger still had no telephone or television, but there was no longer any question why. The only question was how George and Ginger had communicated. It seems that George had simply sent a letter on Kingston Agency letterhead in a company envelope. They used a simple code to indicate what was required and Ginger would show up in a couple of days with the required munitions. He returned to the farm with cash and stashed it away. They had been using a steel plate covered with straw in the barn, but when George had been killed, Ginger filled the spot over the concrete barrier with soil. George’s body had never been found so Ginger had left the currency in the bunker with the munitions against his possible return.

  It was a lesson for Terry in honor and integrity. They had never had any excess of money in the past few years and Ginger Kingston could easily have plundered the secret stash but had not. Ginger chewed on his cigar for a while and told Terry, when he asked, that the money was part of his inheritance and that he could have it if he wanted it. Terry thought about it for a while and filled his wallet but left the majority of it in where it was. He told him it was good to have a little stashed away for a rainy day.

  ~~~

  Chapter Six: What Price Revenge?

  “Shit, bo… mate, anyone can kill anyone. If you don’t get it right what’s the use. Can you take a moving target at a mile?” Ginger was talking while he and Terry were sparring.

  “If I’m planted and the wind’s not too bad.”

  “But, you take out one, ubgh,” Ginger grunted as Terry got a quick shot in. “Take one out and the other will know you’re coming.”

  “That’s why I gotta…” Terry did not finish the sentence he waded in with a flurry of shots, the sixth or seventh too wide. He left himself open for a second and Ginger bloodied his nose. They didn’t have gloves or helmets on, they were just bare knuckle punching. It didn’t take long to get tired of that. They didn’t often practice using the Marquis of Queensbury rules but it made a nice change since Terry could actually win these fights. There were no hard feelings when they were done.

  “I’ll tell you what…” Ginger sidestepped a roundhouse, grabbed Terry’s elbow and wrist and jacked his arm around behind his back. Terry spun the other way and dropped to one knee. The fight was over and he had Ginger’s balls in his hand. Ginger was impressed, slapped Terry on the back and they headed back to the kitchen. “I’ll tell you what. If you want we can give them the old one-two. It’ll take some planning and the coordination needs to be perfect.”

  “What’s the old one-two,” Terry wanted to know.

  “That’s when one is the set up and two is the kill. Or, we can be subtle about it, find out who the main players are and work on them instead. A quick kill is one thing, like the mercy you showed the old dogs. I prefer a more circuitous route to the target.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Only a few people had access to the Troy brothers. In their role as corporate industrialists they entertained wealthy businessmen and politicians. In their role as criminal executives they spoke only with the world’s most powerful men, though usually through their representatives. They were becoming more and more legitimate as the years went by and giving the direct control of the unsavory operations to their underlings. There were five men directly under them who issued the orders and directions seldom came from the true powers any more. As long as the money kept flowing there was no problem, but when there was a hiccup in the torrent of illegal liquid assets, there was real trouble. Incompetence was met with direct and often irrevocable response.

  Jimmy Cognac was in charge of the Melbourne area including Tasmania.

  Tony Samfier was much more politically motivated and had control from Canberra to the Victoria border.

  Randy Arganmajc was in charge of the most profitable region, Sydney proper.

  Roy Tap covered the coast from Newcastle to Brisbane. Most of the cocaine that came in from South America was entrusted to his charge.

  Rudy Christian had the dubious honor of controlling the northern Queensland coast. He also negotiated with the heroin suppliers north of Australia. Many of the ships stopped in New Guinea on their way down from South-East Asia. Rudy had a private estate on Badu Island where much of the Asian heroin was stored temporarily. It was sealed in transport containers, and protected by a group of paramilitary killers. Rudy ensured a slow and steady supply of the powerful drug to the cities of the south, keeping the price high and occasionally withholding supply to increase
the cost.

  The problems began as small incidents that would ordinarily be handled at the street level. Small-time dealers being robbed at gunpoint by masked men driving cars stolen from other small-time dealers was barely enough to open eyes. It was certainly nothing to bother the mid-level executives with. The events began happening in Sydney in 1999.

  Organized crime among the street-level drug addicts and small-time dealers is anything but organized. There is no loyalty, no consistent and regular supply, no honor among thieves. The street gangs try to keep things regulated but the business is so inconsistent that one man can supply a group for a while and then he gets frozen out and another source appears. Suppliers cut their powders into oblivion as they become more and more dependant on the drug itself and then a new source is necessary. One pipeline gets busted, or gets out of the business before it happens, and another source must be found. Marijuana suppliers harvest at different times and there are times when there is none available. And people talk.

  When one is looking for a score, an addict won’t refer him to his connection, but connections can be made easily in pubs and clubs. Some people are more open with their products so dropping names happens as well.

  Developing a list of victims was easy for Terry Kingston. He would drink lightly and share in whatever the drug was but always with the objective in mind. His primary thought was not to become a junkie like those he was carousing with. He had been warned and watched carefully, himself. It was an insidious slide down a slippery slope, especially for a brash young man eager to prove he could hold his own in the party scene. Before such a man knew it had happened, the drugs were all that mattered.

  Heroin and opium were much more available than cocaine in New South Wales. The trade routes from Asia were old and well established. While it was less available, cocaine was more desirable because it allowed a person to still function, drink and dance, while high. It also took longer to destroy a person’s life.