The capture was not difficult but restraining the animal was. It weighed almost two hundred pounds and when roped it hauled two grown men around as if it was trained to pull a trailer. It took half the day and five pounds of beef to calm the animal down. Terry immediately named the dog Hercules and spent a couple of hours bonding with it. He needed to punch it in the head half a dozen times to get its attention and half a dozen more to get its respect. Later he complained that he had almost broken his hand bonding with the creature.
Hercules turned out to be not only massive but intelligent as well. After a couple of days he became the guardian of the farm. He accepted Jerry Cuthbert Junior without question since the younger man spent so much time on the farm. He was not fond of Jerry Senior, but begrudgingly allowed him access. Anyone else pulling in the driveway would be best advised to remain in their vehicle until they had been cleared. He was no sheep dog in that he would not herd them. He did, however, protect them. Ginger took a shine to the massive beast and it fell in love with him the way Pincher never had.
~~~
Chapter Seven: Twist the Knife
Demetrius Marlowe had managed to come up with the money he owed his underworld associates by selling stock holdings and some property he owned. The fact that his immediate contacts had been killed did not relieve him of the debt. He was left out of the business after that and was immensely relieved. It was not long after that he hired a manager to run his businesses and he moved to New Zealand.
The Troy Brothers offered a very large bounty on the head of “The Irishman.” It yielded no verifiable results since no one had heard of this phantom gangster.
The Kingston Agency continued to be run efficiently and effectively. Its owner would appear from time to time to use the computers and check the books but he seldom had any issues with the staff. His employees had been in their positions so long that some of them were nearing retirement age.
In the year 2000, just after the entire world breathed a collective sigh of relief that the “Y2K” problem had not created global anarchy, the Irishman problem emerged again.
Terry kept his room in Orange as his primary residence. He also rented an apartment on Henley Road in the Homebush area of Sydney under the name Thompson Barber. He paid six months in advance so there was no question or contact from the landlord. The Homebush area is just south of the railroad tracks and Henley road is only two and a half blocks from Centenary Drive, which crosses the tracks. Just over the tracks, Centenary Drive merges with Route 4 giving quick and easy access to the outer loop of expressways. Homebush is home to the workers in the industrial area on the other side of the tracks as well; middle-class factory workers, hard drinking but honest and dependable. Most of all, they minded their own business. For anyone who asked, Terry worked a third shift job in Auburn: just far enough away so nobody would expect to recognize him, just near enough to allay suspicions about the commute, night shift so he could go about his business during underworld business hours.
Under the nickname Tommy, Terry infiltrated the lower echelon of the drug world. He bought drugs and used drugs and sold occasionally. He transported drugs up and down the coast and got a good reputation as a wheelman and a cool head under fire. And he waited.
Once the drug addicts trusted him, as much as a drug addict can trust anyone in the seedy world of rip-offs and judicial sting operations, Terry began to make small moves. He already understood the motivations but was shocked at the amount of money there was to be made. He was not in it for the money, although he did make some along the way, he was there for real opportunity. It was not long in coming.
One of the things Terry learned from the first “Irishman” incident was that killing mob members did little, but upset the hornet’s nest. Within a day Mark Valentine and Bruno had been replaced. Valentine’s spot was taken by Henry Cuthbert and Bruno was replaced by Victor Wellington. The only way to really upset the apple cart was to hit them in the pocket.
The 1968 Holden Monaro was a great way to start conversations. It could hold its own against the newer vehicles and was an endless source of conversation. Terry drove it when and where it would be seen but he did not rely on it for business. It was, after all, over 30 years old and garnered too much notice on the street. Terry kept it in a rented garage space and drove a Land Rover for business. It had more cargo space and, while it was not generally an urban vehicle, there were a sufficient number of them around that his did not evoke comment.
In June of 2000 Terry Kingston managed to wrangle an introduction to Victor Wellington. Victor was a bit of an odd duck. He dealt drugs but did not partake in them. He drank to excess but only on Saturdays. He visited the ladies of the night but only liked oriental women. He was short for an enforcer but nobody to underestimate. He carried an expandable baton with a lead ball on the end and was highly proficient with it. He also carried a pistol but was not known to pull it out except in the most dire of circumstances; he preferred the baton.
Victor agreed to meet “Tommy” because he had heard good things about his driving abilities and he was in need of several good wheelmen. The job was not drugs, this time, but guns. Terry told Victor he had no problem with that and Victor said they might be in touch.
Terry kept a cell phone with him at all times but Ginger still refused to have anything to do with them so the only options open were to drive to Molong or to write a letter. Terry opted to write Ginger a letter which was delivered a couple of days later. The following day, the cell phone rang and Ginger Kingston was the caller. They had a short conversation about the situation, without any specifics. Terry pleaded with Ginger to get a phone but Ginger refused. The following day the phone rang again. This time Ginger was calling from Terry’s room in Orange. He called to say he had laid in supplies and was merely awaiting the specifics of the operation.
Five men were in the mini-van. It was not uncomfortable; there was air conditioning and the tinted windows kept the glare and inquiring eyes out. The trip north was boring until the four passengers started talking and telling tales of heroism and derring-do. Terry was sure that most of them were lies and he fabricated some of his own, being careful not to name names or provide any sort of location or time frame.
There was some trouble on the Pacific Coast Highway at the bridge over the Karuah Estuary. Apparently a man had gone missing and his boat had been found empty so there was quite a search and rescue operation going on. The mini-van was not stopped for long and it was not searched, but it did make the drivers nervous for a short while.
The munitions had been offloaded from a ship at Port Macquerie somewhat over 300 kilometers north of Sydney. What the drivers did not know was that they were expected to transfer the crates from the intermodal truck trailer to the four smaller trucks they would be driving. This caused a bit of friction and a fight almost broke out.
Terry grabbed one of the other drivers, the one least upset by the situation and made a pact with him. Together they loaded the first two trucks with half of what was in the trailer and headed out. There was no doubt in Terry’s mind that the remaining guns and ammo would be loaded somehow.
Once Ginger got the call, he headed out from Orange. The only good way to the Pacific coast Highway from there was to get to the outskirts of Sydney and head north to Route 15 and east. It was a 350 kilometer trip and took almost four hours. Terry got the call when his uncle was on Adelaide Street in Irrawang, north of Newcastle. Terry and his associate had already passed Irrawang and he did not know the location of the other two trucks. All he knew was they had “Fresh Fish” printed on the sides and the picture of a dancing fish.
Ginger set up a watch on the overpass of Mount Hall Road. He had field glasses, a camera, several cigars and a thermos of coffee. His van was out of sight. He did evoke some comments standing there and the local constables noted his presence but did not question him, as he was not causing any trouble. He only had to wait for an hour before the first of the trucks passed under the bridge. He did not
wait for the next one, just quickly packed his gear and headed for the van. He could not have caught the first one but he waited just off the entrance ramp for the second one. It passed his location five minutes later.
“What do you mean torpedoed?” asked Henry Cuthbert, trying his best to control his voice.
“The last truck didn’t show up and the driver didn’t answer so we went looking for it. You’ll see it on the morning news. They evacuated two square miles around it and we couldn’t get anywhere near. It shut down both sides of the bloody SN Freeway. Nothing was moving between Asquith and Brooklyn. I got the news on the CB radio. Somebody took a rocket and torpedoed the last truck. The fire hit the bullets in the back and all hell broke loose. Jimmy was driving. I suppose he’s dead.” Victor had lost all pretense of calm and was shaking in fear. He had been promoted prematurely after Bruno was shot and had not developed the nerves needed for this sort of position. He made an adequate thug but he was no manager. Henry was charged with the management operations.
“Fuck, who knew about the operation that could have done this. Are you sure there was a body? I mean, are you sure Jimmy’s dead?”
“I can’t be sure of anything. I couldn’t get anywhere near the fire. They didn’t even let the fire department near the fire. From what I understand they just let it burn. I told you, they shut down the freeway. The truckers said there were bullets flying everywhere. What a mess.”
“Shit. The other trucks are safe?”
“Yeah. Bonner brought the first one in and then Tommy. Jimmy and Joe were arguing about loading theirs so they were an hour late on the road. Joe got here but Jimmy was 10 minutes behind him, like you said to. He was last in line.”
“Good God, this is going to be a mess.” Henry picked up the telephone. “Ralph, the three trucks that came in today, I want that stuff transferred to a semi. Lock it up. I want those trucks washed and fueled and ready to go. I want the semi out of there and in a truck stop until further notice. Get a driver to stay with the load. Label it “Hazardous Material” and give the driver layover pay from the time he hits the stop. I want the bill of lading to say he’s carrying bleach and I want that truck locked up tight. No, don’t worry about it. Send it to Melbourne, give it week, no two weeks to get there but I want it to stay right outside of town. And tell the driver if he leaves it alone I’ll feed him his youngest son. Now get it done.”
“You forgot the run they were on. What happens when the coppers come around asking why the bloody truck was full of guns instead of fish?”
“Those trucks haul fish every day. That is what they do. If one of our drivers decides to try something outside our purview, we are only responsible for the liability incurred, not for his bloody actions. We knew nothing about any guns.”
“Of course not, Henry. I know nothing about it.”
“Now go away, I have some damage control to implement. Go down to the Randy Penguin and get a drink, if they’re still open. I’ll call you there.”
Henry picked the phone back up and dialed the number for Abel Troy. The phone was busy. He could not have known the reason. Abel Troy was at that moment getting the news “Compliments of the Irishman.”
The Sydney area held well over three million people in the year 2000. By the end of June there was also a huge influx of foreign interest, due to the Olympics. There were so many new faces, it completely disrupted the underworld information system. The tavern owners were ecstatic since their business increased impressively. The demand for drugs, particularly marijuana and cocaine, went through the roof. Several shipments of cocaine from Peru had been arranged months earlier and arrived at Brisbane in the beginning of July.
Terry got wind of the big shipment through keeping his mouth shut and his ears open. He was not scheduled to meet the delivery.
Bonner had gotten the honor of hauling this one down. He was set to drive up the coast in a deadhead semi and swap the empty trailer out for one full of blankets, Indian artifacts, uncut jewels and $3,000,000 worth of pure cocaine. Bonner trusted Terry to some extent. They had done a lot of drinking together. Bonner mentioned offhandedly that he was scheduled to go to Brisbane. There was no discussion of what the load was or of the fact that Bonner was not a real truck driver. Yes, he had a Commercial Drivers License, but he did not drive tractor-trailers often. Terry decided he needed to get a CDL as well, though he never did. It was not that he could not drive a tractor, he simply never got around to the formal training.
When Bonner headed north, Terry had the specs on the tractor. He also got a look at the two men who were with Bonner. He did not recognize either of them but they looked very dangerous. This did not bother Terry. If he had his way, these men would never get a chance to be dangerous. They had not seen him but he had not been able to get the tracker on the tractor, either.
It is difficult to follow a professional truck driver in anything but another truck and impossible to do so unseen. The drivers in the cabs of the big rigs that so many commuters love to hate are charged with the task of not killing anyone. When there is nothing but truckers on the road this is not a difficult proposition. It is a different matter when the roads are clogged with hundreds of cars, each driver intent on his own agenda and destination. A lemming run of humanity flowing around the trucks like stones in a river, but the stones are moving too. Truck drivers’ eyes are in their mirrors constantly. They need to be. Each full-sized tractor and trailer combination has at least six blind spots where the hapless pedestrian commuter, self important and aggravated, can hide. If the driver does not keep watching his mirrors, he does not see the smaller vehicles approach. He may not know they are there. That is a formula for disaster. On top of the fact that they are always looking behind themselves, any large hill will slow a loaded truck down and any automobile that does not pass a truck that is creeping up the hill, in a low gear, is immediately suspect.
This was the first operation Terry had attempted without Ginger. He had no time on this one and cursed his uncle’s refusal to have a telephone installed. He also cursed his own lack of foresight in not keeping an RPG launcher on hand.
Sydney to Brisbane takes a full day and full day back, on a good day of hard running. Bonner would not be pulling back through Newcastle until late the following day, at the earliest. Terry took his time and found his spot. There were thousands of spots to choose from but Terry wanted one close enough to the road that he could get right back on without having to waste time. Just south of Haxham and north of Minmi, there were a number of dirt roads used by people from Newcastle to run their ATVs about. The east side of the road was off limits since it was a farmers’ cooperative, but the west side was free and there were several stands of trees to choose from.
Terry hid his Land Rover as best he could behind the tree line and took up a position inside the trees. He broke off some fresh branches and gathered some dead ones to make himself a bower under the bole of a fallen gum tree. Then he lay down in the back of his vehicle and smoked for a while. Then he took a nap.
The sun had not quite set when Terry’s target drove into view. He had calculated the time and mileage carefully but had almost missed it. If the sun had set before the truck reached him, his preparations would have been in vain.
Diesel engines run on heat and pressure so they need massive radiators. When the three .22 caliber bullets punctured the truck’s radiator, a huge cloud of steam and coolant enveloped the cab. Bonner jammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road.
Terry grinned and swapped the smaller rifle for his Mauser. The grin disappeared when he saw the car behind the truck pull over as well. Initially he thought it was some well-meaning travelers stopping to help, but he soon realized that it was an escort. Two men got out of the car with automatic weapons. Terry’s grin returned as he adjusted the distance on his scope.
Three men got out of the cab of the truck, one of them pulling the cowl forward to expose the engine. The two men Terry had marked the day before moved to the back of
the truck to join their escort.
“Four shells, four shots,” Terry said, as he squeezed the trigger the first time. “One,” he said as the first man collapsed. “Two,” indicated the second man’s demise. There was no immediate three as the remaining two gunmen ducked behind the idling car.
“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree. Merry, merry king of the bush is he.” Terry sang softly as he waited. His enemies had no targets and wasted no bullets firing blindly. They had seen the direction the shots had come from but they could not see Terry. Both men were holding automatics and they had enough range to reach him but they did not take a shot without a target.
One of the men scampered around the road-ward side of the truck before his assailant could get off a shot but when the last man tried to he was cut down. Time was of the essence now; Terry could not afford to let this standoff become protracted. He swapped his short magazine but he had no shot, now. The truck could have moved for a short while but not for long. The car was idling in expectation. Terry shot one of its tires, which exploded with a bang, but he still had no live target.
There was no more time left to wait. Terry slid out of his cover and headed for the Rover. The light was failing quickly. He started the engine and drove down the tree line until he was confident he had passed the truck. He pulled his twin .38 revolvers as he slid through the woods. He slipped within sight of the truck but could not see the two remaining men. He hazarded that they may be hiding in the cab. That suited his purposes well. He holstered his guns and pulled a pair of fragmentation grenades off his fishing vest. After tossing them, Terry made sure there was a tree between the truck and himself. The grenades bounced under the cab and exploded. Terry could hear the bark of his tree shredding from the shrapnel. He could not risk exposing himself so he wrapped a rag around his face and pulled a fishing cap adorned with flies over his head.
Honorable Assassin Page 12
