The Mossad agents could and would react as a military team if required to do so. The guards hired to protect Adam at the Unwin Street mansion were that sort of professional, trained as a team. The gangsters were not capable of that level of coordination and precision. And now they were in custody, arrested for the second time because of a set up. And the man they were searching for, the real thorn in their sides, had become a ghost.
Abel Troy sat in his modern apartment on Castlereagh Street, with its high ceilings and its 360 degree view of the city and the bay, chewing on his dilemma. His brother had countermanded his order to attack the Valkierie clubhouse. Adam had never tried to take command like that before. Decisions were mutual but Abel had always had the last word on tactical maneuvers.
A glass of brandy had not calmed Abel’s fears. He knew his brother was losing that undefined thing that gave the two of them the ability to wrest the helm from its previous, fragmented leaders and consolidate the whole country under their flag. Abel feared his brother was veering from their mutually accepted path at the worst possible time. They were in more danger at this junction than they had been at any point previously. The vigilante, who had infiltrated their ranks, had disappeared. He, who had caused so much damage to the organization, was sequestered with a bunch of bikies in a mountain rat hole.
Who did Adam think he was, countermanding his brother’s orders before they had even conferred about it? Abel Troy was the master of all he surveyed, the conquering hero striding the land like a giant and crushing those who opposed him beneath his heel.
Abel called for the helicopter to be prepped and fired up. He had requested that all calls be held so he was annoyed when the phone rang. He was about to reprimand his secretary when she told him that it would be best if he took this call. The connection was to the Superintendent of the New South Wales Regional Police.
“Ah, Superintendent Barlow, I was hoping we could get in touch with each other.” Abel’s voice echoed cheer and dripped sincerity, a polar opposite of his real feelings.
“Mr. Troy…”
“Please, call me Abel.”
“Mr. Troy, I have been involved with your activities for most of my career and I have the greatest of respect for your abilities. If you were any less talented than you are I would have ended your career by now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a simple businessman…”
“Let us not play the game today. I called to tell you that we finally have the witness we need to end your dominance of the Sydney organization.”
“Please, Mr. Barlow, if there was any truth to what you are saying you would have arrested me by now. You call me up at home, in the evening and tell me some fairy story of a witness against me for something I’m certain I never did? I don’t know what you are playing at but I assure you it will not work. I am a businessman and nothing else.” Abel Troy hung up the phone and it rang again, almost immediately. He was even more upset at his secretary this time but she insisted that he could not afford to miss the call. It was the law firm of Elroy, O’Toole and Sneed, their primary legal advisors. The news was of the entire warehouse full of men being detained on weapons and suspicion of capital murder charges. A creeping suspicion and fear began to grow in Abel’s mind. His entire street-level army was temporarily detained, including Jimmy Cognac. None of that army had personal testimony that could damage his brother or himself except Jimmy.
The whirring of the chopper blades, as the machine came to life on the roof, interrupted his train of thought.
Evan McCormick’s call brought a grin to Terry’s face. He could not remember the last time he had smiled. The whole situation had dragged on much too long and become much too involved. In the process, what had started as enjoyable had turned deadly serious.
“Yeah, mate, the whole stupid lot of them, dragged off to the block house.”
“Then it’s time. Are you ready to become what you were born to be? Are you ready to lead?” Terry was counting on this drive in his associate’s make up to hold the scheme together.
“The men are in place.”
“I asked if you were ready. If you’re not on the job the plan will crumble.”
“Aye. I’m on the bloody job.”
“Good. The dragon has been tied down, it’s time to cut off its head… uh heads.”
“Just give the call.”
“Very soon. Once again, we want both of them together when we bring it down. Timing is critical. If there’s only one in there, the one left alive will be killing every bikie in the city. To start with.
“I got the message, mate. It will happen as we planned. Is the diversion set?”
“Yes. Once again, the timing is critical.”
“No worries, mate.” Evan McCormick had lots to worry about but his outward demeanor was calm as any good leader should be.
The telephone call to Abel was the mere planting of the seed. Theodore Barlow knew that the Sydney Police Department had its share of corruption and that the conference between himself and Jimmy Cognac was not going to remain a secret for long. The Superintendent saw a chink in the armor and was preparing to home in on it. Jimmy was kept incommunicado; he would be getting no visitors, he would be making no phone calls. He would not talk to the police but in this case it was not predicated on what he said, but what Abel Troy thought he might have said. It was all a shell game. Barlow called for an undercover car to take him to the residence of Adam Troy. He planted the seed, now he would try to nurture it.
The police reacted predictably to the report that the Valkieries had gone hog wild in a downtown casino. The security was overwhelmed by the number of angry, drunken bikies and there would be shootings if the constables didn’t present themselves soon. Every on-duty officer for miles was pressed into service to protect the casino.
As soon as the neighborhood was clear of constables, the Dark Knights went into action. While they had been clear about the Valkieries being unarmed for the operation, the Knights were far from it. Dynamite and Molotov Cocktails sailed over the walls of the Unwin Street compound. It sounded like a full blown military assault.
Inside the compound, Adam Troy had just sat down with the Superintendent of the Police. He was hoping there could be an amicable arrangement negotiated between them. Theodore Barlow had always rebuffed overtures of friendship and cooperation in the past but there was always a chance.
The conversation had not progressed past the preliminary small talk when the sound of the helicopter landing on the pad in the yard intruded. The rotors had not stopped spinning when the first of the explosions was heard. The quick thinking pilot fired them right back up again.
Adam’s first thought was that the helicopter had exploded. Then as the explosions continued, he realized he was under attack. Gunfire began punctuating the sound of the dynamite as the guards returned fire against the attack. Adam’s next thought was to run into the basement but he knew he could not chance the Superintendent seeing the torture room. That would destroy any chance of an amicable relationship.
Two of the three ex-Mossad agents whirled into the room with drawn pistols.
“Mr. Troy, we must get you out of here right now. Your brother has returned to the helicopter and we suggest you do the same. You and your guest should fly out of here right now and leave the professionals to disperse the rabble assaulting your home.”
Adam Troy knew a reasonable suggestion when he heard one. He and Superintendent Barlow allowed themselves to be herded to the helicopter and jumped on board. Abel was already back in the passenger bay along with the third of the Israelis.
The assault had turned into a gun fight as people took cover from the opposing fire. The occasional shell ricocheted off the body of the helicopter as it rose from its pad. From inside, the passengers got a good look at the situation. Some of the combatants from both sides were down. Big holes had been blown in the lawn but the dynamite had more of a psychological effect. Fires were raging from the Molotov Cocktai
ls but they were confined to the bushes and outbuildings. The main house did not seem to be in danger.
Terry Kingston had been working toward this for years. At first, without help, he would have achieved his objective but would probably have died in doing so. Some of the Dark Knights were down in the street, a couple of them were not moving. Terry had no time to weigh the trade off, the helicopter was rising from the smoke.
The surface-to-air missile was one of the ballistic innovations dictated by the helicopter warfare first used extensively in the Vietnam War. Their accuracy depended on being heat seekers. Terry had never fired one before, but they seemed simple enough. As the helicopter rose above the battle, it rose right into Terry’s sights. There were five men inside, including the pilot. That almost ensured that both men were inside the machine. It was too hard to tell with all the smoke but there was no time for second thought and no time for verifying the target.
Terry pulled the trigger and the rocket shooshed from the shoulder held tube. He knew in his mind that this was one of the finest moments of his short life. This was the final step, the culmination of his revenge. Then he saw his mistake.
The rocket was a heat seeker and the fires that had been started in the yard were hotter than the engine. The SAM’s exhaust drew a smoke line out from the launcher, directly toward the rising chopper, and then it arced downward into the flames. The resulting concussion was impressive and dramatic, but it had missed its target and the helicopter was quickly out of range of the next rocket. It was not out of range for the Barrett.
Gordon MacMaster squeezed the trigger smoothly and the armor piercing incendiary round blew a hole through the clear canopy. MacMaster had wanted to hit the fuel tank, but missed. While a regular round might not ignite the tank, an incendiary round was guaranteed to. The fuel tank was spared, but the pilot was not. The .50 caliber round took him through the side of the chest and out through the other side of the canopy. The stench of burning flesh filled the enclosure. The pilot did not have enough time to feel the pain. He stared stupidly at his chest for a moment and then slumped forward.
The Israeli guard reacted with precision and speed. He was not an experienced helicopter pilot but he was knowledgeable enough to grab the stick from the dead man’s hand and slowly guide it to a stop on a lawn. When the canopy had been punctured, the sound of the rotors filled the interior. Adam had started screaming like a child. Abel had begun yelling instructions and Barlow had begun cursing and yelling that they needed to land. Smoke was still rising from the corpse of the pilot, gagging the guard and blinding him. It was almost pure luck that the vehicle could be landed at all.
The cockpit door was thrown open and the four men piled out and ran for the house. The door to the domicile was open and they rushed inside. Inside the house, a woman was yelling at them. She was screaming that they had to leave, that this was her house and that she would call the police. When she reached for the telephone, the Israeli guard shot her through the face with a 9-mm pistol.
Theodore Barlow could not believe the situation he had found himself in. He had gone to the house to foment suspicion and discord and had been caught in a catastrophic crossfire. He was a clear and level-headed man, but he was also an agent of the law. When the guard shot the woman, he reacted as any good cop would have and shot the man repeatedly. He almost signed his death warrant in so doing. Abel Troy turned and pulled his own pistol from inside his jacket. The .45 thundered and the round blew a hole in the door jamb next to Barlow’s head. Theodore dove as best he could into the next room. He was not a young man any more but fear and adrenaline absorbed the pain of age and allowed him to move like an athlete.
Ginger Kingston had taken a relatively safe position on the far side of Wolli Creek. Wolli Creek bordered the Troy Estate on the south and there was a stand of trees on the far side that made for good cover when the bullets started flying. His position left him closer to the chopper when it landed than anyone else. He was already moving toward it before it touched down.
“What the fuck are you doing?” screamed Adam Troy. “That’s the bloody super of the coppers. You can’t shoot him.”
“Shut up. Can’t you see what’s gong on? Find some bloody keys and let’s move. There’s got to be an auto here.”
Adam dumped out the woman’s purse and found a set of keys. He tossed them to Abel who charged out the side door and into the garage. The electric garage door was just beginning to open when the first of the rounds pounded through it. Abel dove to the floor and Adam jumped back into the house. Ginger Kingston was in the driveway with his Thompson machine gun. The automobile within was devastated by the hail of lead, destroying that escape.
As the door rose, Ginger could not see Abel Troy lying on the garage floor. He did see the flash of the .45 in the dim interior, however and he felt the bite of the bullet as it cut a furrow through his calf. He screamed like a madman and emptied the drum as he fell to the side.
Adam was screaming like a child again and covering his ears. He had completely lost control finally. Abel grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook him, screaming that they needed to move or they were dead. The bedroom door opened and Abel fired twice in that direction. The door closed again.
Abel started moving, dragging Adam behind him. Adam was still screaming. They were headed back toward the chopper. The engine was still running and the rotors were still spinning but both men with any expertise were dead. It would be a hell of a gamble.
Abel was hauling the corpse of the pilot out of the cockpit when he saw the motorcycle coming down the street. The powerfully-built blond man riding the bike was pulling a revolver from the inside of his vest. Abel grabbed Adam and spun him around between himself and the new threat. The .45 blasted twice and then clicked. The rider went down, but not before blowing a large hole in Adam Troy’s head.
“Sorry, Brother,” was all Abel said as his brother’s corpse slipped to the grass. Then he was in the cockpit and speeding up the engine. He had never flown the helicopter before, but he had seen it done enough times that he had a good idea what all the controls were. The bird began to rise as Gordon MacMaster drove the van over the bridge. He squealed to a stop, hauled the sniper rifle from the back and braced it against the lip of the open window. Again, he wanted the fuel tank but did not have a shot at it so he went for the pilot. The huge burning round hit Abel Troy in the elbow and blew his forearm off his body. The hand was still gripping the stick, still controlling the helicopter, but Abel was no longer in control of the hand. The machine canted wildly to the side and caught a power line. There was a blinding flash as the transformer exploded. The helicopter tilted wildly and the tips of the rotors began plowing up the ground.
Theodore Barlow was watching from the window of the bedroom. His pistol was in his hand but his target was not clear. Before he had a clear shot, the helicopter leaned over and began chopping its way across the lawn at him. He felt exactly like a toad as the lawn mower passes over it. The chopper did not stop at the house, it sliced into it, exploding the wood around it, destroying the structure and sending the debris flying about. It chopped through the living room and the kitchen where it tore the stove from its mooring and wrenched the gas line from the floor. The pilot lights were out but the arc created as the wires were severed provided enough spark to ignite the gas. A column of fire shot upward and a now ruptured fuel tank stood right in its way. The explosion was legendary. Burning fuel splattered all around. It was a scene from Ragnarok.
Barlow had jumped under the bed when he saw the chopper blades gouging their way across the lawn. It would not have saved him from the blades but it did save him from the detonation. The mattress was his shield against the explosion but the concussion of it knocked him momentarily senseless. When he regained consciousness, Terry Kingston was pulling him from the wreckage of the building.
The sirens were wailing as the police and fire departments raced to the scenes on either side of Wolli Creek. They gave Barlow courage and
resolve. He stood and stumbled as he was being pulled across what was left of the lawn. He threw his hand underneath Terry’s vest and pulled out a .38 revolver.
Terry was momentarily stunned as he saw the business end of his own pistol. “Ted,” he said, “this is a bad idea.”
“I’m sorry, Terry, I know what you have been up to. I can’t let you go. You’re under arrest.”
“No, Inspector Barlow, I’m not. You’ll need to shoot me and I don’t think you have the stupidity to do that. Look behind me, at the open window of that van.”
The barrel of the .50 caliber sniper rifle was protruding from the window and it was pointing directly at him. Superintendent Barlow did not move, nor did he drop his aim.
“I might be able to convince the man holding that rifle to spare you if you drop the gun. If not, he will blow you in half with it.”
Theodore Barlow was caught in a Mexican standoff. All he needed to do was wait until the rapidly approaching sirens reached him, but he knew he did not have that much time. The other fuel tank finally erupted in a delayed reaction and burning fuel and wood once again shot all over the neighborhood. A large piece of window frame caught Barlow in the back of the head and he went down again.
Honorable Assassin Page 32
