by Angus McLean
Kruger had a stainless AutoMag .44 Magnum stuck in the front of his jeans as he normally did.
‘Tomorrow we bury our brothers,’ Jones said, still looking from man to man. ‘They served us well and died on their feet. Fuck ‘em and let God sort ‘em out.’
The assembled men let out murmurs of agreement.
‘Bandits forever.’ Jones raised his fist and jabbed the air. ‘Forever Bandits.’
‘Bandits forever,’ roared the men, led by Kruger, ‘forever Bandits!’
‘We did what we set out to do,’ Jones continued. ‘And we brought home the fucken bacon. Our client is very pleased with us and has promised there’s more where this came from.’
That wasn’t entirely true; the client had been pissed that they’d lost three men in the robbery and had killed three cops. It brought too much heat to what was already a headline-grabber. He hadn’t exactly said it, but Jones had no doubt they would not be used by him again.
But for now, the gang didn’t need to know. That was between him, Kruger and the client.
‘He paid up immediately, and what we have here is the cut I promised to all of you for taking part.’
In front of him were nine other men, the most trusted members of the gang; the hard core. All of them had taken part directly in the robbery. Jones took the first wad of cash off the table and tossed it to the man on the far right. It was the rocketeer. He caught the bundle and grinned.
The next bundle went to the bus driver, then the Pajero driver and the getaway van driver. And on it went, until each man had their bundle of cash. Tito, the half-Mexican who had stood beside Jones with the M3 and mowed down one of the STG operators in cold blood, fingered his wad of cash and looked up, waving it at Jones.
“Hey ese, what the fuck? How much is this?’
Jones eyed him calmly. Kruger shifted his feet and glowered.
‘Ten grand,’ Jones said evenly.
‘Whaddabout my forty, man?’ Tito complained. ‘I killed a fucken pig, man, and I get this bullshit? What the fuck?’
‘You’ll get your other thirty, so calm the fuck down,’ Jones told him. ‘I ain’t rippin’ you off; I’m savin’ you. What’s the first thing you’d do with forty k, Tito?’
Tito laughed. ‘I’d get me some brutal pussy and bang that shit till it breaks, am I right?’ He nudged the man beside him and laughed. The other man didn’t laugh.
‘Exactly,’ Jones agreed, ‘and you’d get drunk and pick a fight and probably rape some slut and you’d get locked up. And the pigs would wanna know where the fuck a wetback like you got forty grand in cash.’ He stepped forward and locked eyes with the gangster. ‘Am I right?’
‘Aye, pro’ly,’ Tito agreed.
‘So you get some now, some later-your next instalments will be in a week. Then you don’t fuck it up for all of us.’ Jones stepped back to the leaner again. ‘The pigs’ll already know who Little Ray is, and they’ll know we’re probably involved. So for now, our op-sec has to be a hundy, get it?’
There were nods all around. The only man who didn’t nod was the lean man on the far left, standing away from the rest of the men. He wore a baseball cap and a denim jacket. He was the one who’d introduced terms like “op-sec” to the gang. His name was Johnny Mitchell and he was a former US Navy SEAL. He was the man who’d shot it out with Brad at the van, using a Norinco assault rifle.
All he wanted to do was get his money and get the fuck out of Dodge; he’d had enough of these meth’d up chest beaters.
‘So.’ Jones looked around from man to man again. ‘Any more complaints?’
There were none. Jones looked to Kruger and gave him a tilt of the chin. The mountain moved forward, gesturing to Tito to come forward. The Mexican dragged his heels but did so, tucking the wad of cash into his back pocket. He knew what was coming. It was strictly against gang rules to disrespect the President and he had to pay his dues.
The first hit was a huge swinging right hook that knocked Tito clean off his feet and sent him crashing into the men behind him. He was pushed forward again and took a swinging left, sending him the other way. Again he was pushed forward and the assault continued. After half a minute Tito lay curled up on the floor, bleeding from his mouth and nose and both eyes rapidly closing. A loose tooth lay on the hardwood floor and his breathing was ragged. He was pretty sure he’d busted a rib.
Kruger straightened up and shook his hands out, breathing hard. He stepped back. His job as enforcer was done.
Jonah Jones stepped forward and stood over the fallen man. Tito painfully craned his neck to look up through his battered, bloodied eyes.
‘Don’t ever question me again, boy,’ the President said as he unzipped his fly.
Tito held still as a stream of warm piss flowed down his face, soon joined by several others as the rest of the men joined in, showing their solidarity to their leader.
Johnny Mitchell watched in silent disgust. He turned to go but was stopped by Kruger’s bulk blocking the way.
‘Join in.’ Kruger told him. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, the result of years of steroid abuse. He jerked his head towards the huddle. A couple of the men were looking over, sensing trouble.
‘Naw, I’m good.’ Mitchell tried to brush past, not wanting to fight this gargantuan creature, but Kruger stopped him again, this time with a giant paw on the shoulder.
Mitchell looked down at the hand and then up at the Mohawk’d gangster. His eyes were like flint and Kruger felt a chill run down his spine. He didn’t know what to make of the smaller Yank, but he was one scary motherfucker. Kruger moved his hand and instead clapped Mitchell on the shoulder as if they were buddies. He let out a roar of laughter and jabbed the air with his other hand.
‘Bandits forever, forever bandits!’
The men joined in, chanting their war cry, and Mitchell left them to it. He had better things to do.
Chapter Four
Brad had slept heavily but woke up tired.
His head had been spinning, not helped by several beers and a whiskey nightcap, a turmoil of thoughts and emotions keeping his brain stimulated.
He shuffled to the kitchen and downed two large glasses of water. Feeling slightly better he wandered about the lounge, checking out Jack’s CD and DVD collection. He wasn’t surprised to find it was mostly classic rock accompanied by war and action movies, with some frat-pack comedies thrown in for balance.
He heard feet pounding on the drive and looked out to see Travis slowing to a walk, hands on his hips as he sucked in air, the dog with him going straight to a bowl on the front porch to slurp noisily.
Travis stretched and cooled down outside, stripping off his sweat stained T shirt and wiping his face with it. Brad appeared in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand.
‘How long?’ he asked, squinting against the morning sun.
‘Fifty nine,’ Travis replied, refilling the dog’s bowl. Most of the water seemed to have hit the ground. He anticipated the next question. ‘Eleven, mostly hills.’
Brad nodded approvingly. ‘S’pose I should earn my keep and get some breakfast ready.’
They ate on the deck-homemade muesli and fruit, toast and coffee. Brad found a tube of Berocca in the pantry and downed one. While Jack showered, Brad wandered into his uncle’s office and studied the photos there. Many were of his military days, he and his comrades in various places in various poses-the jungle, bush, desert, in the back of a Hercules, on board Pinzies and quad bikes, usually carrying weapons.
There was a citation on one wall, awarding Staff Sergeant Jack Travis the New Zealand Gallantry Decoration for bravery. The citation detailed an incident in Afghanistan and Brad was absorbed in it when he sensed a presence behind him.
He turned and saw Travis, freshly dressed, his hair wet.
‘Pretty heavy,’ Brad rasped.
Travis smiled. ‘Funny thing is, it wasn’t actually the hairiest moment we had. For some reason a couple of us got gongs out of it.’ He shrugg
ed. ‘Bosses.’
As Brad followed him out of the office another photo caught his eye, this one framed and sitting on the desk by a file tray. He paused and picked it up. It was years old and showed a girl of about fourteen and a boy of about seven. They were in togs and standing on a beach, the water round their ankles and their arms round each other, big grins on their faces.
Brad immediately recognised his mother.
‘That was about two years before you came along,’ Travis said behind him.
Brad nodded silently. His mother looked happy in the photo and he was glad. Not much had gone right for her after that. He glanced up and saw Jack staring at the photo, sadness in his eyes.
‘She was my best friend,’ Travis said softly. He turned abruptly and left the room.
The Director’s door opened and Susie Quinn entered. She moved with purpose and the excitement in her face was clear to see.
He put his fountain pen down and looked up expectantly.
‘Sir, SIG have come back to us on the origin of the weapons.’ She was referring to the Police’s Special Investigations Group, who handled terrorist and other sensitive matters.
‘And?’ He had his suspicions but she clearly wanted to break the news. He waited patiently.
‘They believe they were part of the haul allegedly taken in a substantial burglary reported by a collector in Canterbury four years ago.’ Her eyes were sparking with excitement. ‘He had nearly two hundred firearms apparently stolen. The cops never believed it and he eventually got two years jail for selling the guns.’ The Director remembered the case well. Several of the guns had turned up in the hands of criminals since, all associated with organised crime and drugs, including at least a couple of murders.
‘The collector, Malcolm Cook, is out now and living back in Canterbury. He’s never squealed on who he sold the guns to and has done his time.’ She checked the notes in her hand. ‘They’ve gone through all the CCTV and have matched some of the weapons; a Ruger Mini-14 with a folding stock, an RPG-7 rocket launcher, and an M3 submachine gun. They also say that an M60 machine gun was part of his missing collection, and that matches what Brad Travis and the others say about the gun in the van.’
The Director nodded, assessing the options. He considered the younger woman before him for a moment. She was a good Intelligence Officer-very good-and was only a recent attachment to the Division. Her role was liaison between the Service proper and the Division; one of the few in the department who knew the Division even existed.
‘Call Jed,’ he said to her. ‘I think Mr Cook needs a robust interview.’ He nodded, more to himself than to her. ‘It’s time to let the dogs out.’
Chapter Five
Malcolm Cook lived in a farmhouse on a sheep station about ten k’s south of Fairlie in the MacKenzie Basin.
It was a family property that he’d lived in since he was a child, aside from his time behind bars. His wife and kids had long since abandoned him and he spent most of his time now painting water-based landscapes, watching TV and trading online. He’d managed to rebuild a fairly substantial fund, starting with the help of a bent prison guard while he was inside.
He employed a manager to run the farm for him and let the guy and his family live in the main house, while he took up residence a k away in a worker’s house.
His collection of firearms was long gone, but he had obtained a small battery of weapons through various contacts. The criminals he had sold his guns to terrified him, but he was fairly confident that they would leave him alone, given it was widely known he’d kept his mouth shut.
The cops were no threat-they’d been to his place numerous times since he got out and every time he met them at the door with the phone in his hand, talking to his lawyer. They’d been again yesterday, two detectives from Christchurch. They thought they were all over it until they realised there was no way he was going to talk. He simply stood in the doorway and laughed at them until they got frustrated and drove off, threatening to be back. He didn’t care; he knew there was nothing they could do to him.
He was unaware of the rented green Toyota people mover driving down the main road a couple of k’s away. Unaware of it slowing to a walking pace and two men rolling out the side door, each one bearing a small pack and rifle.
The people mover carried on, making its way unhurriedly towards Fairlie. In the front passenger seat sat Jed Ingoe, a walkie talkie in his hands. He keyed the talk button.
‘Boots on the ground,’ he told the unseen comms operator at the other end.
‘Copy that,’ came the reply.
He glanced at Susie Quinn who was driving, her eyes fixed on the road ahead in the near darkness. ‘I hope you’ve got us some good digs, Susie Q.’
She gave a smile and half glanced at him. ‘Of course. And I know where to get a good burger, too.’
Ingoe grinned, his face partially illuminated by the dashboard lights. ‘You do know the way to a man’s heart, Suze.’
Travis and Brad made good time with their NVGs, Travis taking the role of lead scout with Brad covering the rear.
The night vision goggles allowed them to see clearly in the pitch darkness of the rural night. Within twenty five minutes they were hunkered down in a shallow dry creek bed barely three hundred metres from Malcolm Cook’s house.
The intel they had was that there were neither dogs nor electronic surveillance systems at the property, but they took their time to completely circle it and check for themselves; intel had been known to be wrong before.
After their careful recce, which took the better part of an hour, they met in the creek bed and conferred by hand signals.
The farm manager’s house was lit up a kilometre away. A pair of STG snipers from Christchurch were covering that house, just in case. Cook’s house itself showed light behind the curtains of the lounge and dining rooms, and the flicker of a TV.
The silence was eerie here at night. The odd animal noise in the distance, the rustle of grass and undergrowth in the wind. No noise from the two camo-clad men.
Each of them carried a suppressed Diemaco C8 assault rifle with a Sig Sauer P228 for back up, Brad’s being strapped to his thigh and Travis’ secured in the fixed shoulder holster of his utility vest. He also had his personal favourite in a Safariland hip holster, a stainless Colt Python .357 Magnum with a 4 inch barrel, and a K-Bar combat knife on the left hip. They moved stealthily towards the house, ten metres between them, weapons at the ready. They took up positions near the rear door and after listening carefully for a minute, Travis removed a key from his jacket pocket and carefully slid it into the lock. It was amazing what intel could be gathered when a person wasn’t home, even down to getting an imprint of a door lock.
He silently turned the key and pushed the door open very slightly. Pocketing the key again, he brought his weapon back up again. He looked to his right and gave a firm nod.
They entered the house.
Malcolm Cook was totally relaxed in his favourite armchair, a half finished bowl of hokey pokey ice cream resting on his copious gut and his slippers warming his feet.
One of the Star Wars prequels was playing on his 79 inch TV. The remote sat on the coffee table to his left.
He never heard a thing until the sound was muted. He stared at the TV, confused, and reached for the remote. It wasn’t there. He looked left, jumped, and dropped his ice cream with fright.
A man in full camo gear with a suppressed Diemaco in one hand stood beside, staring down at him. The remote was in his other gloved hand.
‘Hi,’ the man said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid and don’t make a sound.’
Cook sensed someone else there too, and jerked his head around to see another man on his other side. He was identically clad and armed. He was a big unit and fierce looking. His Diemaco was aimed straight at Cook’s face, finger on the trigger.
Cook knew two things straight away; these men were warriors, not cops.
And he was in deep shit.
Fiv
e minutes later Malcolm Cook was in his bathroom, stark naked and lying in the bath.
He was trembling already, from both cold and fear. His hands were securely bound behind with soft fabric; little chance of chafing or other injuries.
The older man stood at the end of the bath, facing him. He was clearly the boss. The bigger, younger man stood over him by his head. He had a wet black cloth hood in his hand and a bottle of water at the ready.
Cook knew exactly what was going to happen.
‘We want to know about your guns,’ the older man told him. We know you’ve told the Police nothing so far.’
‘I’ve got rights,’ Cook tried.
The man said nothing, just eyed him steadily.
‘I want my lawyer.’
The man continued to say nothing, just eyed him steadily. The silence hung in the room, broken only by the wheezing of the obese naked man in the tub.
‘Your lawyer can’t help you now,’ the man said softly. He hiked his shoulders slightly. ‘Nobody can help you now.’
‘This isn’t right,’ Cook whined. ‘This is not the Third World, this is New Zealand.’
‘That’s right,’ the man said. His voice was unnervingly calm and steady. ‘A country of pioneers and adventurers. Hard working people with a sense of justice and a soft spot for the underdog. People with a sense of right and wrong.’ He hefted the Diemaco in his hands. ‘People who don’t like seeing bad guys get away with bad stuff.’
‘You’re not the Police,’ Cook said, his voice quavering.
‘No, we’re not.’ The man gave a thin smile through his camo cream. ‘We’re much worse.’
Cook opened his mouth to shout, but stopped when he saw the man raise a finger of warning.
‘Tut-tut-tut. I told you not to be silly.’ He pointed at the hood and water in his colleague’s hands. ‘If you wanna play that game, we can play rougher. It’s up to you.’
Cook knew exactly what he was referring to. The hood would be placed over his head to cover his nose and mouth, and water would be poured through it. He would have a sense of drowning and he would gag and panic. It was called water boarding and was a torture technique that was widely outlawed but still practiced.
