by Angus McLean
Malcolm Cook felt his heart racing. The man facing him watched him carefully.
‘Make your decision,’ he said softly.
Cook made it. He gave a small nod, then a more vigorous one, wanting to make sure these men knew what he was saying. ‘Either way, I’m a dead man,’ he whimpered.
The big man behind him gave an animal-like growl. Cook craned his neck to look at him. He could feel the anger coming off the younger man in waves. No, not anger; rage. This was one dangerous man.
The older of the two men gave a slight shrug again. ‘That all depends on you, Malcolm. You don’t have to suffer in silence. You can be relocated and protected.’
Cook managed a snort despite his situation. ‘The cops already told me that. It wouldn’t matter where you moved me, they’d find me.’
The older man said nothing. Cook stared at him, holding it for as long as he could before looking away. The man could see right through him and Cook suddenly realised that, although the big man scared the shit out of him with his boiling rage, the older man was actually more dangerous. He was all controlled energy just waiting to burst out. Cook had no doubt in his mind that the man would kill him in the blink of an eye.
He looked back at the man, his mind racing. He was used to talking his way out of tight situations but nothing was coming to him.
‘I don’t think he’ll talk,’ the big man behind him rasped.
Cook craned his neck to look at him again. He was pulling a thumb drive from his pocket.
‘What…what’s that?’ Cook quavered.
The big man looked down at him. ‘Option Two,’ he growled.
Cook trembled harder and looked back at the older man. The man’s expression hadn’t changed.
‘What’s Option Two?’
The man considered him for a moment. ‘Option Two,’ he said softly, ‘is a flash drive full of objectionable material. Naked kids getting sexually abused.’
Cook felt his gut drop.
‘You know, real nasty stuff. The sort of stuff that sends you back to jail when it’s found being shared from your computer.’
‘But it’s….that’s disgusting! It’s not mine!’
‘Yes it is,’ the man told him. ‘That’s what will be in the papers and everyone will know about it. You’ll be straight back to jail to get beaten up and butt-fucked every day.’
Cook’s bladder loosened and he pissed down his legs. The man glanced down but didn’t comment. Cook managed to muster some defiance.
‘You’re a fucken animal,’ he told the man. ‘Just an animal.’
The man looked straight through him. ‘Look into my eyes and try to convince yourself I won’t do it.’
Cook couldn’t hold the stare. The man nodded to his bigger colleague.
‘Do it,’ he said.
Cook tried to wrench away but the big man whipped the hood over his head and pulled it back, arching Cook’s back so he was even more vulnerable. He pissed himself again and tried to scream. The hood was wet and claustrophobic and he immediately felt his chest tighten and his heart race.
His screamed ‘No!’ was muffled by the hood. The first splash of water hit the hood and the cloth flattened across his skin.
‘I’ll tell you!’
Brad immediately straightened the bottle up again and eased the fat gun dealer back into a sitting position.
Travis leaned in closer. ‘Who did you sell the guns to?’
Cook was still panicking, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. Brad removed the hood and stood over him.
‘Breathe slow,’ Travis said.
After a few moments Cook had his breathing under control, although his eyes were still bugged and he looked pale.
‘Who did you sell the guns to?’ Travis repeated.
Cook’s tongue darted across his lips and he paused.
‘Don’t even consider it,’ Travis warned him. He held the fat man’s gaze and sensed defeat.
Cook’s shoulders drooped and he muttered something to himself.
‘What?’ Travis leaned closer.
‘Speak up,’ Brad rasped. ‘Use your big boys’ voice.’
‘I said, I don’t really know.’
‘Don’t fuck us about!’ Brad snarled, about to throw the hood on again.
‘No no no!’ Cook shrieked, starting to hyperventilate again. ‘I mean I know but not a proper name!’
‘Tell us what you’ve got,’ Travis said coldly. ‘If you fuck about, we start over.’
‘All I know is his nickname. He contacted me; I never heard of him before.’
‘You met him though.’
‘No no, never. I just went out and when I came home it was all gone. The whole lot, cleaned out. I got paid into an overseas account.’
‘Why report it to the cops then?’
‘I had to; they were coming round to do a license inspection. I had to explain why the guns weren’t here.’ His eyes were darting from one to the other and his lips were flecked with dry spit. ‘You gotta believe me!’
Travis gave him nothing, although the story had the ring of truth to it. ‘What’s the name?’
The motel was a standard outfit frequented by travellers and company reps. The furniture had seen better days and the suite was a bit pokey, but it served the purpose.
The small table in the dining area was spread with takeaway containers and bags. Ingoe was tucking into a burger, a second one racked up and ready to go. Susie had finished her chips and half a shake when her phone bleeped with an incoming text. She grabbed it and checked the screen. She squinted and looked closer.
She visibly paled and Ingoe paused with the burger halfway to his mouth, watching her.
‘What is it?’ he said.
She turned the phone to show him Travis’ text message.
The Pastor.
‘It’s a problem,’ she said.
The cell phone chirped loudly in the large kitchen. The fluffy white Persian lifted its head and scowled, decided it was no threat and went back to nibbling her Fancy Feast.
The Director’s slippers slapped the tiles as he entered from the lounge, scooping the phone off the counter and fumbling for his spectacles. He was still in his work clothes but had lost the tie. The remains of a lamb curry were on the counter nearby. The strains of Bach floated in from the lounge where his wife sat catching up on the latest goings-on from Facebook.
He got the spectacles settled and peered at the phone’s screen. He grunted and double checked but it still read The Pastor.
The Director put the phone down and drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the counter top.
‘Bugger,’ he finally said.
Travis and Brad legged it back from the house to the RV point.
They waited in the cover of a small ditch, back to back to cover the arcs just in case. They were completely silent, ears pricked and eyes constantly scanning. They didn’t expect trouble; Cook was safely asleep in his armchair, fully clothed again in his freshly-sanitised house. The drug he had ingested was virtually untraceable and would keep him under until daylight.
Headlights approached and a pair of clicks came through their earpieces. The green people mover slowed as it got to them, the side door sliding open. They darted together from the ditch and clambered in as the vehicle rolled on. Brad threw the door shut and they moved off.
Ingoe turned and looked at them from the front passenger seat.
‘All good?’ Travis asked.
The former RSM gave a curt shake of his head. ‘Not so much,’ he said.
Brad stiffened, his defences coming up. Travis gave him a subtle nudge with his knee in the darkness.
Ingoe looked to Travis. ‘I hope your passport is up to date.’
Travis looked at him questioningly, and caught Susie’s eye in the rear view mirror.
‘Pack your bags,’ she said, ‘we’re off to Thailand.’
Chapter Six
The table Philip Stephenson was working on was a rickety wooden thing with
a matchbook propping up one leg. Whether it balanced things out or not was debatable.
Stephenson didn’t care. The lean Somali on the opposite side was transferring five mil US to Stephenson’s Bermuda-based bank account. He could do it with his laptop balanced on the rotting carcass of a nun for all Stephenson cared. The electronic transfer had been sent and they were waiting for it to show in Stephenson’s account, each man with his eyes fixed silently to his own laptop screen.
Stephenson refreshed his screen and there it was. He gave a brief nod and punched the power button off. Both men shut their screens down and leaned back in their seats.
Behind Stephenson his bodyguard stepped forward, scooping the laptop away into his satchel. Prasong had the normal stature for a Thai, short and whippety, but he was also rock hard. A former street criminal who Stephenson had found in a bloodied bare-knuckle MMA ring in Bangkok, Prasong had killed more men than Stephenson knew of.
His most recent had been a Somali thug just yesterday. The man had been high as a kite and tried to stand over the soft-looking white man in the floral shirt outside his hotel. Stephenson had simply stepped back and let Prasong do what needed to be done. In two seconds the Somali’s neck snapped and he dropped to the ground. Two accomplices watching from nearby had started forward to intervene. Prasong had drawn a Bali-Song knife from one pocket and a Walther P38 from his belt in less than a second. The men retreated quickly and left their dead comrade where he lay.
The warlord Stephenson was doing business with, Ashkir, had laughed when he heard the tale. He had ordered his own heavies to track down the other two thugs and kill them for disrespecting his guests.
Life was cheap in the Mog, Stephenson reflected. He offered a smile to the black face opposite him.
‘It is always a pleasure to do business with you, Mister McFee,’ Ashkir boomed, smiling broadly as he used the name they both knew was fake. His teeth were badly stained from coffee and cigarettes. ‘I look forward to seeing you again soon.’
‘As always,’ Stephenson smiled.
Ashkir wagged a finger at him, still grinning. ‘And I also look forward to the arrival of my supplies.’
Stephenson nodded in agreement as he stood. ‘They will be here by nightfall, I assure you, my friend.’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘Have I ever let you down before?’
Ashkir grinned, also standing. ‘Clearly not, Mister McFee.’ He grinned broader now. ‘Because you are still alive.’
They both laughed and Stephenson felt a chill run down his back. He had absolutely no doubt that this was no idle threat. He had heard of another supplier who had ripped off the warlord, and had been flayed alive. Such things were not urban legend in Mogadishu.
They clasped hands and Stephenson glanced at the two heavies behind Ashkir. Both wore fatigue vests and black berets like extras from some crap B-movie. They also carried folding stock AK47s that had been supplied in Stephenson’s previous shipment. They were eye-balling Prasong who stood impassively to the side, his eyes flat and expressionless as he gazed back at them.
Some kind of silent pissing contest between bodyguards, Stephenson thought to himself. The sooner they got the fuck out of this stinking shit hole the better. He took the satchel from Prasong and slung it over his shoulder, nudging his holstered Smith and Wesson as he did so.
A third heavy opened the door and they stepped out into an air conditioned hotel foyer, the fresh air hitting Stephenson like a cold blast after the stuffiness and body odour of the meeting room. He slipped on his sunglasses and followed the heavy and Prasong out the front door and down the broad steps to the curb where a white Land Rover waited. The smells and noise of the city were invasive after the relative quiet inside.
Prasong stood at the door while Stephenson climbed in the back seat, before jumping in the front. The driver moved off immediately, cutting off a yellow New York-style taxi. Horns blasted and a stream of abuse in Somali disappeared in their dust as the Rover sped away. The driver was a burly Rhodesian in his fifties named Terry, a grizzled mercenary who had shed blood all over the globe. He and Prasong had quickly formed an unlikely alliance under Stephenson’s employ and travelled everywhere with him.
The big Rhodesian glanced at Stephenson in the rear view mirror. ‘All good, boss?’
Stephenson gave a curt nod and sniffed. ‘As long as the shipment gets to him by tonight we’ll be tickety-boo.’
Terry nodded and squinted in the afternoon sun. ‘I’ll get you to the airport and chase that up with a phone call, but the boys won’t let us down. They’re okay.’ He shrugged and gave a crooked grin. ‘For black fellas, anyway.’
Stephenson nodded silently. He had absolute trust in his own crew; it was the suppliers they used that always worried him. The sooner he was winging his way back to Thailand the better he’d feel.
They had flown commercially from Aden Adde International Airport to Dubai then on to Bangkok. A short taxi hop followed to an office building in downtown where they were shown into the office of Richard Chambers, a British exile who was wanted in his homeland for financial crimes. Living under a new identity in Bangkok allowed the sixty year old with the pencil moustache to indulge in his two passions-money and trans-sexual prostitutes.
Gold rings adorned his soft fingers and diamond studs were in both earlobes. A pink shirt and white trousers completed the picture. He was tall and narrow-faced, with an incongruously round pot belly on an otherwise lean frame. He looked up as Stephenson entered the plush office with Prasong in tow. Terry took a post at the door.
‘Ahh, welcome my friends, welcome,’ Chambers enthused, standing from behind his walnut desk and gesturing to them to sit. Neither of them did. ‘Can I offer anyone a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ Stephenson’s tone was abrupt and the money man’s face fell. ‘We won’t stay.’
‘Alright friend, what’s up? Have I done something to offend you?’ Chambers pouted and placed a hand to his chest. ‘Was the arrangement with my African friend not suitable for you?’
‘I’m clear,’ Stephenson told him flatly. ‘All paid up as of ten minutes ago.’
‘Oh good, good, that’s wonderful.’ Chambers sat again, giving him a happy grin. ‘So pleased to hear it. Debt is not a good place to be, especially with some of the clients I have.’
Stephenson scowled. He was tired and irritable and the last thing he wanted was a verbal hand job from this creep. It was a shame Chambers was such a good fund manager. If he hadn’t lost so much on a stupid fucking game of baccarat none of this shit would’ve happened. What should’ve been a lucrative trip to Somalia was just enough to cover an outstanding debt that Chambers had covered for him at an exorbitant interest rate. Stephenson’s profit from the five mil US had been almost completely wiped out with an electronic transfer to Chambers during the taxi ride.
‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘we’re all sorted.’
Chambers clapped his hands and rubbed them together theatrically. ‘Thank you very much, I will of course double check but I trust you as a man of your word, Philip.’
Stephenson nodded abruptly and turned to leave. As he did so he heard Terry’s cell phone bleep with an incoming text. He watched the Rhodesian punch it up and squint hard at the small screen. The grizzled man’s jaw dropped and he looked up sharply.
‘What is it?’ Stephenson hissed, not wanting Chambers to hear. He reached Terry and guided him out the door.
‘It’s not good, boss,’ the older man grated. ‘They were hijacked. We’ve lost the shipment.’
Stephenson’s face went white and Terry thought for a second that he was going to faint. Instead he held the door and ushered his boss out.
Chambers watched them go and tapped his steepled fingers together thoughtfully.
Stephenson was an interesting man-useful, and with an interesting background. Chambers had long been tempted to try and poach his minders from him too, although the Thai thug Prasong seemed to have a deep attachment to his boss. Besides,
Chambers had his own ruthless killer at his side.
As if on cue, the internal office door opened and Johnny Mitchell entered. He was dressed in his usual uniform of jeans, floral Hawaiian shirt and baseball cap. He had been listening from the adjoining office.
‘They seem concerned,’ he observed drily.
Chambers smiled wolfishly. ‘Don’t they, though. Well done on getting that in place so quickly.’
Mitchell shrugged modestly. ‘No problem. I know a few people in bad places.’
Chambers knew that was a huge understatement. Mitchell had a very impressive network of contacts around the globe. It had been surprisingly easy for him to organise for the shipment of weapons to the warlord Ashkir to go missing. There had been no hijacking as such; it was simply money changing hands and two of the escorts turning on the other two, shooting them in the back and taking the shipment. The weapons went straight to an opposing warlord, who paid over the going rate for them simply to stick it to Ashkir.
‘Ashkir has no idea?’ Chambers asked.
‘So far as I know.’ Mitchell’s eyes were the palest blue Chambers had ever seen. They sparkled ever so slightly as he talked. ‘I’ll pass the word to Ashkir about what happened; he’ll deal with the two guys.’
‘And owe you a favour as a result.’ Chambers chuckled gleefully. He loved this cat and mouse game. ‘And we’ll let him know who’s got his guns?’
‘Naturally.’ Mitchell tossed his head towards the door that Stephenson and his men had just exited. ‘What about these turkeys?’
Chambers smiled. ‘Keep them on the leash. They have no idea so there’s no point in popping their bubble.’
Mitchell nodded. He didn’t care either way. Work was work.
‘The only thing we need to be a bit cautious of is the security services. They’re likely to be all over this.’
Mitchell frowned. ‘It’s just an armed robbery, boss. The cops’ll do their thing, look at those assholes the Bandits, and that’ll be that.’
