Call to Arms

by Angus McLean

  Brad studied the four men, recognising the pride they had in their uniforms, seeing the way they held themselves. He wondered if his own path had been pre-determined. He’d enjoyed being a cop but special ops had always been his goal and he’d focussed on getting there from the day he first pulled on a blue uniform. Obviously it was in the blood of Travis men.

  Turning away from the photos, he knew he had a lot to live up to. He fervently hoped that he would get to put his own skills to the test.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anthony Turner and Melissa Cullen arrived late at a tourist hotel near the airport, lugging new bags and wearing new clothes, all of which had been bought from street vendors on their circuitous route from the scene of the shooting.

  Changing cabs several times and walking different parts of the route had left them happy they weren’t being followed, but they were still tense and their feeling of paranoia was running high.

  Once they were safely in their suite, they followed a familiar routine; Travis physically checked the entire suite and took charge of their defences, while Susie plugged in one of the burn phones they’d bought and dialled Ingoe back in NZ.

  Travis locked the door, secured the latch and placed a coffee table across the doorway. He took a post in the kitchen where he could see the adjoining buildings, and reloaded their magazines. He watched and listened to Susie’s brief conversation, which consisted mostly of code words.

  She disconnected and put the phone down. Her expression was one of displeasure and concern.

  ‘He’s on it,’ she said curtly, ‘but basically has no idea who or why. He’s coming back to me shortly, hopefully with an update and exit strategy.’

  ‘Exit strategy?’ Travis queried. ‘Why? We’re obviously getting somewhere.’

  She looked at him like he was mad. ‘Are you serious? You just killed three guys and maimed another in the middle of bloody Bangkok! We had a running gun battle on fucking tuk-tuks’ for Christ’s sake-two white people blowing away a bunch of locals makes it an international fucking incident, Jack. Politicians don’t tend to like that sort of shit. They think it’s unpleasant and pretty fucked up!’

  He noticed she swore a lot when she was agitated. He figured it was probably an observation best left unsaid.

  ‘It is unpleasant and fucked up,’ he agreed instead, ‘but it also happens for a reason. If we weren’t putting pressure on someone then they wouldn’t react like that. You don’t try and kill people for no reason.’ He paused. ‘And it was four and two, not three and one.’

  She frowned at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You said I killed three guys and maimed another. It was actually four and two.’

  ‘Oh, what, so now we’re keeping score, is that it?’ She shook her head angrily, her hands planted on her hips. ‘So you’re in the lead because I must’ve missed-I tried to shoot that guy, Jack-sorry I’m not a super ninja fucking commando like you!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said quietly, ‘nobody’s keeping score. I don’t care that you didn’t hit that guy; I care that you tried to. At least it stopped them shooting at us for a few seconds.’

  ‘Like it made any fucking difference,’ she retorted, still fired up. ‘The bastards nearly got us, Jack. We nearly fucking died back there.’ Her voice caught and she looked away. ‘I thought I was going to die.’ She put a hand to her mouth and her face crinkled. ‘I thought I was going to get blown away by some fucking crazy bastard and not even know why.’

  The tears came now and her shoulders hunched. Travis felt suddenly awkward, not knowing whether to try and console her or leave her to deal with it. He wasn’t good with emotional women; there weren’t too many of them in the SAS.

  He was relieved when she pulled herself together, surprisingly quick but it had still seemed like a lifetime to him. She straightened up, squared her shoulders and brushed her hair back from her face. She looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Sorry about that, I don’t usually lose it. I’d appreciate it if that stayed between us.’ She sniffed and rubbed a hand over her face. ‘I’m more professional than that.’

  Travis shrugged. ‘If what stayed between us?’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s okay though, y’know. I’ve known guys to piss their pants when the hammer comes down. You never know how you’re going to react.’

  She looked at him sceptically. ‘Guys in the Group piss their pants with fear? Really?’

  He gave a lopsided grin. ‘Well, not us, no. I mean normal people, you know…’

  The phone rang and he prowled to the window while she talked. The second conversation was longer and after a minute or so she called him over and put Ingoe on speaker.

  Travis listened to the tinny voice coming from the cheap phone.

  The agent you contacted was killed tonight, Bangkok time,’ Ingoe told them. ‘Hit by a bus while crossing the road. Must’ve been just after your contact.’

  Travis and Susie looked sharply at one another.

  ‘A proper accident?’ Susie asked.

  ‘It’s unclear,’ Ingoe replied, ‘but common sense would say no, considering what happened with you two. Best you keep on the move and stay under the radar. We don’t know exactly who is responsible or why.’

  ‘Major Dang seems an interesting character, Jedi,’ Travis said. ‘You dealt with him before?’

  A chuckle sounded down the line. ‘Yes I have, and if you’re asking whether I trust him or not, the answer is “You are in one of the most corrupt countries in our region of the world.” Unfortunately we don’t always get to choose our playmates.’

  ‘Are you looking at an exit strategy?’ Susie asked, glancing at Travis.

  There was silence for a moment. ‘You’re on the ground. What’s your feeling on this?’

  Susie looked at Travis as she replied. ‘No. We’re happy to continue. Let’s see what shakes out in the next day or so.’

  Travis nodded his assent, his respect for her going up a notch.

  ‘That apply to both of you, Jack?’

  ‘A-ffirm.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything else. In the meantime, you want some back up over there?’

  ‘Probably wouldn’t hurt to get the ball rolling,’ Travis said. ‘Know anyone in the area?’

  The Special Forces community was a tight knit one, and members rarely ever properly left. It wasn’t uncommon for “retired” operators to be called on for a favour out of the blue. Travis knew that if anyone had a contact, it would be Ingoe. The former RSM’s reply surprised him.

  ‘I’ll get young Brad geared up and on his way over. Till then, keep ya powder dry.’

  There was a click and he was gone. They looked at each other.

  ‘Well that’s that,’ Susie said, putting her phone away.

  ‘Good call,’ Travis told her, and she gave a slight smile.

  ‘Can’t have the boss thinking I’m a chicken shit, can I?’

  Travis went to the mini bar and checked the supplies. ‘Not much here,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but dinner was a long time ago.’

  ‘I hear you, let’s eat.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cabin fever finally overtook Brad and he caught a cab to the airport.

  The driver couldn’t believe his luck with the size of the fare from Pukekohe to Onewhero then all the way to Mangere. Brad, on the other hand, nearly had a coronary.

  He sucked it up and took the next hit when he checked in, deciding to wait for the red eye flight and save himself almost half a fare. The landing at Wellington airport was typically bumpy and he again wondered why the hell he’d ever transferred down here where it always seemed windy and wet-say what you like about Auckland, but the weather didn’t always suck balls.

  He got out of the Arrivals Hall quickly with just a carry-on bag, made his way to the taxi rank outside and gave directions to a house around the corner from his own in Johnsonville. It was nearly one a.m. w
hen the cabbie dropped him off and Brad peeled notes off his rapidly depleting roll of cash. He waited until the cabbie disappeared from sight before hiking down to the corner and having a recce of his own street.

  It was quiet and still, which made it that much easier to spot the car on surveillance just a couple of houses from his. It was a small hybrid hatchback, not the sort of car usually used by cops, and he guessed it was media instead. Some headline-hungry reporter who had ID’d him and tracked him down. Brad made a mental note to up his game in the personal security stakes.

  He hugged the shadows and made his way towards the car, approaching from behind before darting to the back of the car and hunkering down. He felt faintly ridiculous-he was almost as big as the car itself.

  He could hear soft snoring and the windows were fogged up. Whoever it was, was clearly desperate for the story but didn’t have the stamina to see it through. Still, they were a factor to be dealt with.

  Brad carefully unscrewed the cap from the tyre valve and inserted a small piece of gravel before screwing the cap back on just enough to open the valve and let the air begin to leak out. The cap helped muffle the hissing sound. He moved round to the driver’s side and did the same to the other back wheel, before crab walking back to the exhaust pipe. Not having any bananas at hand, he made do with a rolled up copy of the local rag that he’d purloined from a neighbour’s letterbox. He jammed it in as far as it would go, and eased his way back into the shadows.

  Knowing which neighbours had security lights and animals made it easy for Brad to dodge through properties and scale fences before dropping into the back yard of the house he rented with two others.

  His flatmates had the upstairs rooms, which he was happy with since he was subject to callouts and it wasn’t fair to disturb them at un-Godly hours when the pager went off. Reece was a personal trainer and was usually at his girlfriend’s place-his WRX wasn’t on the driveway, which was a good sign. Alexa was a different story, and he sometimes wondered how they were attracted to each other given their immense differences. She was an accounts clerk for a hardware chain, lived on movies and takeaways and rarely went out. Peeking through the window to the internal garage, he could see her pink Getz parked up, fluffy dice hanging from the rear view mirror.

  The back door opened silently and Brad padded through the ground floor in the dark to his room. He shut the door behind him and turned on the bedside light. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, aside from a pile of freshly folded washing on his dresser-one of Alexa’s habits. He grinned to himself when he saw she’d even folded his underwear.

  He dragged a black kit bag from under his bed and began piling stuff into it-clothes, laptop, gym gear, a couple of books, Kindle, iPod, and a folder of personal documents. He grabbed the emergency fund of cash from under the bedside table and stuffed it in his pocket. He put the bag by the door and opened the wardrobe door again. Pushing the clothes to the side, he unlocked his gun cabinet.

  Inside were some of his guns, the others being stored at the station in the squad room. Ever since arriving back in Wellington-he couldn’t bring himself to refer to it as Welly, that was just way too pretentious-he’d had a niggling itch at the back of his mind. He felt unsafe and exposed. The feeling was only heightened by the surveillance on his house.

  No better way to relieve that than by going armed for bear. He lifted his Lithgow L1A1 SLR from the safe and hefted it in his hands. It was an Army-surplus 7.62mm battle rifle with a 20-round magazine. Brad had four loaded mags in the top part of the safe, which he unlocked with another key. He put the rifle in a soft carry case with the magazines and put it with his bag.

  The next item he removed was a Mossberg 500 pump action 12-gauge, complete with a sling and a bandolier of shells. He had not had his pistol license long, and the only pistol he owned was the original hand cannon wielded by Dirty Harry, “the most powerful handgun in the world.” Seeing Clint Eastwood blowing away bad guys with it as a kid, Brad had always had his heart set on one. It was a blued Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver with a six inch barrel and chambered in .44 Magnum.

  Brad had won competitions with it at his pistol club and got a thrill from its raw power every time he used it.

  He was about to grab the holster for it when the door squeaked behind him and Alexa appeared.

  She squealed when she saw the massive pistol in his hand and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Holy shitballs, what the bejesus is that frickin’ thing?’

  Brad quickly slid it into the tan leather Galco holster on the duty belt and put the weapon down on his bag. Alexa was half his size and dressed in short cotton pyjamas that did nothing to hide her pert breasts. Her sandy hair was tied in side pig tails and she wore black rimmed glasses.

  He felt foolish standing there surrounded by weapons with a half-naked girl before him.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ He gestured weakly to his bag. ‘Just came to get a few things.’

  ‘I was awake anyway, ‘she said. ‘Reading. I got the latest Michael Connelly today.’

  He knew she was an avid fan of crime fiction, because she often quizzed him about Police matters. He suspected she was secretly writing a book of her own, given some of the questions she’d asked.

  ‘I heard, obviously,’ she told him. The small hand she put on his thick arm was warm and her eyes were concerned. ‘Are you okay? I mean, you know…it sounded pretty bad. I saw your picture.’

  Brad shrugged, unsure what to say. Deep and meaningful’s had never been his strongpoint. He realised he hadn’t actually spoken to a friend for more than a couple of minutes since the job went down.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said quietly, unable to meet her eyes. ‘It is what it is.’ He paused, then blurted, ‘It just sucks.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Sorry, that sounded pathetic. What a twat.’

  She made a sympathetic sound but said nothing. Brad felt his cheeks getting hot and he suddenly wanted to get out of there.

  ‘Your colleagues have been around, a few of them. I think they were from your squad.’ She wrinkled her nose when she smiled. ‘They were fit looking guys, anyway. Just not as…big, as you.’

  Brad nodded. That fit. They would have found it strange that he’d suddenly disappeared.

  ‘Has anyone else been around?’ he asked. ‘Any reporters?’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Or anyone else who might have been a bit nosey, or out of place?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of reporters came around. I just refused to open the door, told them to go away or I’d call the cops. They went away.’

  ‘Cool, thanks. Sorry about the hassle.’ He grinned half-heartedly. ‘What a shit flatmate aye? Only been here a few months.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘It’s okay. As long as you’re okay.’

  He nodded and patted her hand with his big mitt.

  ‘So I guess you’re moving out then?’ she said, looking up at him. She was close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body against his skin. She had a fresh-shower smell in her hair.

  ‘For a while, anyway.’ He didn’t have an answer because he didn’t know.

  ‘Well, goodbye then, I suppose.’ Alexa smiled coyly now and Brad felt a flutter in his guts.

  A flutter? What am I, sixteen?

  ‘I guess so.’

  She leaned up on tip-toe and put her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He hugged her back, feeling her breasts crushing against his broad chest. She pressed against him and tilted her head. Brad felt her lips on his cheek then her hands moving, turning his head and drawing his mouth to hers. She kissed him softly at first then harder, with more intensity, and he kissed her back.

  Her tongue was warm and inquisitive and he responded, lifting her off her feet and cupping a hand under her butt to hold her up.

  Alexa moaned in his ear, a more guttural, animalistic sound than he’d ever imagined the studious accounts clerk to be capable of, and she manoeuvred him towards the bed.

  Brad decided there was no point in p
rotesting. Some things just had to be done.

  Tito felt a bead of sweat trickling down his back as he waited by the door to the clubroom.

  The door opened and Kruger’s huge frame filled it. He glowered at the Mexican gangster and waved him in. The door shut behind him and Tito became acutely aware that he was only the third person in the room. Kruger towered behind him and Jonah Jones sat at a bar leaner.

  Tito crossed to the President, staying silent and waiting. His body still ached from his last beating and he figured keeping his trap shut was wise.

  Jonah eyed him coldly, and Tito felt his scalp prickling as beads of nervous sweat broke free and began to soak into his hair. One began an agonizingly slow trickle down his temple, tickling like a fly walking on his skin. He fought the urge to wipe it away.

  ‘You know me and Kruger been at the cop shop all day,’ Jonah began. ‘Got fucken grilled by some fucken D’s who thought they knew it all. They got nothin’ concrete, but they know enough to look pretty hard at us. Got our lawyers down there and told them two things.’ He cocked a half smile at Kruger over Tito’s shoulder. ‘Told ‘em Little Ray broke away from us and was de-patched. It hurt like a motherfucker to disown a brother Bandit, but Little Ray would’ve understood. Told them any shit he was into was his own shit, nothin’ to do with the club.’

  Tito nodded eagerly and nearly spoke, but caught the President’s look and held his tongue.

  ‘Second thing we told’m was they could suck my big fat cock if they wanted anything else. We walked outta there a few hours later after they finished fucking us around, they ain’t got shit on us. Oh,’ he grinned properly now, ‘aside from the big man there, who accidentally walked into one o’ them and knocked him on his faggot arse.’

  Kruger gave a low chuckle behind Tito.

  ‘They weren’t too happy with that but the lawyer was right there and said it was an accident, so they had to let us go.’ Jonah’s expression went serious again. ‘The point of this conversation, Tito, is that for now we’re in the clear. I got no doubt the pigs’ll carry on tryin’ to get to us, and it’ll be a long game, but for now I reckon we’re okay. Still got a thorn in our side though…a debt we gotta clear.’