by Angus McLean
Brad put his earphones on and found a movie, a decent Liam Neeson thriller. He liked Liam Neeson; he had a very particular set of skills.
As he watched Neeson smash and bash his way through bad guys, Brad thought about the couple beside him, and the passengers all around him, and reflected on himself. They were nothing like them; he was nothing like them. He felt like an island in an ocean of dreariness. They were like mice on a wheel, stuck in an endless cycle of mundane daily life, paying bills, doing chores and just fighting to stay awake.
If he was honest with himself Brad had to admit that, the trauma of colleagues being killed and wounded aside, the action of the last few days had been a rush. STG guys trained hard for such situations, and he was proud that he had survived two intense firefights against superior numbers and had acquitted himself well.
Most guys went a whole career without ever having a single contact or pulling the trigger. He knew only a handful of guys who’d killed in the line of duty, and rarely was it more than one bad guy who went down. He knew that he was therefore unique, for the Wellington bullion robbery alone, let alone the second incident on the highway.
He looked around at his fellow passengers again. No, he decided, he was definitely not one of them.
He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, getting rest while he could.
Chapter Nineteen
Another change of hotels had seemed an obvious safety measure, and Travis and Susie had made every effort to throw off any watchers.
They took a tour bus around the city and ditched the tour partway through, criss-crossing the city on a succession of cabs and tuk-tuks before they were satisfied they were clear. They changed their outfits twice with purchases from cheap stores and vendors, ditching their old clothes as they went. Finally they hit a mall and topped up their bags with more clothes, plus some emergency food supplies in case they ended up on the run-after the events of the last couple of days, anything seemed possible.
They finally booked into another large hotel where they could melt into the background, taking a suite on the eleventh floor and getting their bags taken up by a porter. Shutting the door behind him, Travis leaned against the frame and rubbed his face. He had to admit, it had been a hell of a day.
He looked across at Susie, who was calling down for room service. He smirked as he listened to her order, which consisted of coffee and a double order of pasta.
‘Sick of Thai food already?’ he asked, securing the door and drawing his weapon.
‘I’m starving,’ she said with a grin that was too strained not to be forced. ‘And yeah, maybe I need a taste of home.’ She sniffed suspiciously at herself. ‘And a shower.’
Travis unclipped the holster from his belt and checked the spare magazine, now reloaded. He didn’t have a cleaning kit, so simply field stripped the gun instead and unloaded both magazines to check the ammo. Susie watched him refill both magazines while he sat at the table.
The food arrived and they wolfed it down, eating in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Susie piled the dishes back onto the tray and put it on the bench. She wiped her hands on the thighs of her pants and headed for the bathroom.
‘You want first shower?’ she called out.
‘You saying I stink?’
She poked her head out the door and grinned cheekily. ‘Sure am. Sort yourself out, would you?’
She was only gone a few minutes when he heard the bathroom door open and the sound of running water.
‘Can you have a look at this, Jack? I think it needs some attention.’
He pushed up from the couch and turned to see her standing in the bathroom doorway. The fluffy hotel towel barely reached from her breasts to her thighs. She was looking at him innocently, running a hand through her tousled, wavy hair.
He tried to ignore his thoughts and squeezed past her into the bathroom. She didn’t move aside.
Travis looked at the shower, which was flowing freely. He checked the temperature, which was fine. Shaking the water from his hand, he started to turn.
‘So what’s…wow.’ His jaw dropped when he turned round.
Susie was leaning against the vanity with one foot up on the edge of the bath, her knee bent and the long leg that came with it almost fully exposed.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the shower,’ Travis heard himself say from a long way off.
‘I know,’ she replied softly, ‘I didn’t mean the shower.’ She dipped her head and glanced away then quickly back at him again. Her breasts pouted under the towel as she took a deep breath. ‘I meant me.’
‘Wow,’ he said again, forcing himself to take a step back. ‘I don’t know if this is such a good idea…’ He caught her look. ‘I mean it’s a great idea, but maybe not great timing…’
Susie’s chin jutted defiantly. ‘In case you don’t recall, Jack, we almost died today. I don’t know about you super-ninja-commando guys, but spooks like me don’t have I-almost-died-today days very often, so you’ll have to forgive me if I kinda take it to heart.’
‘It has been a few months,’ he conceded, and she frowned at him.
‘Are you making fun of me, Jack?’
Travis looked at her in her fluffy white towel, her skin smooth and tanned, her wavy dark hair framing her beautiful face and falling to her shoulders, her full lips moist and inviting.
He shook his head fervently. ‘No ma’am, I am not making fun of you, believe me.’
‘I’m attracted to you, Jack. I don’t have much luck with men and relationships, and at the rate we’re going I may not see another sunset, so why waste time?’
She gave him that cheeky grin. ‘Sometimes you’ve gotta give it the Nike approach.’
Travis shook his head in amazement and turned to go, a jumble of thoughts running through his head. He took a step towards the door then hesitated.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered, and turned back.
‘Just do it,’ she corrected.
‘Whatever.’
She stepped into his arms and their lips locked, tongues searching urgently and hands groping at each other with desperation. In seconds his shirt was off and his jeans were hitting the floor.
Any thoughts of showers were discarded as quickly as their inhibitions.
Terry Yates didn’t get worried too often, but he was seriously concerned right now.
Standing on Stephenson’s deck and watching the younger Kiwi pacing relentlessly, Terry couldn’t help but start looking past the here and now. He’d just broken the news to his boss that two of the boys they used in the Mog had been killed. Shot in the back and dumped in a ditch, apparently by the other two boys. The weapons were gone again and Ashkir was having a Warp Factor Ten shit-fit. Added to that the failed hit on the Kiwi spooks in the apartment block, which should have been a sure-fire hit, had gone badly with Chambers. He had already had a piece of Stephenson about that, giving him the message that failures like that had a significant bearing on his suitability for future jobs.
However you looked at it, the picture was not a pretty one.
Watching Stephenson now, pale faced and sweating, chewing his nails and staring at the ground as if hoping for a divine intervention, Terry wasn’t counting on him for an answer to the problem.
He glanced to his right, where Prasong stood impassively. The Thai’s face gave nothing away. Unlike his boss, he could’ve been a world class poker player.
‘Fuck!’ Stephenson said for the hundredth time.
‘Whatever we do, Phil,’ Terry said, ‘it better be bloody quick, huh?’ His eyes flicked to Prasong for support. ‘That bastard Ashkir is sure to keep his word, you know?’
‘I fucking know that!’ Stephenson exploded, glaring at him. ‘I fucking know that, Terry!’ He shook his head and chewed his thumb nail as he started pacing again. ‘Fuck…’
Prasong glanced between the two men, his eyes flat. His English wasn’t good enough to follow each word, but he got the gist of the conversation. He d
idn’t like that Somalian man Ashkir; he was a very bad man.
He glanced back to Stephenson. He could tell the boss was on the verge of cracking. Prasong said nothing. He completely trusted his boss and would wait for him to tell him the next step. Terry, on the other hand, he wasn’t so sure about. His mate looked like he was ready to run for the hills.
Prasong sighed inwardly at the thought. If that happened, he had no doubt that Stephenson would instruct him to kill the Rhodesian mercenary. That wasn’t an ideal situation, but that didn’t matter. Stephenson was the boss, and Prasong would do what he asked.
Keeping his hands in his pockets, Prasong ran his thumb over the Bali-Song knife there. It was scalpel-sharp and well used.
He eyed Terry’s whiskery throat.
Parked in a battered van just a hundred yards from Stephenson’s villa, Johnny Mitchell listened intently to the directional microphone in his lap.
It was trained on the villa and was strong enough to pick up the conversation even through the walls. He cracked the tiniest of smiles as he listened.
There was no doubt that things were going to rat-shit for these guys, and that worked well for Chambers and, by association, him.
Although Stephenson had a finger in many pies with his wheeling and dealing, Chambers was a man of great influence in these parts. Stephenson could parade around like a peacock all he liked, thinking he was a fixer and throwing about his stupid nickname like some kind of hallmark, but Chambers was the real deal. It amused Mitchell to imagine how shocked Stephenson would be to find out that behind most of the deals he thought he had arranged, lurked the shadow of Chambers. If Stephenson, The Pastor, fancied himself as some kind of artist then the camp Englishman was an ever present but rarely seen Svengali.
He even had tame cops on the payroll, which was why it was so easy for him to find out about the two New Zealand agents arriving in Bangkok.
It hadn’t been so easy to get some decent heavies, however, and Chambers had been severely pissed when the hit on them had failed. Obviously they weren’t normal spooks; maybe whatever the Down Under version of the CIA’s Activity was. Whoever they were, they were a problem that needed to be dealt with. Stephenson had jumped at the chance to get some payback at his former employers, but clearly his boys weren’t up to the task.
Mitchell considered the two thugs for a moment. He had the utmost respect for fellow former operators, but he was confident he could deal with the old Rhodesian dude okay. The silent Thai dude was a different story. Something about that little freak gave Mitchell the shits. He knew plenty of ruthless killers-hell, he counted himself as one-but little Prasong was something else altogether. If he had the chance he’d put a bullet in the back of his head and be done with it.
Mitchell fired up the van and listened to its crappy engine rattle. It was time to get moving.
Chambers would want a sit-rep sharpish.
Susie lay on her side and traced a lazy finger down Travis’ chest, tickling the hair there and making a slow track to his midriff.
The air-con was cool in the bedroom and the sheets were rumpled. Her finger reached the pink-white scars on his hard stomach, partially concealed by hair. They were like hard ridges and valleys to her touch. She noticed he had suddenly tensed under her attention, and she looked up at him, realising he was awake.
His hand came down from behind his head and gently but firmly moved her hand back up to his chest. He patted her hand and held it there.
‘Sorry,’ Susie said softly, ‘I didn’t mean to…sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ His eyes were dark and unfathomable.
Susie opened her mouth to speak again, but paused and bit her lip. No matter how curious she was, he obviously didn’t want to talk about how the scars came to be, so she decided to leave it. For now, at least. She changed tack instead.
‘So, good idea or bad idea?’ She propped herself up on her elbow and half lay on him.
‘What, this?’ He waggled a finger between their naked bodies.
‘No, landing on the moon. Of course this.’
He shrugged non-committedly. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time…’
She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘And now?’
‘Well.’ He grinned. ‘If you’re going to go out, you may as well go out with a bang.’
She laughed and he shifted his leg, rolling her on top of him.
‘You sure?’ Susie asked as she felt his arousal. She shifted her hips and moved against him. ‘You’re kind of old, I’m not sure how strong your heart is…’
He cupped her breasts with both hands and gently teased the nipples. A low moan sounded in her throat. She arched her back and eased her hips down.
‘Let’s just see what happens,’ Travis told her with a grin. ‘I’m prepared to put my life on the line.’
‘Gee,’ Susie breathed, rocking slowly, her hands firmly on his chest. ‘What a guy…’
Chapter Twenty
Jonah Jones had a contact in the cops, a call-taker in the Comms centre who had family connections to the Southern Bandits.
His contact had been a great help over the years, and as far as he knew, had never fallen under suspicion. She had access to the national intelligence system and had used it to give him many tips and bits of intel. The intel had both helped him avoid capture and to gain leverage over people of use to him.
Accordingly, when his cell phone rang at 3 a.m. and her name appeared, he took the call. The conversation was brief.
Jonah hung up the call and flopped his head back onto the pillow. His contact was on night shift at Comms and had got wind of a planned operation by the Special Tactics Group in conjunction with the Wellington CIB who were investigating the bullion robbery.
At 5 a.m., the Southern Bandits pad was to be hit and Jonah and Kruger would be arrested. They would be appearing in court charged with the robbery and the murders of three cops.
Jonah rolled out of bed and punched up another number on his phone. There was a delay then the connection was made. He felt a surge of relief when the Englishman answered.
‘We need out,’ he said shortly. ‘Immediately.’
‘How many?’
Jonah didn’t even blink. ‘Just two,’ he said.
There was a pause as the Englishman took that in. ‘No problem. Same place, you’ll see us when we get there.’ There was another pause. ‘You will owe me, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Jonah had known that was coming, but it was unavoidable. ‘Thanks.’
‘Travel safe.’ The Englishman gave a chuckle and hung up.
Jonah stood in the darkness of his room and pulled on his jeans. He headed down the hall to Kruger’s room and softly tapped. Two of the other rooms were occupied by club members, but he had no intention of disturbing them.
The door cracked open and the gigantic Sergeant-at-Arms stood there in his undies, his tats standing out in the hallway light against the whiteness of his skin.
He said nothing, still sleep dazed. His girlfriend snored in the bed behind him.
Jonah put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Kruger gave a short nod.
‘The cops’re coming,’ Jonah hissed. ‘Hitting us in two hours. They’re coming for you and me.’
Kruger scowled.
‘We’ve got a flight. Gotta go now.’ Jonah watched the big man’s face for any sign of doubt. There wasn’t any.
Kruger glanced at his girlfriend and stepped back into his room. Jonah waited. A moment later the man was back carrying four things-his patch, jeans, his favourite boots, and his Auto Mag.
Jonah grinned and led the way.
Ten minutes later the young prospect on sentry duty heard his President’s voice come through the intercom beside him. The speaker box was mounted to the wall and the barrel of an M1 carbine leaned against it.
‘Open the gate, Deano.’
He peered down into the yard from the guard post on the roof. He saw Kruger staring up at him, pointing at the high wrough
t iron gates at the front of the property.
Deano wondered what he was doing, but didn’t question it. You didn’t question Kruger or Jonah. He hit the buzzer and the gates started to swing open. He heard the rumble of motorbike engines and a moment later saw the two hogs rolling out onto the street, both riders fully patched up and carrying duffle bags slung over their shoulders.
They roared away up the street and Deano closed the gates behind them.
Silence fell on the street again.
The hangar at Koh Samui airport was leased by a private charter company named Millbank Airways, an oblique reference to Richard Chambers’ long distant past as a surveillance officer for Britain’s MI5, the Security Service, which was based at Millbank in London.
A one-plane outfit with only two pilots, it carried out legitimate charter business interspersed with very non-legitimate smuggling operations. Simon Kenny, the captain of the shabby but reliable old DC-3, had been a top pilot for Qantas before being sacked for repeated drunken episodes. Chambers was certain that he flew drunk half the time. His co-pilot was a Liverpudlian named Hammond, who barely spoke and who nobody could understand when he did.
They had done the bullion run from New Zealand to Australia and on to Bangkok, then to the Middle East from there.
Since that run, they had been carrying out legit business delivering cargo around the region and keeping up an air of normality.
Johnny Mitchell pulled up in a beaten up old van while Kenny and Hammond were sitting in front of the hangar in their normal pose, newspapers open and coffee mugs at hand. Both wore scruffy shirts that were originally white and tan cargo shorts. Kenny’s gut hung well over the front of his pants. The plane was in the hangar behind them. They looked up as the van arrived in a cloud of fumes and Mitchell jumped out.
He grinned as he strolled over to them, his hands in his pockets.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure, cobber?’ Kenny asked, not bothering to get up. It was too hot and besides, he couldn’t be fucked.
‘Clear your diaries, gents,’ Mitchell told them. ‘Mr Chambers would like you to pick up some cargo in En-Zed. Priority load.’
