The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  The girl at the front desk was Eastern European – probably Polish, he guessed – and checked him in with minimal fuss and even less personality. Archer didn’t care – all he wanted was a drink, a shower and a warm bed. The meal onboard had been sufficient and he had slept briefly.

  He took the lift to the third floor, noted that the neighbouring rooms were silent, and as soon as he unlocked the door he detected the presence of someone in the darkened room. His senses went instantly to full alert.

  He stepped to the side and was about to slip the access card into the power slot, when the other person spoke.

  ‘Calm down Arch, it’s just me.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and Han Solo.’

  It was a man’s voice, calm and with a touch of amusement, and it came from the armchair by the window.

  ‘Millennium Falcon,’ Archer replied, wondering who the hell came up with these ridiculous code words. He hit the lights and immediately recognised the man sitting watching him, a glass of beer in one hand. His face split into a grin and he crossed the floor to shake hands.

  Rob Moore had served the last 15 years of his 20 year military career in Special Forces before retiring and dropping out of sight. He’d been an exemplary soldier, and had been a troop Sergeant in Mountain Troop when Archer had taken over as the OC. The experienced NCO had taught him many things and eased him into life in the Group.

  He was a huskily built man with greying temples and a weathered complexion, dressed casually in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Moore told him with a grin, pumping his hand in a ferocious grip, ‘put on a bit of weight though, boy.’

  ‘Funny, you just look older.’ Archer smiled warmly and dropped his overnighter on the bed. ‘Still having to work, then?’

  Moore slapped him on the arm and sat down again. He gestured towards the fridge of the standard studio room.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he said graciously, ‘it’s on the firm.’

  Archer nodded and shed his jacket, pouring himself a bourbon and cola in a tumbler, aware of Moore watching him throughout.

  ‘So, we’re clean here?’ he asked, whirling a finger at the ceiling and walls.

  ‘As we’ll ever be,’ Moore replied, taking a draught of his beer. ‘So obviously I’m your welcoming committee, and I’ll be here in the morning to take you to your meeting across the bridge.’

  ‘So this is where you got to then.’

  Moore inclined his head.

  ‘After an apprenticeship elsewhere. Been here a while now though.’ He shrugged. ‘I like it, suits me. I get to travel to exotic places, meet interesting people...’

  ‘And we know the rest,’ Archer finished for him. ‘So we share an employer again?’

  ‘We do.’ Moore gave a short nod and drained his glass. He stood and put the glass on the counter top. ‘I’ll pick you up at nine. I’d say you’ll be done by eleven.’

  He moved towards the door then paused. ‘Oh, and the full English here is crap. Best off getting something elsewhere.’ He opened the door and winked. ‘Sleep tight, Chucklehead.’

  Archer locked the door behind him and sipped his drink as he stood at the window, watching Moore cross the road below and disappear up the street.

  The former NCO was a throwback to his previous life, and the surest sign yet of the new life he’d now entered. Like anyone in his world he’d always suspected roles like this had existed – hell, some nations made no secret about it – but aside from the odd whisper he’d never had anything to base his suspicions on. Seeing Moore, and knowing his background, cemented it for him that this new life was not a fantasy at all, it was a stone cold reality.

  Archer felt a thrill run through him as he contemplated what lay ahead of him. He had never been interested in the hum-drum existence of everyday life, of commuting to a generic office in a beige Toyota and coming home to a mousey wife and a picket fence. Such a thought chilled him and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he were forced into such an existence he would certainly wilt and die.

  He lived for action and adventure, the buzz of life on the edge, of pitting himself against the odds and battling to win, whether it was scaling a rain-slick mountainside, penetrating defences to obtain intelligence or plant a bomb, or engaging the enemy at close quarters in one of the world’s hellholes.

  Challenges like that were the foods of life for men like Archer and Moore. Just as certainly as his military career had come to an end, the chapter of being on the circuit had closed, and now a new chapter of adventure awaited him.

  Archer drained his glass and set it down before stripping off and taking a short cold shower. The pressure was hard and he was soon revived. He changed into jeans and a warm outdoors jacket before hitting the street to find a meal.

  He took a window seat in a nearby pizza place and people watched as he ate. The Spanish waitress had firm, pert breasts and legs made for wrapping around a man. She showed some interest and he debated hard about taking it further. He was still annoyed about how things had ended with Jazz, who had studiously avoided him since the run in with her ex, and the urge to be with a woman was strong. Nobody need know. He finally decided against it, knowing that after the debacle in Auckland any further hiccups would not be treated lightly.

  He downed his Peroni and left a ten quid tip instead, making his way back to the hotel where he took a long hot soak to wash away the fug of 28 hours of international travel. The heat and alcohol helped tiredness to descend suddenly, and he hit the sack, pleased the bed was firm and warm.

  Within seconds he was in a deep and dreamless sleep.

  18

  He woke at 5am, wide awake and feeling like he’d slept all day.

  He threw on gym gear and took a jog through Hyde Park, a light rain falling and his breath steaming as he worked out the kinks and got the blood pumping. He loved London any time of year, and had never understood people who moaned about the weather and the rush and the overcrowding. It was one of the most interesting cities in the world as far as Archer was concerned, and he envied Moore getting a posting here.

  If all went well and he had some time to spare before flying home, he intended to head to Charing Cross Road and browse the old bookshops, eat at Covent Garden and share a couple of pints with Moore at a Weatherspoon’s – any Weatherspoon’s. He’d last been here a year ago and spent an enjoyable long weekend with a Qantas air hostess, eating drinking and making love in a West End hotel.

  Archer exited the park and glanced back as he did so, catching sight of the jogger he’d seen earlier. A pair of white men in their thirties, label gear and not talking, keeping pace with him from a hundred yards or so back. They had matching short back and sides haircuts and looked like gym bunnies.

  American, he thought to himself, probably feds.

  He wondered why they were keeping tabs on him, but more so, wondered how good they were.

  Picking up the pace, he turned right out of the park onto Bayswater Rd and headed towards the hotel. He knew they would have seen him lift the pace and would presumably do likewise. Glancing around, he couldn’t see a spotter in sight.

  Archer quickly turned and retraced his steps. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  As he rounded the hedge that bordered the entrance path, he heard the two sets of approaching footfalls hurrying towards him.

  He raced around the corner and crashed straight into them, bringing his elbow up into the solar plexus of the closest one and knocking the wind out of him. He grabbed the second guy’s sweater and they all tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

  In the confusion Archer managed to keep the first guy beneath him and rode him to the ground, slamming him flat on his back and double-winding him. The other guy reacted quickly and broke free, rolling away and getting to his feet in a tae kwon do stance.

  Archer rolled off the first guy, who was gasping for breath and scrabbling at the wet ground, and gl
anced up at the second guy. Even two years later, on a rainy London morning, he recognised the man.

  He was the team leader whose gunner had killed Bula on the Highway to Hell.

  ‘You get around,’ Archer commented, standing over the fallen heavy.

  ‘So do you, boy,’ the other man replied evenly. ‘Last time didn’t end so well for you.’

  ‘That was then,’ Archer told him, ‘this is now.’

  ‘Really? You’re pretty confident for a hick from the ass-end of the world.’

  The man’s tone was mocking and Archer felt himself getting riled. He’d always blamed this man for Bula’s death, for failing to control his own men.

  He took a step forward and as he did so, he saw the American’s eyes flicker offline and realised the man was smarter than he’d thought.

  Archer had only half turned when the shock exploded through his body, starting at the centre of his back and flooding outwards to every fibre of his being, a 80,000 volt current blasting through him like a bolt from Hell.

  He jerked and twitched and went down quickly, hitting the dirt and writhing in agony. He saw the blurry figure of the third man watching him, and heard their voices but couldn’t comprehend the words through the haze that engulfed him. Someone stepped closer and kicked him in the guts, hard. It barely registered on his pain scale.

  He lay there for several seconds, aware that the three men had left and he was alone again, but unable to move and struggling to gather himself. He mentally cursed his over-confidence, bitter that he’d thought himself so smart yet had fallen for such an old trick.

  Eventually he hauled himself up and gingerly touched his back where the fangs of the stun gun had bitten him. He rolled his shoulders and twisted his trunk to try and shake off the pain, but even his teeth throbbed.

  He checked his pockets and realised he’d been searched. It was his habit to take literally nothing when he jogged, and this time had only carried his access card for the hotel. He found it lying discarded on the dirt nearby. He wiped it off and tucked it back into his shorts pocket.

  Patting himself down further, he realised the search hadn’t been as thorough as it should have been. Shoved inside the waistband of his shorts was the slim wallet he’d taken from the first guy.

  These two things told him something; his attackers didn’t need his hotel card because they already knew where he was staying, and they were not as professional as they should be.

  As he slowly limped back to his hotel, Archer wondered what exactly the point of that escapade had been. He hadn’t been robbed and they hadn’t taken him. Revenge? For what? An unspoken warning? Probably; but again, for what?

  He didn’t know and he couldn’t think straight right now. But if nothing else, it had certainly woken him up properly.

  19

  The wide deck at the rear of the house overlooked the sweeping jungle-covered mountainside. The ocean was in the distance, blue and crisp.

  A light breeze ruffled Yassar’s hair as he sat at the cane table, picking at a plate of fruit – mango with a squeeze of lime, pineapple, and melon. The food was deliciously fresh and the view captivating, but Yassar could focus on nothing other than the day ahead. He had slept badly and woke with a headache. The serenity of his surroundings was little comfort for he knew the man he was with was pure evil.

  Footsteps sounded on the deck behind him and his heart dropped lower.

  ‘How’s my favourite guest this morning?’ Boyle’s voice was loud and cheery. Yassar looked up and smiled weakly as his host plopped into the chair opposite him.

  ‘I am very well, thank you for asking. You have a lovely spot here.’

  Boyle grinned and leaned forward with an arm on the table. ‘Glad to hear ye’re so chipper today, lad. It’s gonna be a grand day so it is, and we have a lot to get through.’ He gestured towards the barely touched plate of fruit. ‘Get plenty of that down ya, it’s the best cure for a shitty sleep.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t…’

  Boyle’s grin hadn’t shifted. His eyes danced with merriment. ‘Ye can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Yassar. I’ve kissed the Blarney stone many a time and let me tell ye, I can smell yer bullshit a mile off.’

  Yassar was taken aback by his manner. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off with a dismissive wave of the Irishman’s hand and a sharp ‘Tut!’

  ‘Ye had a shitty sleep and ye’re wonderin’ what the fuck is gonna happen today. Well I’ll tell ye. I don’t like to see a man in this sort of situation, so I’ll just tell ye.’

  Yassar shut his mouth and waited. It seemed like he had no option anyway.

  ‘Ye think your own crew got ye out of that hotel in Auckland? Ehh, wrong!’ He grinned like a game show host. ‘I did – even yer man Ahmed didn’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Shame about him, he was a good man. Yer own family have a price on yer head, ye know that?’

  The Saudi arms dealer gave no acknowledgement. Boyle continued unabated.

  ‘There’s a lot of people out there who will be willing to cash that cheque, y’know.’

  Yassar met his eyes and found it impossible to break away. He’d seen a crocodile once as a child – his uncle kept it in a swimming pool as a pet – and had stared at it non-stop for several minutes before realising it was a competition he would never win. He could not tell if the beast was alive or dead until it slowly lifted a paw and began to move towards him.

  Staring at Boyle gave the same feeling. He was a cold blooded beast who would happily eat Yassar alive. He felt a sudden need to pee.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Yassar managed to rasp, ‘I’ll double it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Boyle smiled mirthlessly. ‘Ye can’t.’

  ‘I have funds...’

  ‘But ye don’t run one of the biggest arms dealerships in the world, do ye pal? Yer daddy does, and he’s offerin’ a cut to the man who slots his wayward son and provides his head as proof.’

  Yassar’s head felt it was going to explode and a tiny trickle of warm urine leaked into his underpants. There was no way on Earth he could compete with that.

  Boyle sat back in the chair and tugged his ear thoughtfully.

  ‘Me, I’m a businessman. I’m interested in makin’ money. I don’t particularly care who I deal with, so long as I get paid a bundle of fuckin’ cold hard cash.’ He glanced away, down towards the expanse of lawn below them.

  Yassar followed his gaze and saw two burly Samoans hustling a slender young man from the house out onto the lawn. They each had an arm and he was powerless to resist. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He was dressed in baggy shorts and a bush singlet. From where Yassar sat, the boy looked absolutely petrified.

  ‘Ye may think I’m an unscrupulous bastard, Yassar,’ Boyle continued, watching as the two men forced the boy to his knees on the grass, facing the house. ‘But above all else, I have one particular passion. I hate the Brits.’ His voice took on real venom now. ‘I mean I hate them. If I could extinguish that God-forsaken fuckin’ island from the face of the Earth, I would.’

  Yassar nodded, starting to see where this was going.

  ‘As a part of my business, I’ve been delivering zip-guns to the Brit gangs at knockdown prices. I make no money from it but it causes fuckin’ havoc for them when the niggers and Euro-trash wannabe motherfuckers are mowin’ each other down with MAC-10s.’ He grinned again, happily now. ‘And that brings me pleasure.’

  Boyle leaned forward and put both elbows on the table.

  ‘What would bring me even more pleasure, is helping out the angry young Islamist brothers in the UK. They have trouble getting proper weaponry and ordnance. I have a sure pipeline, but I don’t have the sort of gear they need.’ He tossed his chin at Yassar. ‘You do.’

  ‘I have no interest in helping the jihadists,’ Yassar said weakly.

  ‘I have no interest in those wogged-up fuckin’ sand-niggers either,’ Boyle retorted, ‘but I do have an interest in hurti
ng those British monarchist bastards who raped my country. In fact I have such an interest in hurting them that I will hurt anyone who stands in my way. Take that – ‘he jabbed a stubby finger towards the young boy kneeling on the lawn, the two thugs standing over him – ‘as an example. He’s my gardener.’

  Yassar glanced at the boy again. He was crying silently, tears rolling down his brown cheeks as he stared at the ground and mouthed words to himself. Praying, perhaps.

  ‘He’s been chatting online to someone, telling them all sorts of things that I trusted him to keep confidential. He believes he’s been talking to a 16 year old Essex girl who’s going to send him some nudie pics for his wank bank. I believe he’s been talking to a member of the British intelligence services.’

  ‘How can…’

  ‘Oh believe me pal, I know. I know. I know how those bastards work, and I will not tolerate anyone who deals with them or breaks my trust.’

  Boyle glanced down to his men and gave a tilt of the head.

  The taller man drew a machete from his belt and hefted it in his hand. He took half a step back and Yassar heard a guttural sob break from the boy’s lips. His eyes were screwed tight shut and he was crying hard. Yassar was mesmerised by the scene as it unfolded before him.

  The machete arced down and sliced cleanly through the boy’s neck, severing his head in one fell swoop. The head hit the grass with a thump, arterial blood spurted out several metres and the torso hung, momentarily suspended, before toppling forward and resting on the shoulders.

  Yassar couldn’t help himself. He vomited on the table.

  Boyle sat back and studied him across the table. Yassar spat onto the plate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt embarrassed. He took his time wiping his mouth and chin before spitting again and finally looking up. Boyle looked completely unaffected by the act of brutal violence they had just witnessed.

  ‘I know for a fact that ye have a warehouse full of weaponry in Manila,’ the Irishman said calmly. ‘Surface to air missiles, explosives, anti-armour, heavy machine guns, mortars, the lot.’