by Angus McLean
Their destination was the Reserve Bank three blocks away on The Terrace and only a handful of staff from either bank knew of the bullion movement.
It was past rush hour and the planned journey of less than a kilometre was projected to take less than four minutes, even with the road works on Brandon Street.
In the driver’s seat of the armoured truck sat Rex Mueller, a former coal miner who had been with the security company for a decade. He was a grizzled man in his early fifties with a beer gut and a copy of Best Bets permanently hanging from his back pocket. Beside him sat Sanjay Pillay, a skinny thirty year old Indian who was on his first bullion transfer assignment.
Mueller guided the truck out into the traffic and chopped up a couple of gears, checking his mirrors all around as he did so. Moving so much gold always made him nervous, even though he knew they basically melted into the background. The truck was plain white with the markings of a cleaning company and all the guards wore plain overalls. Aside from their origin and destination, to the casual observer there was no indication of their true purpose.
But despite that Mueller couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in his gut. He’d woken that morning with a sick feeling and it had stayed with him right up until now. He’d had the same feeling down in the mines sometimes, and he trusted his instincts.
But the show had to go on, and he tried to push it aside.
Besides, they had the cops watching their backs, so what could go wrong, right?
Mueller took a deep breath through his nose and tried to shake the feeling. He focussed on the road ahead and cast a quick glance at Pillay, pleased to see he was watching his side diligently.
‘Alright back there, Steveo?’ he asked through the intercom.
The guard in the back came straight back. ‘All good so far, bokkie.’
Mueller smiled to himself. Steveo was a country boy from down the line – he’d learned that anywhere in this country was “down the line” from wherever you happened to be – and had adopted Mueller as his mentor. He loved to rib the older man, especially adopting Afrikaans words to use, but was a good guard who put in the hours.
‘Stop checking out those ninjas and watch our back,’ Mueller told him, referring to the two special tactics cops in the back with Steveo.
‘Roger that, baas.’
Mueller snorted and eased back from a Toyota hatchback in front of him that was dicking around. He could see an old lady’s grey perm over the top of the driver’s seat and cursed elderly drivers.
He still couldn’t shake that impending sense of doom.
As the armoured truck turned into Brandon Street behind the red Toyota hatchback, Jonah Jones keyed his walkie talkie.
‘Brandon now. Ten seconds.’
‘Gotcha,’ came a reply from one unit, followed a moment later by a second acknowledgement.
Jonah undid the seatbelt and hefted the Ruger Mini 14 with the folded stock in the foot well. He glanced at the driver of the grey Mitsubishi Pajero beside him and their eyes met. Both men nodded.
‘It’s go time,’ Jonah said.
In the plain blue DAF van two car lengths behind the armoured truck, the driver indicated a right turn and watched the truck take the corner into Brandon Street. The people mover between them followed and the DAF driver was close behind. His name was Chris Greening and he was a member of the Special Tactics Group. Like the man beside him he wore a plain grey jacket over his kit. The four guys in the back were fully kitted out in their black gear, but as the newest addition to the squad Greening didn’t get to play this time round.
As he started to move round the corner on the green arrow he caught a flicker of movement from his left and heard his passenger shout.
‘Fuck, watch out!’
A medium sized cargo truck blew through the intersection and smashed straight into the left side of the DAF. Glass exploded and the sound of impact was deafening as the van was lifted and thrown into the oncoming lane. The truck didn’t slow but instead shoved the van harder, overbalancing it and throwing it onto its right side.
Greening’s head slammed against the window and the world spun around him. Shouts and thuds sounded from the boys in the back as they were tossed round like rag dolls.
At the same time as the van was taken out a city bus pulled out from the curb in front of the armoured truck.
Mueller cursed and hit the brakes, at the same time as he heard shouts from the back of the truck.
The STG operators were shouting at him to move, having heard an emergency call over their secure radio. Steveo joined in, banging on the partition between the cab and the rear and bellowing at him to move.
‘There’s a fuckin’ bus in the way, man!’ Mueller shouted back in frustration, leaning on the horn.
‘Oh no, mate…’ Pillay started to say, and Mueller saw the threat immediately.
The bus door opened and two men stepped out. One carried an assault rifle of some sort and Mueller’s jaw dropped when he saw what the second man carried – an RPG7 rocket launcher. Both men wore normal street clothes but with body armour over the top and topped off with balaclavas and gloves.
They were only ten metres away, staring straight into the cab of the armoured truck, when the one with the launcher raised it to show them. He pointed at it and then at them.
The message was clear.
In the back of the stricken DAF, Sergeant Brad Travis pushed one of his colleagues off him and reached for the back doors. The boys were all shouting and someone was moaning, obviously injured, and he keyed his radio.
‘Zero-Alpha, One-one.’
The squad commander came back immediately. ‘Zero-Alpha.’
‘We’ve been T-boned and incapacitated, corner Featherston…’
The rest of his transmission was drowned out by the crackle of automatic weapons fire and rounds started pinging through the sheet metal of the van. Brad threw himself at the doors, wrenching the handle and exploding out into the sunlight in a black-clad 120kg fury.
He hit the ground and rolled, snatching at the Heckler and Koch MP5 on its sling, sweeping the safety to auto fire as he came up and swivelled, scanning for threats. The sound of gunfire was dulled by his ear protectors but with two gunmen just metres away it was still loud.
One was side on to him, pumping rounds from a semi-automatic shotgun into the bottom of the van, obviously hoping to get the boys in the back. The second was up near the front of the van and had an assault rifle of some kind – Brad couldn’t quite see him clearly.
The guy closest to him started to turn, the barrel of the shotgun coming with him. He wore body armour over normal street clothes, with a balaclava over his head and gloves covering his hands. The guy started to shout something and Brad cut him off.
The MP5 came up and he triggered a burst, catching the guy straight in the side and spinning him front on. The shotgun went off again and blew the exhaust pipe off the bottom of the DAF. Brad’s second burst was three rounds which stitched the guy from the collar bone to the left eye, blowing brains and blood out in a fine mist. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The second guy popped into view now, an AK variant in his hands seeking out whoever had just taken out his mate.
Rounds arced over Brad’s head as he ducked back behind the van, bellowing at the boys to get moving. Through the open door he could see one of them was down in the back, but the other two were scrambling for the back door.
He keyed his radio. ‘Ten-ten, ten-ten, automatic weapons. Contact contact!’’
The AK continued firing, blowing out the windscreen, rounds zipping through the van and flying all around. Whoever was using it seemed to have some training from the trigger control they were exercising; this wasn’t a gang-style spray and walk away.
Brad kept low and moved right, grabbing Matt by the vest and yanking him out of the van.
‘Jase is down,’ Matt panted, referring to the front seat passenger. ‘I think he’s hit.’
Craig join
ed them, his SMG at the ready and fire in his eyes. He was an older guy and Brad’s top man on the squad.
‘One guy at the front,’ he said tersely, ‘got an AK or similar.’ He sniffed habitually. ‘Jase is down, so’s Kel. Not sure about Greeno.’
Brad scowled. ‘Matt, chuck a stunny at the front and we move in three. Double banger. You guys go left, I’ll go right. Take that fucker out.’
The boys nodded and Matt readied a flash bang. Brad counted off on his fingers and on three Matt lobbed the grenade over the van towards the attacker.
It exploded with a thunderous boom and a blinding flash of magnesium and the three operators moved.
The second detonation erupted and they burst clear of the van, seeking targets. The gunman had ducked back to the side of the road where a station wagon was parked and waited for them, his Norinco Type 84 at the shoulder. He averted his eyes from the flashes he knew would come, and when he saw the first black clad cop emerge on his right, he opened up.
Craig’s right leg was blown out from beneath him and he went down with a thump. Matt turned towards the shooter and blasted a long burst that took chunks off the front of the station wagon. Brad was also cutting loose from the other side of the van but the shooter had already moved, keeping low as he circled to the rear of the wagon. He plucked a fragmentation grenade from a belt pouch and pulled the pin. Releasing the spoon he counted to two and lobbed it overhead.
Matt was dragging Craig backwards by his vest, his MP5 up and ready when he saw the grenade sail towards them.
‘Grenade!’
He back pedalled faster and triggered a short burst towards the shooter, hoping they could make it back to cover but knowing they wouldn’t.
The grenade detonated and peppered the area with shrapnel. Craig took more hits and Matt fell backwards, his lower body being protected by his colleague but his arms and hands all taking hits.
Brad let out a growl and glanced round the front of the van. Rounds punched through the steel roof just over his head and he ducked back, swearing angrily.
He keyed his radio.
‘One-one, grenade deployed, we need help here! We’ve got at least two casualties.’
He risked another glance and got more rounds in return, more accurate this time.
‘Fuck!’
For now, he was pinned down.
The front doors of the armoured truck were open and Mueller and Pillay lay on the road face down with the gunner carrying the assault rifle standing over them. The gunman with the RPG stood facing the rear of the truck, the launcher on his shoulder and aimed straight at the three men in the back.
‘I know you can hear me,’ the rocket man shouted. ‘Open the doors and come out. If you don’t, you all die. Do it now.’
The doors slowly opened and the Maori guard in plain overalls showed himself, hands in the air.
Movement came from the Pajero at the curb, and two more men alighted, clad like their colleagues. One carried a Mini 14 with the stock folded, the other a WW2-era M3 “grease gun.” They stood to the side of the rocket, weapons trained on the rear of the truck.
It was only thirty five seconds since the incident started.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Steveo called out, his voice wavering and his eyes wide. ‘I’m unarmed.’
‘Open the doors,’ the rocket man ordered. ‘Do it!’
Steveo pushed the doors open wider, knees bent as he started to step down. From behind him came a shout. ‘Down!’
Steveo threw himself forward and down. The two operators in the back darted forward now, MP5s raised and a flash bang arcing out towards the attackers.
The rocket man stepped away and the two gunners with him came forward. The man with the submachine gun closed his eyes and pinned the trigger back. The M3 snarled and spat fat .45 rounds into the doorway, nailing both operators.
The flash bang went off deafeningly loud but the sub-gunner held the trigger down until he felt it rattle to a stop.
The operator on the left dropped with a round through the groin, bright arterial blood spurting out in a long jet. The second cop got off a burst that caught the sub-gunner in the chest of his ballistic vest and knocked him flat. He leaped from the back of the truck and spun to address the threat from his right, but too late.
Jonah Jones unleashed the Ruger and hosed him down with .223 rounds, punching bullets through the cop’s right arm and shoulder and neck. The cop involuntarily triggered another burst as he fell, and Jonah stepped forward, putting another burst into him as he lay prone and dying on the road.
He then turned to the unarmed guard who lay at his feet. Steveo looked up at him, hands raised.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ he pleaded, ‘please don’t kill me.’
Jonah put a round through his head and stepped back. The man with the M3 picked himself off the road with a chuckle, fingering the damage to his armour.
Brad regrouped with Matt and Craig at the rear of the van. Craig was holding a dressing to the bullet entry wound in his right calf, while Matt quickly applied another to the exit wound at the back of it, where most of the blood was coming from.
The older man was spouting an endless stream of curses and seemed in good spirits.
The street was chaos, civilian vehicles haphazardly stopped everywhere and people running for cover. Brad saw one young guy standing on the footpath, brazenly holding his phone up for a selfie with the carnage as his background.
‘Get back!’ Brad shouted, waving him away. The young guy ignored him, and even grinned while he continued filming. ‘Get under cover!’
The young guy shifted positions, recording Brad as he moved towards him.
‘Get behind cover dickhead!’
Still the guy didn’t move. Brad exposed himself to fire as he dashed forward onto the footpath, slapping the phone away and snarling as he hustled the young guy into a doorway and shoved him to the ground.
‘Stay the fuck out of the way or I’ll shoot you myself, you fuckin’ clown.’
He raced back to his colleagues and changed magazines, knowing he only had one spare now plus his sidearm. If this shit went on much longer he’d be out of ammo. Just as he started to speak he heard another vehicle arrive.
A white Ford Transit pulled up near the damaged cargo truck, which was now idling and leaking engine fluids onto the road. The rear doors of the Transit van opened and they could see the barrel of a machine gun pointing towards them now. It looked like an old M60 and Brad felt his mouth go dry.
It began to chatter as Matt and Brad both went flat, covering Craig. Heavy bullets slammed into the Police van, physically rocking it with the impacts. The gunner moved from behind the station wagon, pausing only long enough to empty his magazine into the van before jumping into the front passenger’s seat.
The van stayed where it was, engine running, and Brad realised they were waiting for something.
Sirens were sounding and he hoped the cavalry was on the way. He keyed his radio again.
‘One-one, we have a machine gun in a white Transit, taking fire. We have another casualty. We need eyes in the sky and an SFP at Waring and Taylor Streets, copy?’
The proposed Safe Forward Point was two blocks away; plenty of space for back up to assemble and move forward.
The boss came back. ‘Zero-Alpha, working on it, struggling to get a chopper. Stand by for further.’
‘We need it now,’ Brad snapped back, ‘it’s a fuckin’ war zone down here.’
He ducked as rounds pierced the van around him, and glanced at Matt who was still trying to dress Craig’s wounds.
‘Fuck this. It’s time for offense.’
The bus moved back to the curb and the M3 gunner jumped into the cab of the armoured truck. The rocket man got behind the wheel of the Pajero and slipped it into gear. Jonah Jones paused before joining him, and raked the cars on the far side of the road with the Mini-14, emptying the magazine as he blew out windows and sent rubber-neckers diving for cover. He ejected the mag,
slapped in another thirty rounds and put bursts into the vehicles on the near side of the road.
Satisfied with his work, he took the passenger seat of the Pajero and keyed his walkie talkie.
‘Let’s go.’
The bus driver paused to collect the guns from the two STG operators before climbing into the front of the armoured truck and both vehicles calmly moved off towards The Terrace.
As they got to the intersection, they went to turn left but suddenly the Pajero stopped. Barely eighty metres away was a marked Police car, with two cops hurrying to arm themselves from the gun cabinet in the boot.
The driver got out with his RPG and raised it to his shoulder. A watching civilian shouted a warning and the cops looked up, just in time to see a rocket propelled grenade streaking towards them. They both dived to the side and it took the car out in a ball of flame, the explosion setting off car alarms all around them. Flaming debris rained down and a mushroom cloud of smoke rose to the sky. The rocket man climbed back into the Pajero and followed the armoured truck towards the motorway.
Brad heard the machine gun open up again as he crab walked around the side of the van. Pieces blew off the van and bullets chipped the walls of the building behind him. The gun fell silent and the engine revved. He took a last deep breath and dashed forward.
The white Transit was moving off, the back doors still open, going straight ahead down Featherston Street.
Brad raced into the road, the MP5 at the shoulder as he triggered short bursts at the rear gunner. The risk of collateral damage was huge from all the rounds flying around the place, and he was willing every round onto the target as he fired. The slide locked back before he knew it and he did a rapid magazine change on the move, slapping his last one into place and chambering a fresh round. The gunner cut loose again but the barrel was jumpy, sending the rounds wide and high. Brad methodically pumped the trigger, seeing a second guy in the back of the van step up beside the machine gunner, who was lying prone.
He could see his rounds impacting in the back of the Transit, sparking and ricocheting, and he saw the second guy drop as he took a hit. The mag went dry and he dropped the MP5 on its sling, snatching the Glock 17 from his thigh holster instead.