The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  The Transit was accelerating away across the intersection, maybe forty metres away now. Brad kept moving forward as he kept the Glock up in a two-handed aim, squeezing off shots at the machine gunner, who was still firing short bursts.

  Seventeen squeezes later the slide locked open and he automatically dropped the mag out and slammed his spare into place, the Glock never moving off line. The Transit was fifty metres away now and about to move out of sight behind the stationary traffic.

  The machine gunner raised himself off the floor, reaching for another belt of ammo and Brad squeezed off two shots, knowing this was it.

  The first round took the gunner in the left armpit as he reached up and across, punching straight through and into his neck. The second round blasted through his left ear into his skull. He slumped across the machine gun.

  The Transit continued on and Brad came to a stop, lowering his gun.

  He turned and looked around him. He could see bodies further up Brandon Street, three lying in pools of blood and two others starting to move.

  Pedestrians and motorists were everywhere. Bullet casings littered the road, sparkling in the sun. Gun smoke hung in the air.

  He glanced down and saw blood on his pants. He didn’t know if it was his or not.

  He keyed his radio and gave an update to the boss back at the station. Sirens came closer and he could hear the roar of engines approaching. A couple of patrol cars flew past, chasing the Transit. Still no chopper upstairs though.

  Brad unstrapped his helmet and yanked it off, feeling the fresh air on his sweaty face.

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered.

  Chapter One

  Jack Travis saw the visitor well before he got to his front door and pushed himself up from the dining table, putting down his pen and picking up his coffee mug.

  The blue Hyundai Sonata bumped down the gravel farm driveway from the road, approaching the weatherboard bungalow slowly and pulling up near the open detached garage. A forest green Holden Colorado double cab ute was parked inside, splashed with mud.

  A Honda quad bike stood nearby. A border collie barked and ran from the porch, wagging his tail excitedly and watching as the visitor alighted from the vehicle.

  He was a medium sized man with sandy hair and an unremarkable face, dressed casually in chinos and a black Kathmandu jacket. When he walked he had a slight but noticeable limp, and he carried himself stiffly.

  Jed Ingoe – known as Jedi – had been the Regimental Sergeant Major of 1NZSAS Group until he lost part of his leg in an IED incident in Afghanistan. Invalided from the Army, he had traded being one of the hardest men to ever wear the sand beret to being the Operations Officer for Division 5 of the Security Intelligence Service.

  Known as The Division, it was the most covert unit of the security service. The former Special Forces operators it employed carried out the dirty work of the Government, the blackest of the black operations. The stuff that needed to be done to keep the playing fields level – within reason – between the good guys and those that sought to disrupt peace.

  Ingoe never did anything without reason, and so it was today that he came cold calling on Jack Travis. He turned his gaze from the rolling farmland to the paddocks closer to the house. A couple contained heifer calves and chooks pecked around another near a coop. He saw that the ground dropped away from the other side of the house to a pond where a few ducks swam lazily. A small creek ran through the property and fed the pond.

  Beside the house was a large vegetable garden behind a trellis fence, a smaller herb garden adjacent to it. Citrus and other fruit trees grew on the other side of the house and a grape vine had spread itself along a fence. The house was on tank water and he could see a couple of solar panels on the roof.

  Ingoe turned back to the house itself, which was in need of a fresh coat of paint. A pair of muddy gumboots stood by the door, which was open. An oilskin coat hung on a hook above the boots.

  A man stood in the doorway. He was six foot and strongly built, a few years younger than Ingoe. Receding dark hair going to grey and clipped very short, unshaven and with an outdoorsman’s complexion. He wore faded jeans and his checked flannel shirt was hanging out. A steaming cup of coffee was in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. He was watching Ingoe.

  Ingoe’s stoic expression creased into a smile and he moved forward, hand extended.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack.’

  ‘You too.’ Travis gave his hand a short, hard pump. He smiled and moved inside. ‘Come in, I’ve just made a pot.’

  Ingoe followed him in through an open living area into a large farm-style kitchen. Classic rock was coming from a stereo in the lounge. Ingoe wasn’t too up with the play with the genre – if it wasn’t about cowboys and lost love and life on the range, he didn’t want to know. Travis took another mug from a cupboard and filled it from the machine on the bench. He gave it to Ingoe and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

  Ingoe did so and took a sip. It was black and strong. French doors opened from the dining area onto a wide deck that overlooked the rolling green farmland. Ingoe admired the view for a moment. ‘Machine coffee,’ he commented. ‘You going all Ponsonby on us, Jack?’

  Travis smiled again. ‘Just like good coffee.’ He flicked a nod towards his visitor’s leg. ‘How’s the leg?’

  Ingoe shrugged. ‘It is what it is. I get by.’ He took another sip and put his mug down. ‘Living off the grid yet?’

  ‘Working on it.’ Travis used a remote to turn down the stereo. ‘It’s everybody’s dream isn’t it?’

  Ingoe changed tack. ‘Been back long?’ Travis gave him a sharp look and Ingoe grinned.

  ‘A month. I had six months in Iraq and two in Syria.’

  ‘Residential?’ He was referring to residential security, a common role in trouble spots for former operators on the Circuit.

  ‘Some, plus escorting some news crews.’ Travis gave a small grin. ‘Interesting times.’

  Ingoe nodded, warming his hands on the mug. ‘Seen the news?’

  ‘Yep.’ Travis gestured towards the morning’s paper spread out on the dining table. A laptop stood open beside it, with a notepad and pen. The pad had brief notes jotted down.

  Ingoe nodded. ‘Big news.’

  ‘Bad news. Sounds organised.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How many dead?’

  Ingoe paused, considering his response. ‘More than what the media say.’

  ‘They’ve said a security guard, three cops and two civilians dead, plus one baddie. And five cops and four more civvies wounded.’ Travis watched him, assessing his reply.

  ‘That’s true. Probably two more casualties for the bad guys though, we think one dead if not both.’

  Travis let out a low whistle. ‘That’s some serious fire fight. And in downtown Wellington too.’

  ‘And about twenty million bucks worth of gold bullion taken.’

  Travis whistled again. ‘They had a machine gun and grenades and an RPG?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Travis sipped his own coffee before crossing to the pantry and taking out a biscuit barrel. Ingoe took one and examined it with a wry grin.

  ‘Anzac biscuits?’

  ‘Made with my own hand.’ Travis took a bite of one and they both chewed in silence for a minute. ‘So this isn’t a social call then.’

  Ingoe put his biscuit on the benchtop. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘All that ordnance came from somewhere, and the bullion is going somewhere too.’

  ‘Sounds like a job for the cops, not our…your outfit.’

  Ingoe tilted his head slightly. ‘In theory. There’s an international angle to it though.’

  ‘And? You don’t need me. The Boss made it pretty clear I wouldn’t be coming back.’

  Ingoe met his gaze. ‘The cops involved. They were STG.’

  Travis paused. Ingoe continued.

  ‘One of them took out three of the bad guys.’ Ingoe met his gaze calmly. ‘Your n
ephew.’

  Travis felt a kick in his chest and put his mug down. ‘Brad.’

  Ingoe’s Hyundai was disappearing out onto the winding road to make his way from Onewhero back across the river towards Tuakau. Travis stood on the deck and watched it go, emptying his mug, his brow furrowed.

  He turned back inside and glanced at the notes he’d been making when his former boss had arrived. The robbery and subsequent shootout was headline news worldwide and he had followed it closely over the last several hours. Experience had told him it was more than a bunch of hoods robbing a cash-in-transit van, as had been told to the media.

  Experience. From joining the Army as a boy to eighteen years in the Group, ending up as a Squadron Sergeant Major – Warrant Officer Class 2, and next in line for the RSM position after Ingoe’s tragedy. Next in line, that was, until his run in with an obnoxious Air Force pilot. The pilot had objected to being taken to task over his recklessness and Travis had objected to a twenty six year old officer trying to put him in his place.

  The result was a broken nose for the pilot and a pending court martial for Travis. It could have been dealt with had the pilot not been the son of a senior Cabinet Minister. His exit without charges had been arranged quickly and Travis found himself out in the cold, thrown into work on the Circuit with former comrades from all arms of the forces round the world.

  The last year had been a journey of intense self-discovery for the tough former SSM, and he had planned on taking some time out to get his property operating how he wanted it to be. His remark to Ingoe about living off the grid wasn’t too far from the truth; the attraction was strong, although he was realistic enough to know that to be completely self-sufficient was a big ask and very time consuming.

  He had heifers and chickens, sufficient fruit and vegetables all year round, and a good trade arrangement with neighbours who ran sheep and pigs. Seasonal hunting helped keep the freezers full.

  But as he watched the Hyundai disappear from sight down the winding country road, Travis knew without a doubt that he was about to step back into the fold.

  He’d let his nephew down before; he wouldn’t do it again.

  Chapter Two

  The Division’s base was in Upper Queen Street in an otherwise innocuous seeming building.

  Government employees came and went downstairs, but two floors were reserved for the operators and support staff.

  Travis was on time for his meeting with the Director, and was met in the reception area by a pair of heavies in suits. He was put through a metal detector, an electronic fingerprint scanner, checked for recording and transmitting devices and eventually allowed to sign in. His photo was taken and he was issued a Visitor’s Pass.

  Ingoe took him up in the elevator to a different reception area lined with floor to ceiling shelves of heavy tomes. An older lady manned the desk there and checked his Visitor’s Pass before pushing an intercom button to alert the Director.

  ‘Thanks Trixie,’ Ingoe said, and Travis was amused to note that Trixie gave Ingoe a lingering smile as she buzzed open a side door. Ingoe led the way into a long conference room. Three people were waiting at the polished table.

  The first was a chubby man somewhere around sixty, with a bland Government-issue face and an understated charcoal suit. He had the air of authority about him, a full head of grey hair and shrewd blue eyes which sized Travis up as he entered the room. He had spook written all over him. The Director.

  The second person was anything but bland. She was taller than average for a woman and athletic looking, maybe mid-thirties. Her chestnut hair was thick and wavy and fell to the shoulders of her sharp navy blue suit. She had intelligent hazel eyes behind dark rimmed glasses and her skin was tanned and clear of makeup aside from subtle lipstick. Travis felt her eyes on him as he let the door swing shut behind him. Maybe a lawyer?

  The third person he sensed before even laying eyes on him. Brad Travis stood by the window, his big mitts in the pockets of his jeans. His sandy hair was messy and he was unshaven and scowling. He was in his late twenties. He wore a black T shirt that accentuated the bulging muscles in his torso and arms. He didn’t smile when Travis made eye contact, just nodded.

  Travis nodded back and shook the Director’s extended hand.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Sergeant Major,’ the man said, with what might have been a smile. His hand was surprisingly hard and Travis mentally reassessed him. ‘It’s very important to us that you are here, for reasons that will become apparent very soon, I am sure.’

  ‘No problem,’ Travis murmured, ‘and it’s Jack.’ He turned to the woman.

  ‘Susie,’ she said. Her hand was firm and dry and she made solid eye contact, assessing him close up. Not a lawyer, he decided. Probably another spook. He caught the whiff of scent, something alluring and warm and probably very expensive.

  ‘And of course no introductions are needed for Brad,’ the older man continued, gesturing to the six foot four monster at the window.

  Travis stepped forward and extended his hand. Brad enveloped it in a crushing grip, holding for longer than was necessary and staring intently into his uncle’s eyes as he did so. He had green eyes that were hot and defensive. Travis extracted his hand and took a seat beside Ingoe.

  The Director sat opposite them, Susie at his side. Each had a leather compendium open before them. The Director gestured for Brad to sit as well but he shook his head and stayed where he was.

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ he rasped.

  The Director eyed him for a moment before relenting and turning back to Travis and Ingoe.

  ‘Obviously everything said in here stays here. This meeting never happened and we have never met. Any breach of that trust will be treated extremely seriously, is that clear?’

  Travis nodded his assent.

  ‘As you are aware, Wellington’s Police Special Tactics Group was involved in the bullion robbery and shootout yesterday. Sergeant Travis was one of those involved. It was the largest shooting incident the New Zealand Police have ever been involved in and left three officers dead plus two civilians and one of the security guards. Further to that five other officers and four civilians were wounded, three critically – one of the officers and two of the civilians.’

  He let that sit for a moment before continuing.

  ‘One of the robbers was confirmed dead at the scene. Two more of the robbers were shot and we believe at least one of them is dead, if not both. They escaped along with the rest of the gang, and no bodies have turned up.’

  The Director looked to his colleague beside him and she took the lead.

  ‘The robber whose body was recovered has been identified as an Auckland-based criminal, a member of the Southern Bandits outlaw motorcycle gang. Raymond Baillie, known as Little Ray. A patched member with various convictions, including previous robberies, firearms offences and Class A drug dealing. On parole for the last year from a seven year stretch.’ She paused, watching Travis. ‘My area of focus recently has been home grown terrorists, including the usual jihadists but as part of an investigation into them, these guys have floated to the surface.’

  She hit a button on a remote and screens slid up from the table top in front of each of them. A montage of photos appeared, each being either a mugshot of a hardened criminal or a surveillance type photo of a patched gang member. They wore gang regalia with the Southern Bandits patch.

  ‘Over the years they have been one of a number of gangs working in the methamphetamine trade, running brothels and gambling rings, and the usual stand overs and aggravated robberies and other violence that comes with their business. They have made millions and are traditionally hard to pin down.’

  ‘Obviously Little Ray abided by his parole conditions,’ Brad growled.

  The Director looked at him sharply. ‘That’s something that the Corrections Department will have to answer. It’s not something we are concerned with.’

  He looked back to Susie and gave her a nod to continue.

  �
�Intel tells us that the jihadists are actively fund raising in this country, via all the usual routes of fraud, donations from sympathiser’s etcetera.’ Susie’s eyes took on a gleam now as she got to the guts of her narrative. ‘More recently we’ve had intel that the Southern Bandits have lined up a big job that will potentially earn them millions.’

  ‘And so it was,’ the Director commented. Susie sat back and he took the lead again. ‘The bullion being transferred was almost 400 kilograms, close to twenty million dollars’ worth. It was a fairly standard job as far as bullion transfers go.’ He caught the questioning look on Travis’ face. ‘They happen more often than you would think.’

  ‘Do Stidge always do the escorts?’ Travis asked, using one of the nicknames for STG – the other one was Super Tough Guys, but it didn’t seem appropriate to use right now.

  ‘For jobs that big, yeah,’ Ingoe replied.

  Travis nodded and the Director watched him intently.

  ‘What’s on your mind then, Sergeant Major?’

  ‘Well,’ Travis said carefully, ‘I’m just wondering why I’m actually here.’ He ticked points off on his fingers. ‘I’m in neither the spooks, the cops nor the Group. I’m not involved in any way at all. I don’t know who did it aside from what you’ve just told me.’

  He cocked an eyebrow at the Director and waited. The Director looked to Ingoe, who rolled his chair out from the table and turned to face Travis.

  ‘You know Brad was the shooter. Unfortunately his face is all over the media now, so keeping him as unnamed Officer A isn’t an option anymore.’

  Travis nodded. He’d seen it – the front page of the morning Herald was a close up of his nephew holding his ballistic helmet in one hand and his Glock in the other, standing in the middle of an intersection surrounded by smashed cars and glaring at whoever had taken the photo on their cell phone. There was also footage on the internet of some of the action, including the clip from the kid who Brad had braved fire to drag to safety. The little punk had sold his soul to the media devil and there was Brad, forever immortalised on the ‘net swearing at the kid and threatening to shoot him.