by Angus McLean
‘Pfff,’ Susie snorted.
‘Agreed,’ Ingoe replied, ‘but they have nothing else.’
‘Any updates on The Pastor?’ Susie asked.
‘Not much, but we do have some intel on his crew now.’ They heard a rustle of paper in the background as Ingoe checked his notes. ‘He has two guys with him most of the time. One is a local Thai bloke called Prasong, nothing else known. Apparently he’s some kind of criminal that Stephenson has taken aboard, even lives with him.’
‘What, like together?’ Travis asked.
Susie cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at him, amused.
‘I don’t care if he’s gay, but it could be relevant,’ he said defensively.
‘That’s not clear,’ Ingoe said. ‘Apparently he’s a real bad bastard though. Used to be a cage fighter in the underground scene in Bangkok.’
Travis let out a low whistle. He knew a bit about that scene, none of it good.
‘His other guy is a Rhodesian – not Zimbabwean – named Terence Yates. Fifty eight years old, ex-mercenary.’
Susie made a scoffing noise, which Ingoe obviously heard.
‘He’s no has-been,’ he warned. ‘He was a Selous Scout back in the day then spent another couple of decades or so in different war zones. Pretty much every agency in the world has had a look at him. This guy has seen it and done it. If he could read and write properly, he could write the book. Don’t underestimate him because he’s an old fart.’
Susie’s brow was furrowed as she absorbed the info.
‘Selous Scouts were a Special Forces unit,’ Travis told her. ‘Similar to the SAS. Real hard arses.’
‘I’ll flick you through the address details and whatever else we have for him.’
‘We’ll have a recce,’ said Travis, ‘once Brad gets here we’ll regroup and suss out a more pro-active approach.’
‘How’re the local authorities dealing with last night’s events?’ Susie asked. ‘We haven’t seen any media yet.’
‘Gangland stuff. The usual gang on gang shooting. Haven’t got anything back from the prisoner they got yet.’
‘Is Major Dang on that?’ Travis asked.
‘So he says.’
Travis grunted dubiously.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Jack,’ Ingoe said. ‘Let’s hold on that for now. Last update for you is a possible player to be aware of. Ex-SEAL named Johnny Mitchell.’
Travis pricked up his ears. The US Navy’s Sea, Air, Land specialists were right up there in the pecking order of Tier One outfits.
‘Thirty five year old US citizen, served nine years in the Navy including four with the SEAL teams. We know he did tours in Iraq and the ‘Stan, plus whatever else we don’t know about. He’s been on the circuit since then and has popped up in various zones, including Somalia.’
‘Pretty standard tourist spot,’ Susie remarked.
‘What’s his deal then?’ Travis asked. ‘SEALs don’t tend to go rogue.’
‘Good question. Apparently his marriage fell apart and he was short on cash. He sold some operational details to a journalist and got caught out. Got DD’d and out on his arse. Interestingly, Philip Stephenson has just returned from Somalia. Had two days in the Mog, travelling with his two buddies.’
‘DD’d?’ Susie asked.
‘Dishonourable discharge. Kicked out.’
She nodded.
‘When was this Mitchell guy last there?’ Travis asked. ‘And have they travelled together?’
‘Don’t know either. The Yanks aren’t talking to us about Mitchell.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Not so much. They might do in time, but right now we’ve got nothing.’
‘Helpful.’
Susie shook her head in frustration. Travis couldn’t help but notice her breasts moving when she did so.
‘So you reckon Mitchell may be linked to Stephenson, is that the theory?’ Travis asked.
‘It’s a pretty good theory. Mitchell was here until yesterday, when he flew to Thailand. He was in NZ at the time of the robbery.’
‘Interesting. You’re thinking he was involved?’ Even as he said it, Travis knew. ‘The guy Brad shot it out with. He was the guy.’
‘And he probably trained those gangsters,’ Susie put in.
Travis nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘The Southern Bandits had a big funeral for Little Ray, apparently bikies from all over turned up. Interestingly, two known members of the gang were absent and haven’t been seen for a few days.’
‘So Brad was right when he said two guys,’ Susie said.
Travis nodded. Inwardly he was impressed, but he kept it to himself for now.
‘That’s all for now, team.’ Ingoe yawned. ‘I’m hitting the pit, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything else. I’ll get Brad in the air first thing.’
‘If he’s coming over,’ Travis said quickly, ‘I’ll get him to bring some things with him.’
‘On him, or in the diplomatic pouch?’ Ingoe enquired.
Travis twitched his head. ‘Diplomatic pouch might be best.’
‘Send me a list,’ Ingoe told him.
They rang off and Susie tossed her phone onto the coffee table, folding her legs under her on the couch.
‘Interesting,’ she said, stifling a yawn and running a hand through her hair.
‘Uh-huh.’ Travis stood and headed to the kitchenette. He flicked the kettle on and came back.
Susie looked at him in his briefs. His torso was toned and muscular, marked here and there with scars. He saw her looking and quickly grabbed up his cargo pants.
‘Good idea,’ she grinned, ‘put some pants on, would you?’
He gave her incredulous. ‘Really?’
Susie unfolded her legs and stood. She sauntered towards the bathroom. He watched her go and he knew she knew. She was undeniably attractive.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she tossed over her shoulder before she shut the door.
‘Lucky you,’ he muttered, pulling on his pants. ‘I need a cold one.’
Chapter Sixteen
Alexa allowed him to make a sideways shuffle from the flat, leaving her to lock up behind him. There had been no tears, just a long lingering kiss before she shut the car door and hit the button for the garage door.
The rumble of a 5.0 litre 308 cubic inch V8 filled the garage as Brad fired up his car. The navy blue 1973 Holden Statesman De Ville was his pride and joy.
He backed out of the garage, gave Alexa a final wave and rumbled up the street. He slowed as he past the sleeping journo, and gave him a blast on the horn. The man woke with a start and looked around. When he saw Brad grinning at him from a metre away he fumbled for the key, firing up the hybrid. Brad gunned it and peeled rubber as he roared away.
As he got to the corner he saw the hybrid U-turning behind him. The little car got around then ground to a halt. Brad gave a friendly toot on the horn and left him behind.
KISS blasted from the stereo as Brad hit the motorway and pointed the nose north. He sang along as he drove, more of a low growl than the high notes Paul Stanley could hit on Crazy, Crazy Nights, but he didn’t care.
He left Johnsonville at 2am and filled up at a gas station, stocking up on a large black coffee, a pie and a couple of supposedly-healthy-but-laden-with-hidden-sugar muesli bars. With few other cars on the road he made good time, keeping a careful eye out for traffic cops as he sat in the fast lane with the stereo rocking and caffeine in his veins.
He passed through locked down towns and hit the Desert Road, surrounded by ruggedly beautiful bleak landscape hidden by the inky blackness. The Army camp was still as he rolled past and pulled into a service station. He stretched his legs, used the toilet out the back and bought more supplies-another large black coffee and a bag of peanut M&Ms. The station attendant behind the Night Pay window was wide awake and chatty, asking Brad how far he had to go and warning him of cops on the road ahead.
‘Saw two carloads of ‘
em heading north just an hour ago,’ he confided, tapping his nose conspiratorially. ‘Unmarked cars, too.’ He jabbed a dirty finger towards the Statesman on the forecourt. ‘You might be able to outrun ‘em in that beast, though. What’s that, a 253?’
‘308,’ Brad replied, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. ‘Thanks for the heads up, mate.’
He was glad for the warmth of the Holden after the chill outside.
Why is Waiouru always colder than a witch’s tit? Brad wondered as he nosed back out to the road. A logging truck thundered past and he gunned it onto the highway, taking a hit from the coffee. Something about the station attendant’s warning rang alarm bells with him, and the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense.
Two carloads of traffic cops in unmarked cars. Not just cops, but traffic cops. That meant they were probably in hi-viz vests and in uniform. Traffic cops didn’t travel in carloads – pairs, yes, but not carloads. And where would two carloads of traffic cops be going in the early hours of the morning?
He berated himself for not asking more questions. Maybe he was just being paranoid; but maybe not.
Brad had long learned to trust his instincts, and right now his gut was telling him there was something wrong. He pulled the Statesman to the shoulder of the road, put the coffee down and popped the boot.
A minute later he was ready. The SLR was loaded with a full mag and one up the spout, resting nose-down in the passenger’s foot well. The Smith and Wesson was holstered on his hip. The Mossberg was fully loaded and lying on the backseat. He got back into the car and changed his mind. He unholstered the Smith and put it on the passenger’s seat. Not a soul had gone by while he had been stopped, and he felt completely alone out here in the barren wilderness.
As he eased off the shoulder again, Brad was satisfied with his preparations. And the further he drove, the more certain he became that it was necessary.
He was in the windy dips north of Waiouru, carefully manoeuvring around the hairpins, when he noticed a set of headlights behind him. No, not headlights, just sidelights, and a good hundred metres back. He hadn’t seen any vehicles off the road, so either they had been well hidden or had flown up behind from miles back.
His alarm bells rang louder. He shook a handful of M&Ms out and crammed them into his mouth. He turned down the stereo – Whitesnake were blasting out Here I Go Again – and crunched the peanut candy, washing them down with the dregs of his coffee.
He came up out of the dips onto the flat and saw a checkpoint straight ahead. Cones in the middle of the road, an unmarked Holden Commodore sedan on each side of the road, both displaying red and blue flashing lights on their dashboards. He could make out a driver in each vehicle.
A uniformed cop stood in the road facing him, a torch with a red cone on it in his hand. More figures in hi-viz vests stood at the side the road.
Four things immediately struck Brad as being all wrong about the checkpoint; bad place for a checkpoint; too many cops; unmarked cars; and the flashing lights were on the dash, not affixed to the top of the windscreen or hidden behind the grill.
He slowed as he got closer, quickly counting up the figures. Eight all up, all in hi-viz vests. Five of them stood back behind the Commodore on the left, partially obscuring them from his view.
The cop in the road waved the torch at him, signalling him to come forward. Brad kept the Statesman rolling slowly forward, reaching across to the passenger seat and sliding the Smith into his lap. As he did, he noticed another thing; the hi-viz vest the cop wore had no Police decals on it.
He was twenty metres away from the cop now, and his alarm bells were deafening. He wound the window down and stuck his head out.
‘What’s the problem, officer?’ he called out.
‘Just move it forward, buddy.’ The cop waved impatiently with the torch.
‘What’s your QID?’ Brad hollered, referring to the unique six digit personal identifying number each cop had.
‘My what?’ The cop’s face screwed up and he turned side-on, exposing a tat on his neck.
Every cop knew what a QID was, and they knew their own by heart.
Brad braked hard and slapped it into reverse, rocketing backwards quickly and hitting the high beams to blind the men in front of him.
The cop in the road shouted something and his mates poured onto the road. Shots rang out and a few even hit the body of the Statesman. The corner approached fast and as he reached it, the car coming up behind appeared from the blind spot. The rear of the Statesman crunched into the front left wing of the car, a red Ford Falcon wagon.
Brad gassed it and rammed the Falcon sideways across the road, causing it to slide backwards into the low ditch at the side of the road beneath a high bank. He whacked the gear stick into Drive again and motored forward but saw a line of men across the road only about forty metres ahead. They had ditched the hi-viz vests and were aiming weapons at him. Muzzles flashed and bullets impacted the car.
More firing sounded behind him and the rear windscreen shattered. He shoved the door open and hurled himself out, the Smith in his hand and M&Ms flying everywhere. He hit the tarmac and rolled, the Statesman continuing to roll forward and take fire.
He could see two guys coming from the Falcon, lit up by their one remaining headlight. One had a sub-machine gun in his grip and the other wielded a long of some sort.
The SMG opened up and ripped a long burst into the back of the Statesman, blowing the taillights and popping the boot open.
Brad let out a growl in his throat and took a double handed grip, sighting down the long barrel as he lay flat on the roadway. The two men were only about fifteen metres away now, and he saw the second guy see him. He shouted out a warning to the sub-gunner and started to bring his rifle around.
Brad was faster.
The Smith boomed, flame belched from the barrel and a huge .44 Magnum hollow point took the sub-gunner in the chest and blew him off his feet. He fell backwards and emptied his gun at the stars. The second man faltered and hesitated, standing still long enough to sign his own death warrant. Brad triggered a second shot that took him in the guts and dropped him to his knees. The third Magnum round literally tore his head from his shoulders, just like Clint had said it would.
Rounds started coming his way now and he pushed up, scrabbling back to the side of the road and the relative concealment offered by the scrub there. The night was lit up by muzzle flashes and rounds were flying all around. Brad scrambled further back, keeping low and moving to his right. Whoever these jokers were – and he had a fair idea – they weren’t disciplined shooters and had no apparent game plan.
That was good, but in their favour was vastly superior numbers and automatic weapons. Unless something dramatic changed, Brad knew he would be overrun sooner rather than later.
With that in mind, he changed tack and moved back to his left, scrambling quickly through the scrub towards the top of the dip. It was treacherous underfoot and he was mindful that the gully would appear at any moment, potentially spelling his end if he wasn’t careful. He got to a position as close to the two dead men as he could get, took a breath and broke from cover.
The gangsters were busy shouting at each other and loosing off wild shots into the darkness where he had been moments before, and he made it to the dead sub-gunner.
The SMG was an old Sterling 9mm with a side-mounted magazine, and the gangster had a spare mag tucked into his waistband. Brad found the mag release and dumped the empty, clipping the new one into place and chambering a round before someone spotted him.
Rounds started coming down and he sprinted forward, jamming the Smith into the holster and firing the Sterling from the hip, pumping short bursts at the figures ahead of him. He got behind the Statesman, which had rolled off the road and ended up half in a ditch, the motor still running.
Ricochets sparked off the body of the Statesman as he scrabbled round to the left, yanking the rear door open and grabbing the Mossberg. He slung it acr
oss his back and reached through to the front passenger’s seat for the SLR. He knew the big battle rifle would up his chances of survival significantly. A long burst of automatic fire punched through the windscreen and seat in front of him and he felt pieces of glass and dashboard plastic tearing at him.
He ducked back and unleashed the Sterling with one hand, spraying the magazine empty through the blown-out windscreen where he could see the outline of a man rushing forward. The guy flopped sideways and Brad dropped the SMG, ducking back inside and grabbing for the stock of the SLR.
More rounds filled the interior of the Statesman, ripping the seats to shreds and exploding glass all around him.
Brad threw himself back into the ditch, hearing bullets snapping past him as he took cover. He scrambled back through the ditch and into the scrub beyond, unslinging the Mossberg and flicking the safety off. He got it into the shoulder as he hustled through the low scrub.
He heard a tyre explode behind him and more shouting. Coming up in a crouch, he scanned the road-the gangsters had helpfully left the headlights of their cars on, providing a decent back light. Five of the gangsters were right up by the Statesman now, raking fire into and around the car. Two others stood back near the two cars, and the other two were in the middle of the road, half way between the two groups.
As Brad watched his car get shot to shit, he felt the anger rising.
‘Fuckers,’ he muttered. He sighted on the closest of the gangsters, who had a sawn off shotgun in his hands. He squeezed the trigger and the Mossberg bucked. The man dropped instantly and the guy nearest him turned and stared with his mouth open. Brad pumped the slide and sent a blast of 00 buckshot at him. He saw him fall and moved left. Five metres later he stopped again and snapped two quick shots at the three guys still near the car before moving again.
Bullets whizzed overhead into the wild blue yonder. Brad took another position at the knee and sighted on the two guys in the middle of the road, who were now closest to him. One had an M3 “grease gun” in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The second had a pistol of some sort drawn, hanging at his side. They were watching their men at the car still cutting loose at the undergrowth.