The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  ‘Yep.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘I always defeat the baddies by dancing provocatively.’

  ‘And they always wear next to nothing?’

  ‘Totally. And have machine gun jubblies.’

  ‘Jubblies?’ She cocked an eyebrow and laughed. ‘Really, is there no better name?’

  ‘Would you prefer dirty pillows?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to watch the whole movie.’

  The room service order arrived and Moore took it from the waiter at the door. Katie watched, guessing that he was deliberately not allowing an unknown into the room. While he secured the door again she uncovered the food and took a seat. She dug a fork in for the first taste, and looked up as Moore joined her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said through a mouthful, ‘I couldn’t wait. This is so good.’ She covered her mouth self-consciously. ‘How rude.’

  ‘Get into it,’ Moore said, sitting opposite her. ‘It smells great.’

  She tucked in and subtly observed as he made short work of his kebab and cleaned up most of the salad as well. He was a systematic eater, leaning over his plate and taking big bites, seeming to relish every mouthful.

  As Katie ate she felt herself begin to relax. Her pace slowed down and she felt the colour returned to her cheeks. Finally she sat back with a satisfied sigh and wiped her mouth on a napkin.

  ‘That was great.’ She popped a stray olive into her mouth and chewed. ‘I needed that.’

  Moore nodded and stood, going to the phone again. He called Room Service to order Turkish apple tea for two. When he sat again he used the last piece of bread to wipe his plate clean.

  Katie sipped her water and studied him across the table.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said, wiping his hands and sitting back.

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Feeling a bit better?’

  She nodded. ‘Yep. Sleepy though. I’m knackered.’ Just saying it made her yawn.

  Moore smiled, automatically yawning too. ‘It’s the post-adrenaline rush. Your body dumps this huge amount of adrenaline in your body when it feels under threat. When you don’t need it anymore you drop from a hundred to zero.’

  Katie nodded, saying nothing.

  ‘Sometimes you get the shakes, the jitters. Sometimes you throw up or get the shits. Usually you get tired.’

  Katie wondered if it was normal to have all the symptoms in one hit. She felt him watching her and avoided his gaze. She didn’t want to discuss it right now. He probably knew anyway.

  The waiter arrived and they drank hot sweet apple tea, served in glasses, on the couch. The curtains blocked the world outside and created a safe cocoon where Katie could relax. She felt her eyelids getting heavy and took their glasses out.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ she said, heading for the bathroom. She paused at the door and looked back. Moore craned his head, looking at her expectantly. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You saved my life today.’

  Moore gave a small nod, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Yeah, baby.’

  Katie gave a short laugh and shook her head. ‘I mean it. Thank you.’

  Moore gave an appreciative nod. ‘All good,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

  Katie hesitated, wondering if she should invite him into her bed. He was a good looking man, she thought. She wondered what it would be like to be held in those strong arms, for him to make love to her. She felt a stirring, hesitated again, and mentally shook her head.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Moore was woken suddenly.

  Both eyes snapped open and he lay perfectly still, all senses alert. Something had disturbed him, something intangible. The room was silent and dark. He pushed the blanket aside and rolled off the couch, halfway to his feet when he heard the key in the lock.

  Dressed only in his briefs he snatched up the Sig from the floor beside him, the door crashing against the safety chain. There was a muttered oath then a louder crash as a body impacted against the door.

  Moore sprang over the couch towards Katie’s door, the door smashing open behind him.

  ‘Katie!’

  Men burst in and torch beams swept the room, accompanied by at least two red laser sights.

  He heard Katie’s feet hit the floor at the same time as the beams found him. In that split second he had to decide how to react. He had no doubt he could hold his own in a shootout, but if these guys had pro gear then they were probably pros, and legit. He couldn’t afford to shoot a cop or an intelligence officer.

  A red dot centred on his chest and a thick accent shouted, ‘Drop it!’

  Moore slowly put the Sig down, raising his hands. A dark figure recovered the weapon. Torch beams blinded him. Katie came to his side, dressed only in the white T-shirt and pale blue cotton knickers. She pressed against his side, her nails digging into his arm.

  There were at least three torch beams covering them and Katie also had a red laser dot on her chest now. Any false moves and they would be mowed down.

  ‘On the floor! Face down!’

  ‘Do as they say,’ Moore said quietly.

  ‘No talking!’

  They started to get down on the floor but before they were down one of the men lunged forward and grabbed Katie by the arm, yanking her forward and tossing her to the floor away from Moore.

  He resisted the urge to react, spread eagling himself instead. Two men moved forward and dropped on him, knees in the back holding him down, a hand pressing his face into the carpet. His arms were jerked behind his back and bound with flexi-cuffs.

  A hand on his face wrenched his head back and a hood was pulled over it, plunging him into total blackness.

  The hood was claustrophobic and smelled like onions. It felt like sacking. His eyes began to water with the stench and he forced himself to breathe as best he could with two men kneeling on him.

  Panic was a killer.

  He was kept down that way for another minute or so before being hustled to his feet. Nothing further was said as he was manhandled from the room, his captors making sure they bounced him off the doorframe as he went through.

  Moore sucked it up, knowing the drill.

  They led him down the hall to the stairs, hurrying him down with strong hands under his arms, barely needing his own feet to move him. When they reached what he judged to be the basement a door opened and he felt a rush of cold air on his exposed skin.

  He could smell exhaust fumes and heard a car running. He could also hear movement behind him somewhere, hopefully Katie; it would be better if they weren’t separated.

  A sliding door was cranked back and he was bustled into what he guessed was a people mover, shoved into the back seat with a captor squeezing in beside him. A gun barrel was jabbed in his ribs.

  He heard more movement and the vehicle shifted as more bodies took the seat in front of him.

  Maybe they weren’t as pro as he’d first thought; it was more effective to separate the prisoners, isolate them, leave them wondering. At least if Katie knew he was near she may take some strength from that. He cleared his throat to let her know he was there and the gun barrel jabbed in painfully.

  ‘Shut up,’ a guttural voice growled.

  He heard a cough in return and knew she’d switched on. Good girl.

  The door slid shut and the vehicle moved off.

  Moore tracked their movements in his head for about the first minute before he lost it. They were in a strange foreign city, captured at gunpoint by an unknown enemy, caught with a gun and literally their pants down.

  Whatever was going on, Moore thought, they were fucked.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  After what Moore estimated to be half an hour the vehicle pulled off the road into an alley or driveway, the tyres crunching on gravel or litter before pulling up sharply. The door slid open and the people in front of him were moved out.

  Hands grabbed him and dragged him out, banging his head on the doorframe as he stumbled
out. One of the men chuckled.

  No, he thought, not as pro as he’d thought.

  The air was fresh and cool, and he could smell garbage. He took another sniff. Animals and pasture. A farm, maybe.

  He was hustled across stony ground then onto what felt like dirt and loose straw. The smell of animals was stronger. It felt like they were inside now.

  The unseen men manhandled him across the floor, a door opened and he was shoved into another room. The floor was cold bare concrete. He stopped himself and straightened up, hearing Katie cough again. He turned in that direction, just in time to take an unexpected fist to the gut. He moved with it, bending over but sensing the knee coming up towards his face and twisting away enough to take it on the shoulder instead.

  A kick buckled his knee from behind and he started to go down, a body slam knocking him flat.

  Moore braced himself, curling his knees up, knowing what was coming.

  Lights came on and it felt like they were all involved, boots slamming into his torso and legs, no holding back. Just when he thought they were leaving his head alone a boot took him straight in the back of the skull and stars exploded in his head.

  He rolled away, his skull a solid block of pain, another boot stamping on his leg and another slamming into his back. The wind was knocked from him and he gasped for air, the fetid onion stench filling his nostrils and mouth.

  He was dimly aware of more movement somewhere nearby, accompanied by grunts and cries of pain.

  He figured Katie was getting the same treatment. Obviously these guys were equal opportunities kidnappers.

  Moore got his breathing under control, sucking down slow breaths and oxygenating his blood. The flexi-cuffs were digging into his wrists and his body ached. He knew this was just the beginning.

  Sure enough, hands roughly dragged him up to a kneeling position and his head was pushed down to face the floor. His ankles were crossed. The hard floor dug into his knees and the position strained his whole body.

  He knew what to expect from interrogation training in the Group, and knew what to expect, but he’d never been captured before. This was the real deal and he knew they were in the shit.

  Somebody was standing over him and every time he moved at all to relieve the pressure a hand slapped him back into position.

  It was important to get a mental grasp on the situation. He couldn’t control anything physically – that was just something he had to endure. Stress positions, intimidation and isolation were used to break you down. Beatings were amateurish and largely ineffective on properly trained operators, aside from inflicting pain.

  Mental strength was the key here, and he prayed that Katie had it. You had to take yourself out of your pain and focus on something else.

  Moore’s go-to place was the rugby teams of his younger years. He’d grown up playing rugby, watching it, dreaming it. Although he was a handy enough loose forward, and aggressive, he’d never quite had the talent to go anywhere with it.

  When he’d run through the names of all his teammates in high school, he started on the Waikato team of 1992-93. They’d been a great team, winning the National Provincial Championship in ’92 then beating the touring British and Irish Lions the next year. Moore had been at Rugby Park to see it, on leave with a bunch of other young infantrymen. He’d been a Lance-Corporal then and supposedly looking after the rest of the lads. As he recalled, they’d got drunk after the game, had a fight with some students outside a pub and hightailed it before the cops got there.

  After what seemed like an eternity he was manhandled to his feet and backed against the wall. One of the men moved him into a squat position and stepped back. Moore settled into the position. He did squats in the gym and knew he could normally hold it for at least four minutes. That was before a beating though. He knew that Wizz could squat for close to ten minutes.

  The burn of the lactic acid made his legs shake and eventually, after what he calculated was roughly five minutes, he tried to push up. A hand on each shoulder held him in position, and two men chuckled. They sounded Turkish.

  His legs were shaking and he felt like he was doing a spastic dance, his teeth gritted and eyes clenched shut, before they lifted him up and turned him round. They moved him backwards then down onto his front on the concrete. He heard a slosh then a bucket of ice cold water was tipped over him. He gasped and lay there, the concrete quickly getting colder, seeping up into his body. His briefs were soaked and clinging. He noticed that they had avoided wetting the hood – no waterboarding yet, then.

  Moore lay there, trying to decipher the muffled noises he could hear. He was certain he heard Katie say something, followed by an animalistic grunt. A muffled shout from her, sudden movement, laughter and a loud slap. A thudding impact and a snarl, a heavy whack then the sound of someone hitting the deck. He heard Katie screech something then a dull thump followed by gasping.

  She was nearby. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he could take an educated guess.

  ‘Yeah baby!’ Moore shouted in his best Austin Powers impression, hoping to give her a boost by showing defiance.

  He didn’t know if she heard but their captors didn’t appreciate it. Someone stepped in and booted him in the left thigh, giving him a dead leg. He took it with a grunt, rolling that way, and someone else came in with another swinging boot.

  This one collected him in the face and he instantly tasted warm salty blood in the back of his throat. He could feel it running down his lips and chin.

  Moore coughed and snorted, trying to clear the blood and snot from his nostrils so he could breathe properly. He spat out a sticky gob, dribbling it out into the hood. It smeared on his chin and stayed there.

  Someone kicked him in the side and muttered something. He took the hint and stayed silent.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The floor was freezing. Before long he could feel his core temperature lowering, and he began to tremble.

  He pressed his face against the concrete as best he could, using the cold to help staunch the blood flowing from his nose and hopefully reduce the swelling a bit.

  He went back to the annals of rugby history, working through the Otago team – another favourite of the early ’90s era – before he was hauled to his knees again.

  The cycle continued, the same pattern being used interspersed with a few kicks and knees, and by the time Moore had got through the Auckland and North Harbour teams of 1994, he was on the third round.

  As he was being pushed to the cold wet floor again he heard Katie being lifted and moved away. A door opened and shut. Silence fell, aside from the shuffling feet of the man standing over him and the sound of his own breathing.

  The hood had become his world. He assessed his captors again. Some knowledge and experience, yes. Professional, no. Dangerous, absolutely. He wondered what they were doing with or to Katie. He guessed they had picked her as the weaker of the two, and being a female she was certainly more vulnerable to a bunch of male thugs.

  Kneeling in the stress position for the fourth time, his body locked up in painful knots, Moore came to some conclusions about their captors. They were not Police, nor were they intelligence services. These guys were either organised crime thugs, terrorists, or private contractors of some sort.

  If they were terrorists, it was only a matter of time before the orange jumpsuits came out. If they were any of the other options, there must be an interrogation coming at some stage.

  If that was ever their intention, his captors were taking their time. He lost count of how many cycles of stress positions he went through, finally giving up at fourteen. He decided to just go with it. There was nothing he could do to stop it, so it seemed like a better idea to just roll with it, compartmentalise each cycle into a box and work through until the cycle began again.

  Thoughts of Danni forced their way into his head and he angrily banished them. No point thinking about her right now, unless she was bursting in the door with an Armalite in her hand.

>   Moore fell asleep at some stage, a fitful, painful slumber of sorts. Just enough to relax slightly without feeling rested. He was woken for another round of stress positions, manhandling, a few kicks and punches and unintelligible shouting in his ear.

  He had no idea how long it all went on for but guessed it had to be close to a day. Time had lost all meaning to him. All that existed was the hood, his physical pain and the captors. His mouth tasted like a sun-baked gravel pit and his tongue felt thick and heavy. His stomach was achingly empty, and for some reason all he could think of was Turkish Delight. He didn’t even like Turkish fucking Delight.

  ‘Water,’ he croaked to the man he knew was behind him, not needing to put it on much at all.

  He had been kneeling with his head hung forward for what he figured was close to twenty minutes. His knees were beyond pain and his back muscles were so tight and stiff they barely seemed capable of moving.

  ‘Silence.’

  Moore took a slow breath through his nose, mentally flicking a switch. He’d had enough.

  ‘Water,’ he repeated.

  ‘I say silent.’ The man’s tone was more forceful now.

  ‘I say water,’ Moore retorted thickly.

  He heard the man’s feet shift, coming round in front of him now. He heard the rustle of clothing and knew what was coming.

  Warm piss splashed over his hood, dribbling down his face and chin. He screwed his eyes shut and clamped his lips tight. He wasn’t quite desperate enough yet to drink the guy’s piss.

  The man chuckled to himself.

  ‘Water,’ he said with a thick accent.

  His clothing rustled again as he tucked himself in and moved away.

  Moore kept his eyes shut and refocussed himself. Obviously this guy was just a sadist, so there was no point playing the sympathy card.

  He knew that best practice in hostage situations was to try and glean intel while delaying the kidnappers’ action as long as possible, and hoping the rescuers would hurry up and get there while planning your own escape. But this was different. There was no rescue team standing by, and escape options seemed limited at best just now.