The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  Jimmy didn’t flicker, just eyeballed him with his head cocked back and his thumbs hooked into the front of his trackies.

  ‘You put a good man in hospital. Maybe even killed him.’

  Jimmy gave a dismissive shrug and sniffed. ‘Whatever, arsehole.’

  Romper butted in. ‘You come for some?’

  Moore looked at him flatly. ‘You called it,’ he said quietly. ‘This is on you.’ He took a moment to look each of them in the face. ‘Just remember that. This ends here and now.’ He pointed deliberately at Romper. ‘And it’s on him.’

  The group shuffled before him, readying themselves. Moore locked eyes with the tall skinny one. ‘I’m gunna break your jaw,’ he told him. ‘You’ll be eating slop for a month.’ He saw the guy visibly flinch as the mental jab landed.

  ‘Get ’im,’ Jimmy ordered and tossed his head.

  The short one and the fat Mono-Brow were the first ones forward, the short one charging in with his fists jabbing. It was clear he’d done some boxing at some stage. He should’ve spent more time on his footwork.

  Moore stepped aside and easily dodged the jabs, getting outside the short guy’s range and landing a solid left hook to his ear that sent him reeling. Mono-Brow was slow but his hands were like Christmas hams and if he landed one Moore was sure he’d know about it. He blocked a swinging right that jarred him to the shoulder, caught the left that followed up and twisted the arm outwards, throwing the fat guy off balance.

  Moore threw a right kick into the fat guy’s ribs and stepped in with a good left cross to the jaw, dropped the hand and broke his nose with a right hook. Mono-Brow staggered and put his hands to his face.

  The short guy was coming back in and the tall guy was up now, a beer bottle in his hand. He smashed the bottle on the edge of the closest table as the short guy went for a side kick that he must’ve seen in a movie. He was too slow and too far away for it to be effective. Moore easily caught the guy’s right foot in both hands and twisted, turning him away. He snapped a fast kick to the guy’s balls and ducked the swinging broken bottle as it swept at his face.

  He released the foot and snatched the hand with the bottle, twisting the thumb out and breaking the grip. He caught the bottle by the neck as it started to fall and drove it down into the triceps of the arm he held. The broken shards stabbed into the skin and muscle and the tall guy shrieked.

  Moore pushed him away and turned back to the short guy, who was cupping his balls with one hand and trying to catch his breath. Moore hooked him to the head again and dropped him.

  Romper came at him, a blade jabbing forward in his right hand with short thrusts.

  Moore stepped back and steadied himself, knowing that the real danger was just starting now. Jimmy was still hanging back, and Mono-Brow seemed to be trying to recover. The tall guy was still shrieking and clutching at his bleeding arm.

  Romper gained confidence as Moore stepped back again, still jabbing forward with his knife. He didn’t realise he was now isolated from his back up. Moore let him get close, less than two metres away now, and could see the excitement in the young thug’s face.

  ‘I thought you only stabbed people in the back,’ Moore said, egging him on.

  Romper gave a sick grin, still jabbing. ‘I’ll make an exception for you.’

  Moore sensed the big jab before it came and side stepped at the same time as Romper stabbed for his gut. He stepped outside the strike and slammed the broken bottle down into Romper’s shoulder, through the shell jacket straight into the shoulder socket itself.

  When the downward momentum stopped he wrenched the bottle around, dragging the shards through the tendons and sinews there. Romper screamed like a stuck pig and dropped his knife, falling to his knees with his arm locked out straight.

  Moore released the broken bottle, leaving it in the wound, and grabbed Romper’s right hand in his. With the wounded arm locked out straight the elbow was an easy target and Moore smashed the heel of his left hand into it without mercy, blowing the joint apart in one savage strike. Romper’s face went white and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

  Moore snatched up the fallen knife and stepped over Romper’s limp form. Jimmy now had his own blade out and was shoulder to shoulder with the short guy, who was looking woozy and still holding his bollocks. Mono-Brow was leaning against a table, blood flowing down his face and his stance unsteady.

  The tall guy was bleeding profusely from his arm wound but had stopped shrieking and seemed to be regaining some composure.

  Jimmy weaved on the balls of his feet, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. ‘You’re pretty good,’ he said with a cocky sneer. ‘But I’m better.’

  ‘Huh,’ Moore grunted. ‘I doubt it.’

  The tall guy pounced forward now, thinking Moore was distracted. He went for a big left hook, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, and Moore easily ducked under it. He dropped the knife into his left hand and drove up with a sledge hammer of a right uppercut, blasting up under the tall guy’s jaw and causing an audible crack.

  The lights went out and the tall guy fell backwards into the fat guy, who feebly tried to catch him but mostly missed. As Mono-Brow was distracted by his mate, Moore stepped in and slammed a side kick into his left knee, folding it backwards. The fat guy screamed and dropped awkwardly, clutching at his shattered knee.

  The short guy saw a gap and took it, landing a couple of decent jabs to Moore’s back before he could dodge them, and following up with an elbow to the back of the head that caused Moore to stumble forward and catch himself on a table.

  Jimmy saw another gap and came in with his blade, swiping at Moore’s face as he started to turn. Moore pulled his head back just in time and the knife sliced across his collar instead of his cheek.

  He snatched the knife hand with his right and slammed it down flat onto the table. He held it there and stabbed Romper’s blade through it, biting into the wood beneath. Jimmy gasped and reared back but was pinned to the table top.

  Moore smashed a solid right hook to his temple and pushed him aside, going for the short man behind him.

  As Moore came past Jimmy the Blade, the short guy stepped back and scrabbled for a weapon. He found an ashtray on a table and hurled it. Moore swatted the light plastic away like a fly and closed in. He grabbed the short guy by the front of his shell jacket and jerked him onto the tips of his toes.

  ‘I’m sorry bruv,’ the short guy panted, ‘it’s over, innit?’

  ‘Almost.’ Moore cracked him across the cheekbone with an elbow strike, let him slump slightly, then picked him up bodily by the front of his jacket and his waistband. He took two steps forward and hurled him across the bar into the display of bottles behind it. Glass exploded everywhere as the short guy fell to the floor.

  Moore turned back to the other four. Jimmy the Blade was still conscious, breathing in painful gasps as he watched. Romper was awake again, struggling to sit up. The fat guy was conscious but completely out of the game. The tall guy was out cold.

  Moore looked at Jimmy the Blade. The thug glared back at him, but Moore could see the fear there now too. He knew they had been bettered.

  He stepped over to Romper and bent to look him in the face.

  ‘Remember what I told you,’ he said. ‘This is all on you, tough guy.’

  Romper let out a moan and gingerly held his broken arm. Moore moved over to the table now and picked up Jimmy’s discarded knife. Like his brother’s it was a switchblade with a long thin blade.

  ‘You come near me again,’ Moore told Jimmy, waving the knife before his face, ‘or my friends…’ He gestured at the carnage around them. ‘And you’ll wish it was just this. Understand?’

  Jimmy said nothing, but his cheeks moved. He spat a gob at Moore. The saliva ran down his front. Moore glanced down at it then at the other man.

  He grabbed Jimmy’s right hand and yanked it down to the table.

  Jimmy struggled but Moore was much stronger. He got the hand to
the table but Jimmy bunched it into a fist, knowing what was going to happen.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Moore said.

  He rammed the knife into the back of Jimmy’s hand and put his weight behind it, grunting as he drove it through until the tip hit the fingers on the other side. Moore gave one last shove and hit wood. Jimmy let out a wild screech now and locked eyes with Moore, tears running down his cheeks.

  Moore held his gaze and with one swift move he snapped the blade off, tossing the handle aside.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ he muttered.

  He stepped back now, breathing through his nose to get his heart rate back under control. ‘Remember what I said.’

  With that he turned and retraced his steps to the bar. The barman was on his knees underneath the countertop, fumbling with a revolver. It looked like an old Second World War-era Webley, with a big .455 cartridge.

  The barman started to bring it up as Moore came around the bar. His nose was a mushy lump of red sausage meat and there was fear in his eyes.

  Moore swept the barrel aside with his left, smashed him in the eye with his right, and wrenched the pistol from his grasp.

  The barman tried to grab for it and Moore spun the Webley in his grip. He triggered a single shot, blasting a hole in the barman’s wrist. The barman yelped and Moore straightened up.

  He opened the cylinder and dropped the remaining rounds on the floor. He wiped the pistol on his jacket to remove his own prints and tossed it aside. The barman held his wounded hand and looked up at him like a scared animal.

  Moore stepped over him and went out the back door.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  The iPhone had vibrated its way across the bedside table and was tipping over the edge before Moore caught it.

  He brought it to his ear and croaked a hello, his eyes still half closed in the darkness of the hotel room.

  ‘Wake up, chucklehead,’ came Jedi’s voice. ‘It’s daytime.’

  Moore squinted at the screen.

  ‘It’s three thirty a.m.,’ he rasped, pushing up into a sitting position.

  ‘Like I said, it’s day time. Get your broken arse outta bed and in to work. I need you over here for a CP job.’

  ‘What…’

  ‘You’ll find out when you log on,’ Jedi interrupted. ‘Get moving.’

  He disconnected and Moore stared dumbly at the phone, his brain struggling to wake up. Katie stirred beside him, her bare leg nudging him.

  ‘Whafubout?’ she mumbled.

  Moore clicked the bedside light on and squinted, turning away from the glare. It wasn’t long since he’d slipped back under the covers.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing the duvet back. She lay on her side with her back to him. He paused to gaze longingly at her lean form, then slapped her butt. ‘Up and at ‘em. Duty calls.’

  She made a growling noise and rolled out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom. The light clicked on and she turned to scowl at him. Her hair was tousled and she was naked as a jaybird.

  ‘Your job sucks,’ she muttered.

  She had only briefly questioned him about his excursion last night, and he’d brushed it off as a work thing. There had been no update on Wizz from Lana, and the hospital wouldn’t tell him anything because he wasn’t next of kin.

  Forty minutes later Moore was at his desk, opening his dropbox. Sitting there was an intel report which hadn’t been there last night. He checked the time it had arrived – only an hour ago, sent by Ingoe himself.

  Moore scanned through it, his pulse picking up as he read. Katie came and put a mug of coffee in front of him before plopping down in the visitor’s chair, her hands wrapped around a second mug.

  He read it a second time before sitting back and staring at the screen with pursed lips.

  ‘What is it?’ Katie sat up now, picking up on his mood. ‘Is it about Natalie?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but it’s not good. The Yanks have picked up SIGINT referring to an outfit called the White Lambs.’

  Katie sat forward, all ears now. ‘What’s “sigint”?’

  ‘Signals intelligence-electronic intel. They don’t know anything about them, but there’s been a couple of references to it lately – as in, the last month or so – amongst known players. The nature of the references is such that they believe they are referring to kidnap victims.’

  ‘Victims? As in more than one?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded, thinking as he spoke. ‘There have been at least two instances that I know of in the last year where the child of a high profile person has gone missing overseas.’ He paused to take a draught of the coffee. It was bland and lacked guts, but he needed a hit of something. ‘There was the Aussie kid about six months ago, the son of that shipping magnate – Parker? He went missing from a backpacker’s in Indonesia, turned up dead a few weeks later.’

  Katie frowned and cocked her head. ‘It happens though, it’s not like Indonesia’s the safest place in the world. He was probably stoned off his face.’

  ‘Before that there was the American girl, Leanne Sinclair I think it was, she went missing from somewhere in Pakistan from memory. She died in a car accident trying to escape her kidnappers, something like that.’

  ‘Who was she? It kinda rings a bell.’

  ‘Daughter of a Congressman.’ Moore took another hit of crap coffee. ‘I need to make some calls before we go anywhere.’

  ‘You think there’s a pattern there?’ Katie queried. She stood now, and he could see she was getting the same jazz that he felt.

  ‘Definitely. Bit too coincidental, don’t you think? The kids of powerful people from the Allied nations go missing while overseas, then turn up dead? Yeah it happens, but so often?’

  ‘What can I do then?’

  ‘Book us a flight to Crete.’ He pulled his wallet out then changed his mind and opened his bottom desk drawer. He removed a cash tin and unlocked it.

  Inside were three sealed plastic Ziploc bags. Each one contained a legend package in a different name – a passport, matching driver license, and a couple of credit cards. He opened the one with an Australian passport and handed her one of the credit cards.

  ‘Use this one.’ He took a sheet of notepaper from his drawer with a list of names and numbers. ‘These are the airlines I use. Got your passport on you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Book me under this one.’ He gave her the Aussie travel document.

  ‘First class?’ Katie asked cheekily.

  Moore didn’t smile. ‘Whatever you can get, just get us there. Got a suit?’

  ‘Back at the flat, why?’

  ‘It’s time to join the Secret Service. We’ll have to swing by your place on the way.’

  While she used the landline on his desk to start calling he drifted out to the hallway and used his mobile to call his American counterpart.

  Michael was a CIA officer stationed at Grosvenor Square, the US embassy in London. Moore knew he would be almost up – the American was a healthy living Bible-basher from Iowa, who was always up before dawn.

  Like most American spooks that Moore had met he was smart and a solid patriot, but very guarded in what he would give away. The conversation took less than two minutes and Moore moved on to his Aussie contact.

  Stevo was an officer in the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation – ASIO – based in Canberra. They had staff in London too, but Moore knew Stevo from years back. It was about 2pm in Canberra and Stevo stepped out of a meeting to take the call. He listened to Moore’s request and promised to call him back shortly.

  He stepped back into the office just as Katie hung up and waved his credit card at him.

  ‘Business class from Gatwick at 7am on BA,’ she said. She hiked her shoulders. ‘No economy seats available, sorry.’

  Moore checked his watch. ‘Half past four,’ he said. ‘We need to move.’

  He grabbed keys from his drawer, locked up and led her across the road to where the Mondeo was parked.


  It took fifteen minutes to race back to the Forsythe and grab Katie’s bag, and another twenty to get back to Camden and into Moore’s flat. He grabbed a suitcase and packed enough gear for four days, including a plain black lightweight suit with a couple of shirts and ties. He couldn’t take any weapons with him, and just hoped that Jedi would have something for them at the other end.

  He considered taking the Jag but the Mondeo was a company car, so less risk to him. They had crossed the bridge and were on the A3 passing Wimbledon Common when Stevo called back, his broad Aussie twang filling the car over the hands-free set. So far they hadn’t seen a single traffic cop or other Womble.

  ‘Total DL, Robbo,’ he said, ‘Paul Parker was kidnapped in Jakarta in October, turned up dead in the city about ten days later. Official version is he drowned and it probably happened when he wandered off drunk and fell in a stream. Great tragedy for the family, rah-de-rah-rah, y’know the drill. There was some speculation in the media that he’d been snatched but we quashed that pretty quick.’

  Moore nodded silently, his hands locked on the wheel as he flew down the A3220.

  ‘And the real version?’ he asked.

  ‘Went there alone after some kind of fallout with the old man, supposedly to find himself or some gay shit. No question he was there for a good time – we got int that he’d been buying ganja and what-have-you off locals, behaving like your average naïve dickhead twenty-two year old backpacker.’

  ‘What kind of fallout?’

  ‘He was a bit of a dropkick, getting into drugs and hookers, not really the sort of scene the family approve of too much. The old man threatened to cut him off from the family tit unless he sorted his shit out – he didn’t, so he got cut off. Pretty pissed off apparently, threatened the old man and basically buggered off.’

  ‘Never to be seen again.’

  A traffic camera flashed as they raced by and Moore was pleased he was in the company car – things like tickets could be dealt with.

  ‘You got it, mate.’

  ‘So why d’you say he was snatched?’

  ‘One of the boys on the ground got word from a source that he’d been grabbed by ISIS.’ There was a pause. ‘And when I say snatched, we weren’t entirely convinced on that, which ties in to the cause of death.’