The Division Collection

by Angus McLean

  An image of Danni’s smiling face burst into Moore’s brain and he gagged. His gut heaved and he braced his hands on his knees. He fought to get control and lost. He vomited on the dirty floor and once he started the floodgates opened.

  He emptied his guts and gradually the retching eased off. He sucked down some air and spat.

  Getting a grip of himself, he flipped through to the next photo. It was another gruesome image, this time One Eye kneeling beside a woman’s dead body on a patch of dirt, lifting the head up by the hair for a clearer image.

  The body was in non-descript civvies and the throat was slit. Blood covered the front of the clothing and even at the angle, he could see the gaping slash in the throat.

  It took Moore a second to register that he recognised the dead woman.

  It was Evin, JJ’s former assistant. He didn’t know why she had been killed, or when or where, but he felt a small measure of satisfaction. The bitch had betrayed JJ, and now she was dead. Probably at the hands of her own treacherous comrades. Good job. At least they wouldn’t waste any more resources looking for her.

  Footsteps sounded on the walkway outside and the door knob started to turn. Moore straightened up and sucked down another breath, calming himself.

  One was here. It was game time.

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  The door opened quickly and One was two steps inside before he realised anything was wrong.

  He paused for a split second but it was too late. Moore reached from behind the door and grabbed him by the shirtfront, yanking him inside and down, kicking the door shut behind him.

  One stumbled forward, one hand instinctively reaching for the hand gripping him while the other dived under his jacket for the weapon concealed there.

  Moore’s reaction was fast and brutal.

  He slammed the heel of his hand into One’s left ear as a distraction, released the shirtfront, and seized him by the left wrist instead. As One bent forward from the impact of the blow and the jerking on his arm, his right hand was trapped across his torso. He let out a squeal of pain and terror.

  Moore wrenched his left wrist around on itself, straightened the elbow and drove One straight to the ground on his face. He locked the arm behind the other man’s back and pushed his face harder into the floor.

  He leaned down to hiss in One’s ear. ‘Don’t fucking move.’ He reached around and plucked a pistol from the guy’s belt then pushed off him and stood up.

  One rolled onto his side, blood seeping between the hands he clasped to his face, all thoughts of resistance long gone.

  Moore used a boot to shove him onto his back and kept the CZ trained on him while he backed off to a safer distance. A scared and injured man was a dangerous beast.

  ‘The welcoming committee wasn’t so welcoming,’ Moore growled. ‘Who the fuck are these guys and what the fuck is going on?’

  One shook his head gingerly and spat blood onto the floor.

  ‘Contractors,’ he said, sounding like he had a full blown cold. ‘Used them before with no issues.’ He looked warily up at Moore. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They jumped me as soon as I got here. Stuck a gun to my head and said they were going to kill me.’ Moore shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. ‘I told them I had some info, one of them got on his phone and I jumped the other one.’ He pointed the gun towards the second guy. ‘He came back in and luckily I got him too.’ He gave his best aggrieved look. ‘The bastards nearly killed me.’

  One studied him, trying to suss whether he was being played or not. If he got it wrong, he was in the shit. Eventually self-preservation won out.

  ‘I’m sorry mate,’ he said thickly, before hocking a gob of bloodied mucus onto the floor. ‘They tried to extort me, told me they’d only exfil you for an extra ten grand.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘Thieving bastards, should never have trusted them. They totally played both of us. I came straight over, and here we are.’

  He started to get up, but Moore waved the suppressed pistol at him.

  ‘Not yet,’ Moore said. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘I’m your only friend here, mate,’ One replied with an ingratiating smirk, holding up his hands. ‘Your bosses trust me, and so should you.’ He hiked his shoulders. ‘We need to get moving and get you out of here.’

  He started to rise again, and Moore let him get up. One shook himself off and straightened his jacket. He frowned at Moore.

  ‘That was a bit rough, mate. I think you might have broken my nose.’ He tenderly touched his face. ‘Fuck that hurts.’

  ‘What about your leg?’ Moore asked.

  One looked confused, and glanced at his legs. ‘My legs are okay,’ he said.

  Moore fired a single round into the other man’s left thigh, the bullet punching through and ending up in the sofa behind him.

  One’s mouth opened in horror and he clutched at his leg, toppling backwards. He landed on the sofa, sprawled across the two dead Georgians.

  The pain hadn’t registered yet but the shock was enough to make him scream. Moore jammed the cushion over his mouth and leaned in close.

  ‘You scream and I’ll do your fuckin’ kneecaps,’ he hissed, ‘you need to start talking and do it now.’ He gave the cushion a hard shove for emphasis. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish you were dead. Comprende?’

  One gave the tiniest nod, his eyes watering with the effort of keeping his mouth shut.

  Moore eased back and quickly checked the bullet wound. There was no external arterial spurting, and he was fairly confident of his bullet placement.

  One clamped both hands onto the wound, his hands quickly becoming red as it leaked. Moore gave him a minute to get his breath back then took control again. Under his direction One secured his belt as a tourniquet and wadded his socks against the entry and exit wounds.

  ‘Start talking,’ Moore told him. He stood against the wall, the suppressed CZ at the ready. ‘Name.’

  One let out a slow breath. ‘Calvin Jones,’ he said. ‘I’m fifty seven years old, from Christchurch.’

  ‘Do our employers know your real name?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jones gave him a disdainful look. ‘They’re no fools, mate.’

  ‘Clearly they haven’t kept a close enough eye on you though,’ Moore retorted. ‘What was the point in killing me today?’

  Jones was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed.

  Moore squeezed the trigger and a suppressed round punched into one of the Georgians with a wet splat. Jones jumped in fright.

  ‘Don’t think,’ Moore snapped, ‘just talk. I haven’t got all day.’

  Jones let out a breath again, his hands still pressing down on his leg wound. ‘I was paid, what d’you think? You think I can fuckin’ survive on what those pricks pay me?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s not fuckin’ easy mate, y’know?’

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ Moore said coldly. He cocked his head in curiosity. ‘How much did you betray your country for, Mr Jones?’

  Jones eyed him nastily. ‘Don’t judge me, Mr Moore,’ he grated. ‘You’re no better than me. We’re both just trying to survive in a world that doesn’t give a shit about men like us.’

  Moore gave a snort. ‘Men like us? You know nothing about me, so don’t pretend you do.’

  It was Jones’ turn to snort. He chortled briefly. ‘I know all about you, mate, don’t you worry about that. You and that tidy little piece of arse you were tapping.’ His sneer grew bigger as Moore’s face darkened. ‘Shame about her, really. She was quite something, wasn’t she?’

  Moore felt his fist clench around the butt of the CZ, and it took all his willpower not to pump a round between the sneering bastard’s eyes. He fought to keep his self-control.

  ‘You’re just a blunt instrument for your Government,’ Jones continued. He licked his lips and sucked on his teeth. ‘You think you’re something special but you’re not.’ He shook his head again. ‘They don’t give a s
hit about you any more than they gave a shit about me.’

  Jones caught the enquiring look on Moore’s face.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he confirmed, ‘I was one of you in days gone by. Back in the early days, back before Division 5 ever existed. It was a different unit back then, but the game was the same.’ A dark look crossed his sweaty face. ‘Killing for The Man. You can smoke all the bad guys you want pal, but in the end it makes no fuckin’ difference; they just keep coming. Used to be the Iraqis, the Georgians, Bosnians, Croats.’ He jerked a thumb at the dead men beneath him. ‘I probably killed their fathers. And who knows if they’re really bad guys? Who has the goddamn right to make that judgement?’

  Moore had had about enough of this guy’s rambling, but he couldn’t deny there was a ring of sincerity to it. He ignored it for now and waved the pistol at the other man.

  ‘So far, so boring. Get to the point. Who paid you off?’

  Jones raised a bloody hand to wipe at his brow before replying. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It was all anonymous, email and a bank transfer.’

  ‘Caymans?’ Moore inquired.

  ‘Panama. Before you ask, thirty k.’

  Moore raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, that’s all you’re worth. Sorry.’ Jones’ tone was sarcastic. ‘Consider yourself lucky; I’ve have done it for much less.’

  ‘And who were you to report back to afterwards? How do they know the job’s done?’

  ‘Email photos.’ Jones’ breathing was getting shorter and his face was betraying his pain. ‘I need a doctor, man. You really fucked me up. I thought you’d be a better shot than that.’

  ‘I am, but you’re not worth it. Sorry.’ Moore could do sarcasm with the best of them. He swallowed hard and licked his dry lips. ‘What about Katie?’ His throat was raspy. ‘Who killed her?’

  Jones let out a sigh. ‘That was extra,’ he replied.

  ‘Who killed her?’ Moore grated. ‘You?’ He gestured at the dead Georgians with his pistol. ‘Or them?’

  Jones sighed again. ‘It was me,’ he said resignedly. He looked up at Moore, pleading in his eyes now. ‘Sorry mate.’

  ‘Too late for sorry.’ Moore raised the suppressed CZ and pumped a round straight into Jones’ open mouth.

  As Jones slumped back Moore gave him another two in the chest.

  He stood still for a long minute, sucking down breaths and getting a grip on himself. Finally he wiped the CZ clean of fingerprints, placed it in the second Georgian’s hand and wrapped the dead fingers around the butt. He dragged that Georgian off the sofa and positioned him on the floor.

  He wiped the stolen Police Smith and Wesson clean of prints and put it in Jones’ hand.

  Straightening up, he recovered Jones’ own weapon and checked it. It was an old Russian-made Makarov 9mm short. He shoved it back into Jones’ pocket and picked up the Georgians’ bum bag.

  He filled it with all the cell phones and other bits he was taking then surveyed his work. With any luck there was enough confusion here to make it look like a scene of multiple murders, maybe a drug deal gone wrong.

  It was time to get moving.

  Just as he was about to open the door, there was a knock from the other side.

  Moore jumped despite himself and his heart began to race again.

  ‘It’s Archer,’ came a familiar voice.

  Moore cracked the door open and saw Archer standing there alone. He let him in and quickly shut the door again.

  Archer surveyed the carnage before him and raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you figured it out then,’ he said wryly.

  ‘It didn’t take much. Those two goons tried to rob me, then the other fool gave himself away.’ Moore eyed him suspiciously. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Not specifically, no.’ Archer pursed his lips. ‘There was a suspicion though, and whoever killed Katie had to know where you were staying. It was either me or him.’ He sniffed. ‘I was pretty sure it wasn’t me.’

  ‘He admitted it was him.’ Moore held the bum bag up. ‘I’ve got their phones and stuff in here. There’s some pretty sick shit on the camera.’

  Archer took it from him.

  ‘You need to move,’ he said. ‘I’ve booked you on a flight to Dubai leaving in…’ he checked his G-Shock, ‘seventy five minutes. Let’s go.’

  Chapter Sixty

  The taxi dropped Moore at the Borg El Arab airport just outside Alexandria in good time.

  Archer had given a new package – clean NZ passport and driver license with a Visa card, a burn phone and some folding. After checking in at the Flydubai counter he spent some of the cash on an overnight bag and a few bits to throw in it, so he at least looked semi legit.

  The flight was scheduled for 5:25pm, and he used his remaining time to wash up in the public toilets and brush his teeth. He had bought a bar of soap and a flannel in a pretty little gift pack, and used it to scrub the blood and sweat off his exposed skin. He took it into a cubicle and stripped to his briefs, using the wet flannel to wipe himself down while someone took a dump next door.

  He felt shattered and knew he looked like a sack of shit, so anything he could do to improve himself was a plus. Despite having not eaten for some time he had no appetite.

  Tossing the flannel and soap into a trash bin, Moore looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. He still looked beaten and hurt, but moderately better than he had a short time ago. He ditched his shirt and pulled on the clean shirt he’d bought, then finger combed his damp hair into place.

  Sorted.

  He checked himself again, and stared himself in the eye. They were eyes that had seen a lot. He had always believed that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and the only way to truly know a man’s thoughts was to stare deep into his eyes.

  Moore could see the machinations behind his own eyes, the churning inside his head that hadn’t stopped since he’d been rumbled in the apartment.

  He took a deep breath. The other punter flushed and came out to wash his hands, glancing at Moore as he did so. Moore ignored him, waiting until the man left the room.

  He leaned forward on the vanity, staring into his eyes. The traitor Jones’ words rang in his ears. The images of Katie’s lifeless body hung heavy on his heart.

  It was decision time for him, he knew, a critical time. Time for a call to be made.

  Moore nodded at himself in the mirror.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said softly.

  Archer sat nursing a bourbon in an airport bar with a view of the departure gates. All around was the usual hustle and bustle of the airport. Tearful farewells, joyful reunions, stressed and excited travellers.

  He loved it, and fed off the energy of the place. He’d never been to Egypt before, but it was certainly a place to return to – maybe under a different identity.

  Moore was short on time so should be heading through the gates at any moment. Once he did, Archer could relax properly, knowing he had completed his assignment. He intended to fill his belly in the food court, touch base with HQ and get his head down as soon as the wheels left the tarmac.

  He felt sorry for his old brother in arms, stuck in the economy section of a budget airline for the best part of six hours. At least it got him out of the country, and he would be met in Dubai by a trusted contact who would escort him back to Auckland for debriefing.

  Despite a fantastic effort in taking out the suicide bomber, Natalie Oldham, and thereby preventing a terrorist spectacular, Moore faced a shit storm when he got home. The hierarchy didn’t like dead bodies turning up, especially pretty young women.

  Not only that, but apparently MI5 had become aware of an incident involving a local gang and some kind of personal vendetta by Moore. They were doing their best to run interference with the cops – it sounded like he had a friend in the Service there – but he was still wanted for questioning over the incident.

  Some Polish bloke was in a bad way in hospital, and one of the gangsters had died as a result of injuries he received shortly afterwards.
Apparently he was a haemophiliac and had bled out from a gunshot wound to the arm. Nobody was directly pointing the finger at Moore, but his fancy Jag had been clocked on CCTV parked nearby and he was known to be a friend of the Polish gym owner – and one of the attending cops had ID’d him.

  Archer drained the glass and put it down with a clunk. His old friend was in a real mess right now, and he wasn’t sure how things would go when he got back to NZ. One thing was for certain, Moore wouldn’t be walking away unscathed.

  Archer stood and walked over to a pillar closer to the departure gates. He leaned against it and waited, hearing the last boarding call for Moore’s flight. Still no sign.

  He checked his watch and felt his anxiety and suspicions grow. He sent a quick text to Moore’s burn phone, a simple question mark. He had the feeling there would be no reply.

  There was still the chance that Moore would arrive at the last second, rushing up with his bag, acting the frazzled traveller. But it was unlikely. Not only would it draw unwanted attention to himself, but that just wasn’t him. Moore didn’t do either late or frazzled.

  Archer gave it until 5:20, when he knew the plane would be taxiing into position, ready for take-off, before dialling Moore’s phone. It rang several times before the automated voice message began. Archer disconnected and pushed off the pillar. He had nearly an hour before he needed to board his Qatar Airways flight. No point in sending the balloon up just yet.

  He conducted a methodical sweep of each floor, scanning everywhere for Moore.

  He was nearly finished when his phone rang.

  A fishing trawler was pulling into the docks, men ready at dockside to help unload the day’s catch.

  Seagulls swooped and soared above, vehicles moved about, men shouted. The sun shone. A busy working port. Lots of people and activity, a rough world with rough characters. The sorts of characters who didn’t ask too many questions but who understand the basic economy of supply and demand.

  Moore heard Archer pick up.

  ‘Where the hell are you, mate? Did you forget the time?’