Smoke and Mirrors

by Angus McLean

  ‘Keep them at bay,’ Archer shouted, down changing to enter a corner, goosing the gas to keep the revs up.

  Tracy turned in her seat and brought the AR-7 up to the shoulder, kneeling as she tried to get a bead on their attackers.

  Another couple of shots thudded into the back of the Jeep, and Archer’s wing mirror exploded in a shower of glass and plastic.

  Tracy squeezed off a quick volley of shots, causing the attackers’ ute to falter for a second before accelerating hard again to bear down on them.

  They hit a straight and Archer floored it, the Jeep responding but he knew it was not enough.

  ‘Cut loose at them,’ he shouted, ‘we can’t outrun them in this.’

  Tracy responded by emptying the magazine before snatching out her Beretta and stabbing it forward. She only had time to unleash one shot before the gunman in the ute emptied his own magazine into the Jeep. The windscreen spider webbed with multiple impacts and the headrest beneath Tracy’s left elbow blew apart in a cloud of stuffing. She yelped and grabbed for a hand hold, yelling a warning as she saw the ute suddenly charge them.

  The Jeep lurched forward and rocked dangerously, metal screeching and plastic shattering as the ute rammed it from behind.

  Archer swore angrily and grappled with the wheel, almost getting it straight again before the second thud threw them forward again. The Jeep swerved, the left wheels hit loose gravel and the tail flicked out. He steered into the skid, chopping the gear stick into neutral and checking both sides.

  The Jeep was still coming back in line when the ute rammed them for the third time, and Archer knew this was it. The Jeep spun and the wheel was ripped from his hands. Tracy was thrown first against the side window then crashed into Archer, her skull slamming against his shoulder hard enough to instantly deaden it.

  Undergrowth rushed at them and all they could hear was the roar of engines and screaming of tortured tyres. Archer grabbed hold of Tracy with one hand and threw the other over his head as he ducked down, bracing for the impact.

  A hefty tree trunk leaped out of the darkness and slammed into the Jeep, spinning it again and throwing it off balance. The Jeep rocked onto two wheels, wobbled, then dropped onto its right side and slid.

  A tree branch crashed through the driver’s side window and glass burst over them and the Jeep stopped with a thud. Archer’s seatbelt jerked tight at his waist and across his chest, cutting off his air and dangling him sideways like a rag doll, Tracy dropping him his grasp as he fumbled weakly with the seatbelt.

  His fingers felt like catcher’s gloves and his vision was blurring with the lack of oxygen. If he could just get the buckle undone...

  Through the fog in his head Archer heard voices and then the crashing of feet in the undergrowth around the wrecked Jeep. He fumbled for the Beretta but it had been jarred loose in the crash, and before he could find it hands reached through the smashed window and grabbed him. He felt himself dragged out and dumped on the ground, then a boot slammed into his ribs.

  He arched in pain and took another one to the gut. He rolled over and saw a burly Samoan hauling Tracy out of the windscreen. He tossed her to the ground like a rag doll and she groaned. Archer wanted to reach out and console her but his tongue felt thick and he couldn’t focus enough to string a sentence together.

  Another boot hit him in the back and he let out a groan, but it was just the start. A hail of kicks and punches rained down on him and he curled himself into a ball to protect his vital organs as laughter sounded from those around him.

  Eventually the assault eased and he slowly uncurled himself and rolled onto his back. A sweaty, smiling Samoan face peered down at him, and a machete glinted in the headlights.

  ‘You made bad move, you honky shit,’ the man grinned evilly.

  He lowered the blade to Archer’s throat and pressed it firmly against the skin. Archer held perfectly still, knowing his life was in this thug’s hands.

  ‘I get my chance.’

  The man stood, sheathed the machete, and grabbed Archer by the arm. He hauled him up and pushed him against the side of the wrecked Jeep. Archer tried to catch his breath and glanced about, sizing up his chances.

  Another man, very tall, was tying Tracy’s hands behind her back, and a second, short and stocky, stood to the side with a revolver hanging at his side. Archer subconsciously clocked it as a decades-old Smith and Wesson Model 10, a .38 Special with wooden grips. Notoriously inaccurate, but at four metres it was just as likely to blow a hole in his head as a cannon.

  ‘Hey, no looking!’

  His captor, who he mentally logged as the middle sized man, spun Archer around to face him, and smashed a knee into his crotch. Blinding pain rocked through him and he collapsed forward, clutching at his crotch and gasping for air.

  Strong hands wrestled his arms behind his back and tied them tightly, then he was dragged to his feet and hustled past the wreck to the thugs’ ute. The men lifted him over the tailgate and dumped him on his face. A few seconds later Tracy was dumped on top of him and he found himself face to face with her. Blood leaked down her forehead from a shallow cut and her face was sweaty and dirty.

  ‘Okay?’ he murmured stupidly.

  Tracy’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. ‘Great. Good driving.’

  Archer tried to smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You, shut up.’

  A fist slammed into his kidney from behind and fresh pain enveloped him. They fell silent while the ute started up and moved off. The tall man climbed into the back and sat over them, his attention caught by Tracy. He leaned forward and ran a long finger down her cheek. She flinched away with a scowl.

  The man chuckled to himself, deep and throaty, and removed his hand. But Archer noted that he never shifted his gaze from her body.

  Things were not looking up.

  38

  After a few minutes on the main road they turned off onto a bumpy track and headed into the bush, before pulling up in a dirt clearing. The men climbed out and roughly dragged their captives over the tailboard of the ute.

  Archer saw they were outside a dilapidated shack the size of a single garage, surrounded by bush.

  They were dragged forward by the three big men into the shack, and shoved into armless wooden chairs facing each other across the room. Coarse twine was produced and they were tied to the chairs by their arms, with their wrists still bound behind them. The room had a dirty wooden floor, a couple of windows with closed shutters and was sparsely furnished. A hurricane lamp burned on the table against a wall, and a pot-belly stove was throwing heat into the room.

  The shorter man then took the time to administer a thump to the side of Archer’s head which knocked him to the floor with his head ringing and stars in his eyes. The men guffawed at the act of brutality before hauling him back upright and allowing the short man to repeat the performance.

  Archer went with the flow, letting them have their fun for now and all the while planning their escape. Things looked pretty bleak from where he was sitting. They were miles from any help, caged with three thugs who seemed to get off on violence, and they were securely tied up.

  He lay there and caught his breath, watching the men. The middle sized man removed the machete from his belt and leaned it by the door. Archer figured it was about three metres away from him. As the man turned, Archer noted he also wore a diving knife sheathed on his belt. Watching these animals and listening to their pseudo-gangster talk made him hate them with a passion. He determined that if he got even the slightest of chances, he would happily kill any or all of them.

  Looking over at Tracy as he was picked up again, he could see the terror in her eyes. The middle sized man turned to her and with a lecherous leer, and in one quick swipe he ripped the front of her shirt open all the way to her waist. He grabbed first one breast then the other, pawing roughly and making her squeal with pain.

  The taller man stepped over and shouldered his mate aside before ripping her bra open
and exposing her to their gaze.

  Archer could see the lust in their faces as all three turned their attention to her now, groping at her and grunting like animals.

  He stared hard at her across the gap, willing her to be strong. Tears rolled from her eyes, whether from pain or fear he couldn’t tell. She met his gaze and held it, taking a shuddering breath before pulling her head back and unleashing a gob of spit into the face of the taller man.

  He recoiled back then lashed out and back-handed her viciously across the mouth, knocking her chair against the wall. The short man caught her by the arm and pulled her upright. The tall man hooked her in the temple now, throwing her to the side again where the middle man caught her and righted the chair.

  A trickle of blood ran from Tracy’s mouth as she looked up at the tall man and bared her teeth at him.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Ha ha.’ The tall man hefted his crotch at her with a grin. ‘I think I fuck you.’

  Archer could see this spiralling out of control very quickly, and interjected with a shouted ‘Hey!’

  The short man turned and drove a fist into his gut, winding him, then grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. Nose to nose, the Samoan leered at him. His breath was putrid with fish and beer.

  ‘No-one can hear yo scream, bro,’ he chuckled, ‘but I still rip yo tongue out yo head.’

  Archer eyeballed him and sucked air in through his nose.

  ‘You touch her again, you filthy fucken animal,’ he hissed, ‘and I’ll kill you.’ He tossed a glance at the other two men, who had stopped now and were listening. ‘And your little boyfriends.’

  The short man flushed with anger and straightened up, cracking the knuckles of his right hand and shaking it out before setting his feet in a boxing stance.

  ‘Yo got a big mouf, bro.’

  The right jab came straight at Archer’s face and he managed to pull his head left and just catch it on the cheekbone, but it was still hard enough to rock him back in the chair.

  He looked at the man with a scornful sneer. ‘Pussy. You hit like a fa’afafine.’

  The other two men chuckled at his reference to the transvestites, and anger twisted the short man’s face. His left shot out and smashed into Archer’s jaw, followed by a right-left-right combo which tossed him around like a cork on the tide, the room swaying before him as he rolled with each punch.

  The short man stepped back and prepared himself for the next round, and Archer caught Tracy’s eye.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed to him, knowing that while the men were focussed on him, they were leaving her alone.

  A car engine sounded outside followed by doors slamming and the crunch of footsteps approaching. The door opened and a pair of newcomers stepped inside, banging the door closed behind them.

  ‘Well well lads,’ Boyle said with a cheery grin, looking at each of them in turn, ‘what do we have here then?’

  Beside him, Yassar leered at Tracy. Archer’s heart sank as he realised their predicament had just got worse.

  The Irishman paused to glance at their passports then stepped into the space between the two captives and rubbed his hands together as he ran an appraising eye over them.

  ‘I trust my friends have been treating you well?’ he inquired, nodding as if to confirm it to himself. He paused as he took in Tracy’s nakedness. ‘And hello to you, Ms Spencer. So this is what all the men at the firm have been missing all this time, eh?’He glanced over at Archer. ‘Unless you’ve had a piece of this, Kiwi? No, I didn’t think so.’ He grinned at the three Samoans beside him. ‘She likes the ladies, y’know lads.’

  The tall man hefted his crotch again with a leer. ‘Maybe she like the black snake, boss,’ he grinned.

  Boyle nodded. ‘You’ll get yer chance, Afa,’ he said, ‘although ye may need to get in line behind my Saudi friend here. But first, I need to have a little chat with our very special agent.’

  He knelt down in front of Tracy, who eyed him with contempt. He patted her knee affectionately. Yassar moved over to stand behind him, his eyes fixated on Tracy’s breasts.

  ‘It’s a shame it all came to this, Tracy, it really is. But it was your choice.’ Boyle shrugged as if his hands were tied. ‘There are always consequences to actions, and I think we’re all going to learn a little lesson about that tonight.’

  He stood again and took his jacket off. ‘I don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get straight to the point.’ He stood in front of her now, his back to Archer. ‘Who got wee Ruthie to sell me out to the spooks?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tracy’s voice had a quiver in it as she spoke.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Boyle’s own voice was strong and deep. ‘I’ve lost many people dear to me over the years, and I’ve lived with a target on my back since I was a kid. You pricks were supposed to leave me alone; that was what the Good Friday Agreement was all about.’

  ‘It was a get-out-jail card,’ she replied bravely, ‘not a license to run guns.’

  Boyle paused to study her face carefully. ‘Ye may think yoe can outlast me, sweetheart, but I promise ye won’t. Nobody ever has.’

  ‘You fancy yourself don’t you?’ Archer interjected.

  Boyle didn’t look at him, just tossed his head at Afa. The tall man stepped in and delivered a booming roundhouse to Archer’s head which bounced off the wall behind him. Thunder flashes went off in his skull.

  ‘Let me get the ball rolling then. I know wee Ruthie got turned,’ Boyle continued. ‘I found her burn phone, which led me to ye.’ His eyes glinted. ‘That were me that rung ye, so don’t try and deny it. I recognise yer voice.’

  Archer felt his heart sink further.

  ‘But what I don’t understand is why she was in the way. Why she was killed.’

  ‘Well it wasn’t us,’ Tracy retorted hotly. ‘Maybe you need to look closer to home.’

  ‘I don’t have a home, thanks to youse traitorous bastards,’ Boyle spat. ‘Everything I had is gone.’

  ‘Lie down with dogs, mate, you wake up with fleas.’

  Archer had to admire the conviction in Tracy’s voice now, at the same time as he knew it would do no good. Boyle was going to kill her tonight and everybody in the room knew it.

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ Boyle leaned down into her face, dropping his voice to a venomous whisper. ‘And you’re the biggest bitch of all.’

  He placed his hand round her throat and squeezed, cutting off her air. Tracy braced up, still eyeballing him as he applied more pressure.

  ‘I oughta kill you right now,’ he whispered. ‘Just snap your neck and get it over with. But you hurt me, Tracy. So I think it’s only fair that I cause you some pain in return.’

  He straightened again and let go of her throat. Tracy gulped down air and watched him as he went to his jacket on the table. The room went silent as Boyle removed two tools from his jacket pocket. One was a pair of pliers, the other a set of wire cutters.

  He turned to Tracy again and smiled as he held the tools up for her to see. ‘And let the games begin,’ he purred.

  Tracy bucked in her chair at the same time as Archer pushed away from the wall. The tall man grabbed her by the shoulder and held her down, while the other two thugs grabbed Archer and pushed him back.

  ‘You gutless fucken maggot,’ Archer snarled helplessly, ‘you like hurting girls do ya? Fucken big man!’

  Boyle cast an eye at him then to the men holding him. ‘Shut him up,’ he ordered.

  The shorter man grinned and cracked his knuckles again. Archer had just a split-second to tense up before the fist drove into his gut, but wasn’t prepared for the middle man’s crack across the jaw. He sagged and blinked to clear his vision, powerless to resist as a dirty rag was jammed into his mouth. It tasted of paraffin and made him gag, but was made worse when the middle man tied it in place with a piece of cloth and knotted it tightly around his head.

  ‘I’d suggest ye don’t let it go past this point,’
Boyle advised Tracy, sounding like a parent talking to a naughty child. ‘Three strikes and ye’re out. So let’s start at the lower end of the scale.’

  The tall man lifted her, chair and all, and carried her to the table. Archer sat helplessly just a metre away. He watched with dread as the tall man untied Tracy’s right hand and moved it towards the table. She tried to scratch at his face but he caught her hand easily and pushed it flat on the table top.

  Boyle pulled a chair over and sat beside her. He placed the pliers and wire cutters on the table beside him.

  ‘Who turned Ruthie to sell me out?’ Boyle said, watching her carefully.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tracy told him forcefully.

  Boyle shook his head and tut-tutted softly.

  He took hold of her hand and she instinctively closed it into a fist. The tall man leaned over and effortlessly pried her hand open, holding her fingers straight.

  ‘Thank you, Afa.’

  Boyle took hold of the little finger and in one quick motion, he popped the joint.

  Tracy’s scream ripped through Archer’s heart and he bucked against the hands holding him. Tracy’s face was screwed up and tears rolled down her cheeks. Her finger poked out to the side at a sickening angle.

  ‘Now, again.’ Boyle continued, as if nothing had happened. ‘Tell me who.’

  His hand rested on Tracy’s, fingers on the next digit now.

  Tracy shook her head hard, her face still screwed in pain. She sucked in a breath and forced her eyes open.

  ‘I don’t fucken know!’

  Boyle’s hand moved again and she shrieked as her ring finger popped in his grip.

  She screamed again, long and piercing. Archer felt sick to his stomach and he couldn’t take his eyes off the Irish terrorist. The man’s expression had barely changed. There was neither pleasure nor distaste; it was merely a task that needed to be completed.

  Archer’s bellows of rage were muffled by the gag and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop this brutality. He slumped back in his chair and tried to catch his breath. The bindings were tight around his wrists and waist; he had barely an inch of slack in which to move. It didn’t seem likely that he would be able to break free of them any time soon. He had no weapons to hand and nothing with which to cut the ropes.