by Angus McLean
Feeling started to come back to Livingstone’s core first and he worked his jaw, rolling his tongue and swallowing. His extremities still felt numb and his thigh ached where that prick had jabbed him.
He waited patiently, knowing that time was both his friend and enemy right now. Rush it and he was done for. Take too long and he was done for. Either way, it was clear he was walking a fine line. Any wrong move would be his last. Livingstone gathered himself mentally, preparing for a final push. This was it. Do or die.
Archer’s shadow fell across him as he opened his eyes. The lone bulb cast a weak cone of light in the cold cellar. It had the musty smell of old hops.
‘Time to start talking, Livingstone,’ Archer said quietly. ‘I already know what you’ve done.’
Livingstone didn’t even bother trying to bluster his way out of it. He was a pro and knew when the game was up. Instead he gave the Kiwi a pompous sneer.
‘You may think you know, pal, but you know nothing.’ He smirked. ‘Besides, there’s knowing and there’s proving.’
Archer gave a half smile. ‘That’s true. But we know. We know you had the American contractors on your private payroll; a cell phone number that called them was traced to a shop in Islington. The shop attendant remembered you. Funnily enough, apparently because they wondered why a ponce like you was buying a cheap pre-paid phone. Lesson for the future, I guess.’
Livingstone swallowed but said nothing.
‘We know that the 32 mill hidden away by Boyle has disappeared.’ He tilted his head and looked at Livingstone. ‘Don’t s’pose you want to tell me where that went?’
Livingstone felt a lift inside. At least that was a start. He sneered up at the Kiwi. ‘If you know so much, why do I need to talk?’
Archer studied him coldly. ‘I just don’t know why. What was it, Livingstone? Tired of serving your country? Passed over for promotion once too often?’
Livingstone’s expression became condescending now, and it occurred to Archer that the man was actually proud of himself.
‘Oh no Archer, nothing as fanciful as all that.’ He shook his head. ‘No no no.’
Archer waited. A soft chuckle escaped Livingstone’s throat and he raised his head, looking Archer in the eye and laughing properly now.
‘It was much more pure than that, you fool.’ Livingstone sighed and his laugh eased. ‘Pure, old fashioned greed. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘You caused a lot of aggravation for a lot of people,’ Archer said softly. ‘Caused a lot of hurt. People got killed because of you.’ He gave a small nod. ‘By you.’
Livingstone gave a dismissive snort. ‘So I have blood on my hands, so what? Who cares? How many men have you killed, Archer? You’re like all these gung ho soldier types, all guns and bombs and killing, kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out!’ He sneered again, angry now. ‘And you accuse me! You accuse me? What a joke.’
He turned away and snorted, lolling back in the chair, relaxed.
‘Do what you’re going to do, Archer, whatever it is. But I can guarantee you one thing-I’ll not spend a single night in a prison cell.’ He sat up now and jabbed a finger at the man before him. ‘The British Government cannot allow it to happen. A hero of the security services, a diligent spy who gave his all for his country, fighting terrorism for more than two decades, splashed across the front pages of all the scandal rags. Sent undercover and hung out to dry for the Provos, tortured and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, an alcohol problem the firm knew about and did nothing to help, death threats from dissident groups that had him living in fear.’
Livingstone’s expression was more than confident now. He actually believed what he was saying. He had the arrogance of a man who knew to his very core that he would be facing the firing squad and walking away, maybe not unscathed, but certainly alive.
‘You may walk away, but you’ll walk away with nothing,’ Archer told him.
Livingstone made a scoffing sound. ‘So I lose my pension and my shitty flat in Harrow. Woop-de-doo!’ He met Archer’s flat gaze. ‘Take it. It’s the least I can do.’
He stood and faced Archer. Arrogance oozed from his pores as he studied the younger man. ‘You’re a boy in a man’s game, son. You’ll learn.’ He sneered again. ‘One day.’
Archer’s instinct was to flatten his nose across his pompous, well fed face, but he held himself in check. Instead he gave a sniff and stepped aside slowly. The invitation was clear. Livingstone made to step past him but was stopped by a hand on his arm.
He stopped, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He felt Archer’s breath on his cheek, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Count yourself lucky mate. If this was my country, and my rules, there’s only one way you’d be leaving this room.’
Livingstone couldn’t help himself. ‘Yes, well, we’re a bit more civilised around here old boy. There’s a certain way of doing things.’
He tugged his arm free and walked to the steps, his head high. Archer’s voice stopped him again.
‘Oh by the way...that bank in Geneva? They had a slight glitch in their system about five minutes ago.’
Livingstone froze with a foot on the bottom step. He didn’t dare turn around.
‘Nothing major, just a technical thing, but it appears their firewalls weren’t as good as they liked to make out. A certain account is a lot less healthy than it started the day.’
Livingstone could feel Archer’s eyes on his back. His heart was racing and he felt faint.
‘Not entirely wiped out, but close enough. What’s left roughly equates to what your pension fund would be worth.’ He gave a small chuckle and Livingstone felt his cheeks flush with humiliation. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’
Livingstone put a shaky foot forward to the next step, unable to breathe properly, and focussed on trying to just keep moving up the steps.
‘Best wishes for your retirement.’
45
It had taken three days to get to Thailand, and when he arrived Matthew Livingstone was exhausted.
The stress had taken its toll, the frustration of losing his 32 million-his money-and the discomfort of travelling incognito in cattle class all the way just exacerbated an already deplorable situation.
Still, he reasoned, he was lucky to be alive and lucky to have got away. Good planning over the years had enabled him to have various legends set up that were unknown to his employers. The standard identity set of a passport-preferably Australian, New Zealand or Canadian-a driver’s licence and a credit card had been created for him under three different names, and secured in a safe drop box in Essex.
So it was that Andrew Clarke, a 47 year old engineer from the Gold Coast, had arrived in Bangkok with newly-purchased luggage and a wad of cash that got him from the airport to a downtown hotel. He checked in for two nights, immediately ordered a meal and slipped the concierge a crisp $20 greenback to find him a girl for the night.
‘Clean,’ he told him, ‘and young but not too young.’
Nine hours later, Livingstone was woken by insistent knocking at the door. He fumbled in the dark, feeling for the hooker in the bed but realising she’d gone.
‘Bitch,’ he muttered, assuming he’d been ripped off. She’d been good but not great, but still.
He turned on the side light and rubbed his eyes, hearing more knocking at the door.
‘Hold on,’ he called out.
He was trying to pull his trousers on when the door was opened with a key and four men strode in. They were all uniformed members of the police, and two had their guns drawn. Behind them came a fifth man, a white man aged about fifty, dressed in a suit and open-necked shirt.
One of the younger officers moved immediately to Livingstone’s luggage on the spare single bed, while two more approached him and snapped instructions in Thai.
He knew better than to resist so put his hands in the air and tried to look non-threatening. His mind raced and he locked eyes with the white man. The white man said
nothing, just held him with a cool gaze.
The senior officer stepped up to face him, while his colleagues handcuffed Livingstone’s hands behind his back.
‘You are under arrest, Mr Lawrence,’ he said firmly, and Livingstone felt his heart skip a beat.
At least they don’t know who I am.
In the next second, his hopes were crushed.
‘Or should I say, Mr Livingstone.’ The senior officer was a small man with hard eyes and a flat nose. ‘You will come with us.’
‘What am I under arrest for?’ Livingstone tried to bluster, and the senior officer gave a small, cold smile.
Without even turning his head, he pointed towards his younger colleague who was opening Livinstone’s suitcase. ‘For that,’ he said simply.
Livingstone looked over and saw the younger officer holding up a plastic zip-loc bag of white powder. By the looks of it, it was probably close to a kilo of cocaine or methamphetamine. Livingstone had never seen it before in his life.
He felt his shoulders slump and he looked back towards where the white man had stood a moment ago. He was gone.
The senior officer lost his smile and gave a curt nod.
‘Welcome to Bangkok Hilton,’ he said.
46
Clifden, County Galway
One month later
Fahey’s did a good dinner of a Sunday, and Patrick Boyle had spent many long afternoons there supping pints and enjoying the craic.
He was well known in the area and at Fahey’s he was treated as a minor celebrity. The Republican cause was still strong in Connemara and Fahey’s had been a focal point of this back in the day.
On this Sunday Boyle had been to Mass in the morning, chatted with Father Gerry for a while afterwards, and slipped the priest a fifty Euro note ‘for the funds.’ Father Gerry took it without question and tucked it away beneath his flowing robes.
Boyle walked from the church to Fahey’s, taking the time as he did so to make a couple of phone calls. Despite the recent dramas he still had clients waiting for orders and his clients did not like to be kept waiting. He promised them both delivery within a week, agreed to a 10% discount for one due to the delay, and made it to Fahey’s bang on midday for lunch.
The barman Sean gave him his first pint on the house, giving a wink as he did so and a ‘Good on ya, pal.’
Boyle accepted the drink with a nod and a knowing smile. He raised the glass to his lips and took a long, considered sup. It tasted like nectar, and it was good to be back. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and caught the eye of Maura, the waitress.
‘The usual, Pat?’ she called out in that flirty tone she always used with him, and he nodded and smiled again.
A group of lads were in his usual corner booth, where he could see the doors, and quickly stood when they saw him coming over.
‘Alright, lads,’ he said, and the lads all nodded and muttered greetings as they shuffled off, vacating the booth for him.
He took his seat and drank while he waited for his dinner. When it came he took his time eating, savouring the tender roast lamb, the perfectly cooked potatoes and the minted peas. The gravy was thick and piping hot and he went heavy on the salt.
Punters came and went, many stopping to say hello or give a wave across the room to him. Boyle replied in kind but today didn’t stop to make conversation with anyone. He was in a contemplative mood, and was worried about closing the deals he’d made. Since losing his last shipment, he had nothing on hand right now to fill the orders.
The last month had been spent travelling-London to Bangkok without luck, and home via Malaysia and Singapore. That bastard Livingstone had slipped from his grasp somehow, but Patrick Boyle was determined if nothing else. He would finish the job and avenge both Ruthie’s death and the misfortune that had come to him.
Another Guinness chased the meal down and eventually Boyle sat back and wiped his mouth on his napkin, full and satisfied.
He left cash on the table to cover the bill, gave a wave to Maura and a nod to Sean, and walked out of the pub, heading for home.
Five minutes later he wheeled the blue Pajero into the yard of his farmhouse and parked beside the shed. The chooks were running loose and sheep grazed in the paddocks beyond the white-washed house. The farm had been in the family for generations now and still had the original stone walls. It was peaceful out here and his closest neighbours were four hundred yards away. They were reclusive artists-she painted, he wrote poetry-and they gave him no bother.
Boyle crossed to the front door, whistling for the dog. He was probably off chasing rabbits, Boyle thought, reaching for the door handle.
His right arm suddenly jerked and he felt a thump and heard a tiny phhtt at the same time. He grabbed at his forearm, feeling blood already coming through the sleeve of his jacket, and knew he’d been shot.
He spun on his heel to go for the Pajero, letting go of the wounded arm and scrabbling under his jacket with his left hand. His Browning was holstered under his left arm and it was awkward to get to with that hand.
As he moved, he knew it was already too late, but Patrick Boyle never went down without a fight.
His fingers closed around the butt of the Browning, and he saw the Kiwi step from behind the shed twenty metres away. He was clad in DPMs with a floppy bush hat, and had an M4 slung across his back. A suppressed Sig was in his grip, pointing towards Boyle.
Despite the situation they were in, Boyle couldn’t help but appreciate it had been a hell of a shot with a suppressor from that distance.
‘Leave it,’ Archer ordered him, advancing across the yard.
Boyle glowered at him and continued trying to tug the pistol free.
Archer squeezed the trigger again and put a round through Boyle’s left shoulder, blasting straight through the joint and ripping it apart. The impact spun him half around and caused him to stagger. His left hand dropped uselessly to his side and he cursed.
Archer moved closer, barely four metres away now, the Sig still raised. ‘You had your chance,’ he said quietly.
Boyle scowled at him. ‘Go to hell,’ he growled. ‘Are ye here to talk?’
Archer considered him for a moment.
‘No,’ he said softly, and fired a double tap into Boyle’s mouth.
The body crumpled and fell in a heap on the ground. Blood began to leak from beneath the head and lifeless eyes stared into the distance.
Archer stepped forward over the body, and looked down at it.
He felt neither regret nor guilt. It was just a lump of meat and fabric now. A bird twittered somewhere in the sky above him.
He raised the Sig and put a third round into the side of the head. The body twitched with the impact then lay still.
Archer bent and picked up his spent brass, pocketed it, and walked away.
Job done.
END
Message from the Author
Thanks for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed it, this is the first in the Chase Investigations series. I’ll be returning soon-check out the sneak peek below. Please take the time to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
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Cheers,
Angus McLean
About the Author
Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.
His experience as a cop and a private investigator give his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.
His real identity remains a secret.
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Discover My Other Titles
Chase Investigations series:
Old Friends
Honey Trap
Sleeping Dogs
Tangled Webs
Dirty Deeds
The Division series:
Call to Arms
The Shadow Dancers
The Service Series:
The Service: Warlock
Nicki Cooper Mystery Series (writing as Gemma Russell):
The Country Club Caper
Bonus Chapters
The Division #2
Call to Arms
Chapter One
Jack Travis saw the visitor well before he got to his front door and pushed himself up from the dining table, putting down his pen and picking up his coffee mug.
The blue Hyundai Sonata bumped down the gravel farm driveway from the road, approaching the weatherboard bungalow slowly and pulling up near the open detached garage. A forest green Holden Colorado double cab ute was parked inside, splashed with mud.
A Honda quad bike stood nearby. A border collie barked and ran from the porch, wagging his tail excitedly and watching as the visitor alighted from the vehicle.
He was a medium sized man with sandy hair and an unremarkable face, dressed casually in chinos and a black Kathmandu jacket. When he walked he had a slight but noticeable limp, and he carried himself stiffly.
Jed Ingoe-known as Jedi- had been the Regimental Sergeant Major of 1NZSAS Group until he lost part of his leg in an IED incident in Afghanistan. Invalided from the Army, he had traded being one of the hardest men to ever wear the sand beret to being the Operations Officer for Division 5 of the Security Intelligence Service.
Known as The Division, it was the most covert unit of the security service. The former Special Forces operators it employed carried out the dirty work of the Government, the blackest of the black operations. The stuff that needed to be done to keep the playing fields level-within reason-between the good guys and those that sought to disrupt peace.