by Angus McLean
‘Gonna Willie’s?’ Dion said. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a big unit.
‘Yeah.’ Little Dog slid on his shades, gold-rimmed Rayban aviators. ‘Got bidness to do.’
Twelve
As soon as the Range Rover disappeared, Henry pushed back his own chair and stood.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get the boys together. Gotta job for them.’
Jake and Tintz followed him out the back and over the low wire mesh fence to the grounds of the community hall. A bunch of the young fellas were lounging around there, smoking and talking smack like usual. With the phones being down they’d had to go old school, so a portable CD player was vibrating to some Bones, Thugs and Harmony. At least they appreciated the classics.
‘Eh.’ Jake gave them a jerk of his head, signalling them to get up.
Jake carried a lot of weight around these ways and the boys all scrambled to their feet, eager to listen – all aside from a chunky kid known as Fester. His cheeks were so pudgy that he looked like one of those dogs with a mashed-up face. He forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his knees as he got up.
‘When you’re fuckin’ ready,’ Jake growled.
The right thing to do would have been to apologise and get the lead out. Fester did neither, just lumbered over to join the group, saying nothing. Jake took one step forward and punched him square in the face. As Fester fell backwards, Jake caught him by the shirtfront and lowered him to the ground, continuing to punch him in the face and head until he hit the deck.
The rest of the boys watched in silence, no one willing to step in. No one fronted up to Jake Roimata.
Fester stayed down, nursing his bloodied face and trying to catch his breath. Jake stepped back and looked at the rest of the boys. He flexed his fingers and breathed through his nose, pumped up now.
‘Anybody else wanna fuck with me?’
Nobody said a word.
Henry stepped up now, game face on.
‘I gotta job for you boys,’ he said. ‘That honky motherfucker that shot us up…we gonna get him. We’re getting some guns, fuckin’ military hardware, and we’re gonna go up to his place and blow his shit away. Him, his family, whatever. We’re gonna fuck them up. Yeah?’
There were enthusiastic nods, just as he had known there would be. Young gangster wannabes were always eager to please.
‘But first we’re gonna go and have a recce, suss it out in daylight.’ Henry caught Jake’s surprised look and ignored it. ‘We need to have a proper look at it so when we go back we know where the fuck we’re goin’ and we fuck him up proper, eh?’
More nods of enthusiasm, a few nervous glances between the boys.
‘I need six of you to come with me.’
Nine hands shot up straight away and he chuckled. He picked the boys he wanted, the ones he knew could handle themselves, and moved them over to the side. The other three shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.
‘You three gotta special job to do here,’ Henry told them. ‘You gotta help Jake and Tintz look after this place, make sure no arsehole sneaks behind our back when we’re not looking, eh? Jake gotta couple guns you can use while you on patrol here, eh?’
They looked more hopeful now, happy they weren’t missing out completely.
‘You six, over to my place. Move it.’
They hustled to the fence and Jake came alongside Henry.
‘What’re you doin’? he hissed, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
Henry eyed him. ‘This motherfucker is goin’ down, little brother. He fucked us over the first time but he ain’t doin’ it again.’
‘Why not wait until dark?’
‘’cause we can’t see in the fuckin’ dark.’
‘Little Dog could get us some of that night vision shit.’ Jake’s tone was frustrated now. ‘It’s too dangerous to go in the daytime, he’ll see you coming and you know he’s prepared to fight. This ain’t like robbin’ some fuckin’ Indian dairy.’
Henry squared around face to face with his younger brother. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ question me, boy,’ he grated. ‘This is how we’re fuckin’ doin’ it, eh? We go have a look, help me plan it. We get the good shit from Little Dog, we go back and we blow his ass away. Get it?’
Jake opened his mouth to argue but the look in his brother’s eye stopped him. He knew there was no arguing when Henry was like this. He sucked down a breath, stepped back, and gave a short nod.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some guns.’
Thirteen
Bevan was having a coffee and a smoke when he saw the man stop outside his house. He took a last drag on the rollie and snibbed it out, tucking the butt into the pocket of his camouflage jacket. Tobacco was bound to get scarce in days to come.
The man hesitated outside, looking up the short driveway towards the white weatherboard farmhouse. Having second thoughts, maybe.
Bevan knocked back the dregs of his coffee, set the mug down on the step beside him, and stood. The man saw him, paused some more then raised a hand in greeting. Bevan nodded back.
He didn’t get many visitors, probably on account of most people finding him strange. Socially awkward, even. He didn’t give a shit. Sarge raised his big head beside him and looked at the man who was now slowly approaching. Didn’t growl, not yet anyway. Being a fifty kilo German shepherd, usually a look was enough to make people think twice.
‘Afternoon, Bevan.’
‘Brenton.’
The visitor stopped a few metres away as if still unsure, like the last few metres meant he hadn’t really committed yet.
‘Does he bite?’ Brenton asked, warily watching Sarge. Sarge stared back at him, his ears pricked, but stayed lying down.
‘Yep.’ Bevan gave a small smile. ‘Mostly only other dogs though.’
Brenton smiled weakly and kept his hands in his pockets. He looked around and shifted his feet awkwardly.
‘What can I do for you, Brenton?’
‘I…ahh…I got a shotgun,’ he said, unsure where to start.
‘Good for you. So have I.’
Brenton let out a nervous laugh, but Bevan didn’t smile. It was simply a fact.
‘I don’t have much ammunition for it though, and I was wondering if maybe…um, maybe I could…buy some off you?’
Bevan looked at him. They were about the same size – although Bevan had the soft frame of an office worker, not an outdoorsman – both in their mid-thirties, both had brown hair. But they were worlds apart.
‘Your money’s not much good to me right now,’ he said, and Brenton’s face fell.
‘Oh, okay, I just thought…sorry.’
Bevan shook his head. ‘Look, don’t worry. We can barter. What animals have you got?’
Brenton looked surprised. ‘Um, half a dozen chooks. A cat.’
Bevan cocked an eyebrow. ‘That’s it?’
Brenton nodded, embarrassed.
‘Okay…you got a vege garden?’
Brenton nodded, more confident now. ‘For sure. Linda’s a good gardener.’
‘Good. We can trade then. You got something I want.’
The look of relief on Brenton’s face almost made Bevan smile. Jesus, these fuckin’ city boys were stress balls. They needed to get out more.
‘You got a 12-gauge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, I’ll swap you a box of birdshot – that’s twenty rounds – for access to your vege garden for a fortnight. You got broccoli?’
‘Yep.’
‘Potatoes?’
‘No.’
‘Peas?’
‘Yep.’
Bevan nodded. ‘Done. Wait here.’ He ducked inside and returned a minute later with a box of ammo. ‘Nice doing business with you.’
Brenton tucked the box into his pocket. ‘I guess it’s like Mark said, we’ve all gotta look out for each other at the moment.’
Bevan gave a grunt. ‘He did say that. Me, I tend to rely on myself. Any th
ieving shitheads come round here and they’ll know all about it.’
He sat down on the step again and watched Brenton head back down the drive. He was a jittery fucker, Bevan decided. Not somebody he’d want to rely on when the shit hit the fan. Mark was a different story. Bevan was pretty sure the man didn’t like him, but it didn’t mean Bevan couldn’t appreciate a kindred soul when he saw one. Mark was a man he would feel comfortable beside in a fight. Problem was, he was about the only one around there.
Bevan began rolling himself a smoke and was licking the paper when he heard running feet. Brenton was racing down the drive towards him, a panicked look on his face.
‘Bevan! They’re back!’
Sarge stood and watched him coming, ears forward, ready for action.
‘Who?’
‘The…the guys…the shitheads…’ Brenton got to him, panting and pointing down towards the corner. ‘Down there…two cars of them…I saw one…one’s got a gun.’
Bevan was on his feet in a flash, grabbing the AR-15 from inside the door. He slipped his arm through the sling and snatched a second weapon from just inside the front door.
‘Ever fired one before?’
‘No.’ Brenton looked at the gun that Bevan handed him.
‘It’s a Benelli M2 Super 90. Semi-auto 12-gauge. It’s loaded, five in the tube and one up the spout.’ Bevan rattled the specs off like a salesman in a hurry. He flicked off the AR-15’s safety and headed down the driveway. ‘Come on, let’s get these fuckers.’
Fourteen
‘Someone’s coming.’
Henry lowered the binoculars he’d been using to scope out the target’s address, and looked at the three figures approaching down the road. Two men and a dog. The men both carried weapons in their hands.
‘Is that him?’ he wondered out loud, but he hadn’t clearly seen the face of the man the previous night.
The first guy, who appeared to be the leader, had an assault rifle and wore a camo jacket. The guy slightly behind him, who looked less certain of himself, wore a polar fleece and jeans.
It could be either of them, but Henry would have put his money on the first guy. They were about seventy metres away now.
‘Wanna party, eh?’ Henry glanced over his shoulder at the six young guys with him. One of them had a bolt action 7mm hunting rifle, another a .22 pea-shooter, the other a long-barrelled shotgun that had been used for clay bird shooting before it was stolen. ‘Gimme that rifle.’
He took the rifle and flicked off the safety, settling the butt into his shoulder. The two men were closer to fifty yards away now.
‘Throw down your weapons,’ the first guy shouted at them, his rifle up in the aim. ‘Hands in the air!’
Henry stayed behind the beaten-up Subaru, leaning across the roof. He took aim at the first guy.
‘Throw down your weapons or I’ll shoot!’ the first guy bellowed.
‘Homo.’ Henry squeezed the trigger, hearing a hollow click. The young fella had been carrying an empty chamber. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Henry worked the bolt, hearing the first guy shout, ‘Gun!’
Two shots rang out and Henry got the rifle back in the aim, seeing movement across his sights as he pulled the trigger.
Bevan fired a double tap and jinked to his left, hearing the boom of a rifle and a grunt from Brenton behind him.
He got down to one knee, AR-15 up, pumping the trigger towards the gunman. There was a shitty-looking Subaru and a white Toyota station wagon parked on the shoulder just at the corner, almost out of sight. He couldn’t tell how many bad guys there were, but it looked to be eight or ten.
He put half a dozen rounds into the two cars, adrenaline coursing through him, then was up and moving to the ditch at the side of the road. He saw a bullet ping off the road ahead of him, well wide, and heard the boom of a shotgun from somewhere. Good, Brenton was in the fight. Maybe he wasn’t such a fuckin’ pansy after all.
Bevan got to the ditch, Sarge leaping in beside him, and got himself up against the side, nice and low with the rifle over the lip. He squeezed off another couple of rounds, un-aimed, to keep the pricks’ heads down.
The rifle and a shotgun boomed and Bevan heard the impact of rounds hitting the dirt near him. He looked over his shoulder for Brenton, hoping he’d thought to take cover.
His heart sank when he saw his neighbour sprawled on the road, not moving.
Fifteen
As soon as the gunfire erupted, I was moving, running to the house and getting everyone from inside.
I got them low and we ran to the sleepout, where Rob was waiting with his rifle. I shut them inside and told them to stay put until I got back. I had to find out what was going on. There were wide eyes all around and Archie was getting upset, not wanting me to go, but I gave him a grin I didn’t feel and a squeeze and backed out the door.
Knowing the activity was at the end of the road, I cut through the paddock into the Macklins’ property and across their front paddock. Their house stood still and silent and I wondered again where they were.
Working my way closer to the road, I could see now that there was a body lying in the road. Someone was in the ditch across the road and a bit further up, firing what sounded like a .223 semi-auto – I guessed that was Bevan with his AR-15.
Up at the corner several people were gathered around two cars, at least three of them shooting back towards the guy in the ditch. It was like the bloody Wild West and I was the sheriff coming to the rescue. I checked my gear, making sure I was ready, and pulled a small pair of 8x20 binos from a pouch on my belt.
I zeroed in on the body on the road first, and immediately recognised Brenton. He wasn’t moving and there was a shotgun lying near him. I confirmed that it was Bevan in the ditch, popping up to rip off a volley of shots before ducking down again. He could have done with moving because the other guys had his location nailed and it was only a matter of time before someone got lucky.
The guys shooting at him had no tactical nous, and were wandering about freely, trying to see their target. I could hear the crack of a hunting rifle, the boom of a shotgun and the light pop of a .22.
One was leaning across the bonnet of the Subaru that had come visiting previously, and as he worked the bolt of his rifle, I recognised the leader that I’d spoken to. I’d told him not to come back or I would kill them.
He hadn’t listened, and it was time to put my money where my mouth was. If these guys overran Bevan, they would keep coming. They had come armed and looking for a fight. Any time for negotiation, if there had been one, was long gone.
I put the binos away, crawled under the side fence into the next paddock and worked my way towards the road. I got into a corner where I had thick fence posts for some cover, blackberries in the roadside ditch for a bit of concealment, and a better angle.
I was about seventy metres away from the guys at the cars. The .357 Magnum was a good pistol round but a bit light for longer shots, but in the absence of anything better I would have to make do.
Bevan was still ripping off shots, the odd one hitting one of the cars, but he was pretty much firing blind.
I focussed on the leader first, tucking in behind the fence posts and using them as a shooting platform. Nice and steady. The crosshairs of the 3-9x scope settled on his left ribs, clearly visible from my angle, and I gently squeezed through the trigger pull.
The rifle jutted against my shoulder and the guy dropped from view.
I worked the lever, keeping in the aim, and spotted the guy with the shotgun. He was hurrying around the back of the car, coming into my view now, eager to see what had happened to his mate.
I sighted on his chest, breathed and squeezed, and he moved at the last nano-second. Instead of drilling through his chest, the round took him in the left shoulder, spinning him like a top. He went down out of sight but I could hear him screaming.
Bevan leaped up and gave it the full Rambo, spraying rounds from the hip as fast as he could pull the trigger. Glas
s punched out of the car windows and a wing mirror went flying, but it was a lot of noise for little result. He ducked back down again and someone popped up with the shotgun, letting off a blast in Bevan’s general direction.
I sent a round his way, narrowly missing him as he ducked down behind the car.
The next thing I heard was the revving of the station wagon and it took off in a cloud of dirt and dust, leaving two guys scrambling to get in the Subaru. I saw them piling one of the wounded into the back and one of them had one of the guns in his free hand. I could just see him through a side window, so I got the best angle I could and pumped a round through the window. Glass went everywhere and I followed it with another shot, hoping for a lucky hit.
The Subaru got going and took off down the road.
I stayed where I was, feeding fresh rounds into the tube of the Rossi. I waited for maybe half a minute before rising cautiously and calling out to Bevan.
‘That you, Mark?’ He popped out of the ditch with a crazy grin on his face, clearly high on adrenaline and gun smoke. His dog was wandering about looking confused.
My own system was firing on all cylinders from the massive adrenaline dump and my ears were ringing like hell. I joined him on the road and we went over to Brenton. I nearly jumped out of my skin when his arm moved, and I realised he was alive.
Lying on his side, he was breathing shallowly and bleeding from a wound of some sort to his chest. The front of his jacket looked wet.
He raised his eyes to us and groaned, gently putting a hand to his chest.
‘Can’t…breathe,’ he whispered.
I knelt beside him and checked his wound. I pulled open his jacket and was surprised at the lack of blood. He was clearly in pain though, and I could see an impact on his chest that was bleeding, rather than a puncture wound.
The shotgun lay off to the side and I could see that the sling was half off it. The steel buckle on the sling was twisted and damaged.
I checked his back and found no exit wound.