Target for Terror

by Carl Hubrick

  Target for Terror

  By

  Carl Hubrick

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright, 2013, Carl Hubrick

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  First published in New Zealand

  in 2008 by National Pacific Press

  Cover design by SmartArts Design & Illustration - smartarts@clear.net.nz

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations or persons is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

  To Katie, our Rhodesian Ridgeback,

  who could and would

  have done everything Rhodo does in this story –

  and more.

  Katie 1993 - 2005

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tom was worried. Mrs Sykes had been marking their homework while the Year Eight class did their maths. Now she was walking towards him down the aisle between the dark varnished desks.

  Tom’s teacher was sharp-featured, tall and thin – thirty-five she had told the class. She reminded him of one of those old brown and white photographs you see at your grandparents’ – medium skin tone, brown eyes, long brown hair and beige-coloured dress.

  The boy himself had a fair complexion, with brown hair and sky blue eyes.

  Tom prepared for the worst. He could see the storm coming. Mrs Sykes was smiling at him.

  Mrs Sykes had two smiles. The one she kept in her pocket for the principal, and the other – the one the cat has for the canary. Right now, she had her cat smile on. He caught a brief blue-eyed glance of sympathy from Jason, two desk rows ahead of him, as the storm came, but there was nothing his friend could do. Tom was on his own.

  ‘Thomas!’ Her voice even sounded like a cat – a growl in the purr. ‘Thomas Wilson!’

  The already near silence of the Year Eight class dropped to a deathly still. It was as though all thirty-one members, boys and girls, had suddenly stopped breathing, as indeed, perhaps they had.

  ‘Is this your homework book?’ She dangled the open exercise book in front of him. She knew that it was.

  The cat smile widened to show white teeth. The cat eyes bored into his.

  ‘What was the homework about, Thomas?’ She knew he hated to be called Thomas.

  ‘You said to summarise an important news item from the newspaper, Mrs Sykes.’

  ‘And what else?’

  Tom scratched the inside of his brain. He was confused and tried to look so, though he knew it wouldn’t work.

  ‘Er! Cover all the points? Who, what, when, where, why and how?’

  The cat nodded. The cold eyes never left his face.

  ‘And what else?’ It was positively purring now, toying with its prey.

  Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He felt the hot gaze of the other members of the class. They would be enjoying the spectacle of the cat and the canary - all except Jason.

  ‘Balanced reporting,’ the cat hissed. ‘Do you know what that is, Thomas?’

  Tom nodded glumly. ‘Yes, Mrs Sykes - reporting both sides of any story.’

  ‘But you didn’t do that, did you, Thomas? You took the opportunity to attack teachers, didn’t you, Thomas?’

  There was the faintest breath from someone in the class.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Tom protested. ‘I thought the report on teachers threatening to strike was important. I didn’t mean to attack teachers.’

  The truth was he hadn’t thought too much about it at all. It was just homework to get done. Somewhere in the back of his mind, perhaps, he might have hoped she would be pleased by his choice of item about teachers. But he hadn’t realised she would take it so personally.

  Mrs Sykes stared down at him, the brown eyes cruel. A thin-boned finger poked holes in the air in front of his face.

  ‘You reported only what the Minister of Education had to say against the teachers’ strike, Thomas.’ The voice was menacingly quiet. ‘That’s unfair reporting – very unfair. You didn’t once mention what the teachers’ point of view was, did you, Thomas?’ The bony finger nailed the air before his eyes. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No!’ he blurted out. ‘I didn’t see it. I didn’t know.’ His sky blue eyes were smarting and he felt his cheeks turning red.

  ‘Is that all you have to say, Thomas. Have you forgotten your manners as well?’

  ‘No, Mrs Sykes. Sorry, Mrs Sykes.’ Tom knew he was squawking like a trapped bird.

  ‘Good!’ Her voice had gone back to a pleased purr. ‘That at least is something.’

  She smirked around the room. Gerard, her favourite, smirked back at her.

  The finger came again, like a claw, pointing at Tom. ‘Go and stand in the corner, Thomas. By the rubbish bin. I think that would be appropriate, don’t you?’ The claw signalled him away. ‘You can finish your maths after school and you can write an article for me on – the importance of balanced reporting – as extra homework for tonight.’

  The cold cat eyes surveyed the class. ‘I think that’s fair – don’t you, Class?’

  ‘Yes Mrs Sykes,’ they answered as one.

  * * * * *

  The long black barrel of the rifle, made longer by the silencer at its end, poked through the tussock. Behind it, a man lay nestling the dark butt into his shoulder, his right eye squinting through the telescopic sight.

  The man was wearing a combat uniform of mottled browns and greens that camouflaged him amid the colours of the surrounding hills. Another man lay to his left and slightly behind. He was similarly clad and looking in the same direction through binoculars at a crude plywood cut-out of a human figure staked into the hillside, a hundred and twenty metres farther on. A bird’s-eye view, had any bird been foolish enough to stay and look, would have revealed five more members of the same band concealed amidst the wind-bent mountain scrub and tussock. All were armed with automatic weapons.

  The man with the binoculars uttered one curt command. ‘Fire!’

  The rifleman squeezed the trigger.

  Three shots puffed their way out in quick succession and grouped themselves within the target’s red painted heart. What little sound there had been was quickly gone in the cold sweep of the mountain air. No echoes followed.

  The man with the binoculars stood up. He was of medium height, lean and wiry. Short spiky blond hair topped his sun-bronzed face. His eyes were ice-blue.

  ‘Good!’ he grunted. ‘You have lost none of your skill with a stationary target.’ His cold blue eyes quickly roved the hillside below them. ‘But how good are you if your target is moving?’

  He reached down suddenly as he spoke and took the rifle. He worked the bolt swiftly as he brought the butt into his shoulder. The telescopic sight tracked a rabbit that had broken for its burrow, startled by the sudden sounds of humans. The barrel swung to lead its target - then fired once. One hundred metres away the rabbit pitched into the air, rolled a short distance, then stopped – a sad, still shape on the windswept hill. High above and distant, the snow-capped peaks of the Southern Alps looked down upon the scene in silence.

  ‘Good shot, Karl!’ one of the others rasped.

  The man called Karl turned. The blue eyes stared coldly at the speaker.

  ‘Good shot?’
The question was a sneer. ‘Good shot? When the rabbit can shoot back, then it will be a good shot.’

  One of the band, a dark-eyed woman, with an olive complexion, and long black hair, came up and stood beside Karl. She cradled a machine pistol across one arm.

  ‘Do not be too hard on them, Karl,’ she said softly. There was a strong foreign accent to her voice. ‘They are good men. You have taught them well.’

  The leader’s blue eyes stared out across the hills to the haze of the Canterbury Plains below. Somewhere beyond the haze was the city of Christchurch.

  ‘We have a task to do – a mission,’ he said quietly. ‘We must not fail.’ He turned to the woman. ‘They must be ready, Sofia. You and I have survived in the past because we were ready. We did our homework. You must always be ready for when the rabbit shoots back.’

  * * * * *

  Jason was waiting at the bike stands when Tom was finally allowed to go home. Their two mountain bikes were all that remained of what had been a two hundred strong clutter half-an-hour before. There was not another grey shirt and shorts or tartan skirt to be seen anywhere.

  ‘How’d it go?’ Jason asked, his blue eyes sympathetic from under his straw-coloured fringe.

  Tom scowled and shook his head. ‘Horrible! Bloody horrible!’ he complained bitterly. ‘That cat woman’s worse than a bloody terrorist. I can’t wait to leave this place. Roll on high school.’

  The two boys were now nearly thirteen, and the fourth and final term of their Year Eight stint was approaching its end. They had been friends almost from the day they’d started as Year Sevens at the big green and cream intermediate school the year before.

  Tom was the stockier of the two, with his light brown hair neatly cut and brushed back from his face. Jason had a pale complexion, with a scattering of small brown freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His build, though lighter than Tom’s, was nevertheless wiry and athletic. His light-coloured hair, short at the sides, hung down low at the back of his neck.

  Their friendship had begun almost as a means of mutual defence and had gone on from there. The first few days at the intermediate school had been hard. New teachers, new rules, new work, new grey uniforms – and big Year Eights. Some of the Year Eights were okay, but many seemed to look upon the Year Sevens as fair game, and the name of the game was bullying. Even their balding principal had felt the need to devote one of his assembly talks to warn off the bullies - adjusting his glasses on the end of his nose to peer round the school hall at the ‘culprits’ as he called them. But if the duty teachers thought the bullying had stopped, they were wrong. It now merely occurred when their backs were turned.

  Tom had been returning from the tuck-shop in that first week of school, when two tall and chunky Year Eights approached him from round the corner of a classroom. The first had brown hair and a ruddy complexion, the second was fair-skinned and blond.

  ‘Well, well! A chicken-burger and a doughnut,’ the first Year Eight said. ‘That’s a big lunch.’ The boy’s tone had seemed friendly enough to begin with, but his hostile intent soon became clear. ‘Me and Todd here,’ (Tom mentally corrected the other’s grammar) ‘we missed out on lunch today.’ The boy attempted to look sad, but his acting ability was B grade at best. ‘We lost our money.’

  The other Year Eight nodded his agreement with exaggerated sorrow.

  ‘Be fair,’ the first one continued. He was now almost standing on top of Tom’s toes. ‘Give us your doughnut and any money you have to help us buy our lunch.’

  His companion nodded again and smiled encouragingly.

  Tom was still pondering his next move when a Year Seven, neat in his new grey uniform, appeared at his shoulder. As the bully reached out for the doughnut, the newcomer grasped the bigger boy’s arm at the wrist and ducked under it, turning quickly as he did so, forcing the arm up hard behind the Year Eight’s back. At the same time, he grabbed a handful of brown hair, jerking the bigger boy’s head back, as part of the same swift move.

  The bully gave a yelp.

  ‘Tell your mate to back off or I’ll make it hurt a lot more,’ the Year Seven ordered.

  The older boy obliged, his voice almost a squeak.

  The Year Seven held the hold for a moment longer, then shoved the bully forward roughly and let him go. Tears welled up in the bigger boy’s eyes and he turned without a word and began to walk hurriedly away.

  His companion tried to save face with a bluff. ‘Hey! You wanna watch it, attacking people like that. You could get yourself into real trouble.’ But he was edging away as he spoke and in a moment was walking hastily after his mate.

  Tom grinned at his new friend. ‘Here! You better have this,’ he said, holding out the doughnut. ‘You earned it.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ the other Year Seven replied, returning the grin.

  Jason had been learning Tae Kwon Do for some years, Tom discovered later. He never used it without good reason. The next time Tom was to see Jason in action would be nearly two years into the future, in those summer holidays before high school. And then Jason would be fighting to save his sister’s life.

  *

  The traffic lights turned to green and the two mountain bikes pedalled to match each other at a talking pace. As is possible in a smaller city such as Christchurch, well-to-do houses are often only a few blocks away from less privileged residences. And so it was that Jason and Tom usually rode home together, as their homes were in the same general direction.

  Tom, an only child, resided in a two-storeyed house of some opulence, on a section big enough for three or four regular sized houses. He lived with his mother, who liked Mozart and poetry; his father, the managing director of a large electronics company; a Rhodesian Ridgeback bitch by the name of Rhodo (the family’s only pet); two cars of German origin, a large four-wheel drive with ski racks, and a big trailer yacht that grew bigger every year. They also boasted a housekeeper, five days a week, and a gardener.

  Jason resided only four blocks away in a much more modest rented house. He lived with his mother, who did cleaning; a younger sister named Corina; a black cat, named Rover, and an old Japanese car that coughed blue smoke wherever it went, and managed to complain of a puncture at least once a fortnight. Jason’s father worked on a fishing boat out of Bluff – when he did work – and saw his two children once a year, when he came up to Christchurch for a day or two and took them to the movies, then on for a pizza or fish and chips.

  Tom was aware of their different circumstances, but no more than that. The McKenzies had less money - that was all. And Tom sometimes thought it might just be his parents’ money that made his teacher dislike him so. Jason’s mum was friendly, always welcomed Tom, and usually had a few dollars for the two boys to buy ice-blocks or chocolate bars. Tom’s mother was sure any chocolate was bad for your teeth.

  Jason’s mum always called him, ‘Tom’, whereas his own mother insisted on ‘Thomas’.

  I named you Thomas – not Tom, his mother would say. I don’t like Tom for a name.

  And so Tom enjoyed ‘Tom’ from his friends and cringed at ‘Thomas’ from his ever smiling relatives. And oh, how they smiled when they called him Thomas. They knew how much he hated it. He knew they thought it stupid. It was downright pretentious.

  He had learnt that word the other day. It meant... well, it meant being called Thomas, when Tom was much more comfortable.

  Then there were the speech and violin lessons that Tom suffered, when Tae Kwon Do with Jason would have been much more fun.

  If Tom had thought, he might have realised that his mother did not fully approve of the McKenzies. She had often told him that Jason was ‘nice’, but perhaps a little rough. But Tom did not think. It was not that he was not a thinking person - it was just that he did not think of such things.

  Tom should have realised too that his mother did not really want Jason to come and stay with them at their holiday home that summer, though she had never actually said as much. His mother h
ad instead continued to suggest a few of her friends’ sons as alternative companions for him over the school vacation. But in the end she had relented when Tom refused to accept anyone else. She could manage one McKenzie, she supposed.

  *

  It was time for the two bikes to go their separate ways.

  ‘Hey! Jason! I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are you coming to the mountains with us these holidays? There’s heaps to do. We can go fishing and tramping. There’s kayaking too – if you’d like.’

  The other frowned. ‘Yeah! That’d be good. But I don’t think Mum would let me go – not and leave Corina at home. She’d say it wasn’t fair.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘She could come too,’ he replied easily. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘You’re sure your parents won’t mind?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. Anyway, my cousin, Vicky, is coming over from Sydney. She can keep Corina company.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Victoria Frobisher stood and gazed out of the Sydney Airport lounge window. Christmas had come and gone, and the summer holidays had begun. Around her, the multitude of airport activities and sounds merged into one excited buzz.

  Victoria was tall for her fourteen and a half years - her young figure fast becoming a woman’s. The oval shaped face showed a healthy tan. Her long, shiny dark hair was loosely tied back. Her bright eyes were a warm chestnut brown. She was wearing the latest designer jeans, with a top fashion white shirt. A large blue travel bag hung from her shoulder.

  Victoria eyed the big Australian marked Boeing moving up outside the terminal window, making its way cautiously into the ranks of waiting aircraft. The white kangaroo symbol on its red tail stood out vividly in the bright morning sun.

  She turned to the man standing beside her. ‘Is that the one?’

  Ian Frobisher smiled. He was a tall, good-looking man, with blue eyes, and a fair, if somewhat pallid complexion - the skin tone of man who is too busy to spend time outdoors. His once dark brown hair was now shot through with silver. He wore the ubiquitous grey suit and tie - uniform of the professional man.