by Andy Maslen
“Calley and his men were under stress. I’m not saying what they did was right. It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. But Meeks was probably a killer before he enlisted. Men like him always find a way to enjoy killing.”
Gabriel paused. “If I meet him again, I’m going to put him down,” he said, finally. “He crossed a line then and he’s still crossing them today. And I don’t care if he’s your business partner.”
“Oh, tut, tut Gabriel,” said Maitland. “Don’t take on so. My dealings with Meeks were on a strictly tactical basis. He needed drugs, I had need of some anonymous cash. Now we have it you may do whatsoever you please with him. His sort need culling from time to time anyway and I’d just as soon it was you doing the culling than the US penal system. Which, I might add, only seems to intensify their more unpleasant characteristics anyway.”
Maitland leaned over and fingered Gabriel’s suit sleeve where it poked out from the bundle of his jacket.
“I’m sorry about the suit, though. Rather nice fabric. Ruined now of course. Dispose of it won’t you? Somewhere discreet. And put it on your expenses. I’ll have my tailor run you up a replacement when we’re back in England.” He paused for a second. “Something that will last.” He leaned back. “Now. That’s my money, I assume?” he said, looking down at the bulging holdall.
Gabriel nodded.
“Jolly good. Well, gentlemen,” he said, clapping his hands with a loud pop. “An excellent day’s work. Gabriel’s been blooded in my service, and tomorrow we move on to Roscommon for a little fun in the sun.”
Maitland stood up. The meeting was at an end. Held out his hand and waited. Jesus, the man was good. Gabriel got to his feet, bent to grab the holdall and proffered it to Maitland. But as Maitland began closing his hand round the thin nylon handles, Gabriel let go a fraction of a second early, letting the heavy bag drop a few inches. The sudden weight transfer caught Maitland by surprise and he swore as the bag jerked his arm down and sent the empty glasses clattering over onto the tabletop. He glared at Gabriel, but Gabriel was head down, apologising as he swiped the napkins across the polished surface. Shaun caught Gabriel’s eye and winked.
Back in his room, Gabriel bundled his ruined jacket into a thin polythene laundry bag he found, neatly folded, in the wardrobe, next to an iron and a hairdryer. A square of card placed carefully dead-centre on top of the square of slippery plastic informed him that the hotel would regard it as an especial pleasure if guests would avail themselves of the dry-cleaning and laundry service. Or words to that effect. Somehow he doubted removing splatters of Hells Angel blood came under the customer service promise. He knotted the top and swung the bag over to the door of the room. He’d noticed a couple of industrial bins, the lids on cantilevered hinges, standing at the back of the hotel. The jacket would be in a landfill by morning.
He turned on the shower then finished undressing. He wanted to get the stink and the feel of the Hells Angels off his skin, out of his throat, his hair, his nostrils. As he stood under the water, its fierce heat almost burning him, he clenched and unclenched his fists as he replayed the meeting with Davis Meeks in his head.
Meeks had participated in an atrocity. A massacre of around 500 old men, women and children. He’d never been punished. Called them gooks. Dehumanised them. Then gang-raped the women and used a machine gun on the rest. He would pay, Gabriel would see to that.
Gabriel ordered a burger and fries from room-service to refuel then slept from 9.30 until the alarm call from reception woke him at 7.00 the next morning. He lay still as he reviewed the previous day’s activities. Drug deal. A first. Fight with Hells Angels. A first. Drinking beers with a mass murderer. Not a first, covert ops with the Regiment had seen to that. Today they were off to swap the Angels’ oil-stained money, presumably not withdrawn from cashpoint machines, for a pair of heavy machine guns usually seen bolted to the turrets of tanks or into the wings of World War II fighter planes. A long way from helping businessmen negotiate with unions.
He emerged from breakfast in the restaurant to find Maitland had already checked all three of them out and dealt with the paperwork for the Mustang. He retrieved his luggage from his room and was soon sitting in the back of the Navigator next to his employer. Shaun was settled into his customary position in the driver’s seat.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” Maitland said. “Ready for a little fun?”
“Sure. The .50 cals?”
“The .50 cals.” Maitland turned to address the shaved back of Shaun’s skull. “Roscommon, please, Shaun, and don’t spare the horses.”
He laughed, a loud bray that startled Gabriel, and then he settled back against the leather headrest.
Some people like car journeys. Gabriel was one of them. If he was driving. Otherwise he preferred trains. At least you could walk around, get a coffee or a drink. Do some work if you had to, or simply sit and read. He passed the time keeping a running total in his head of any car he saw that he’d like to drive. After two hours, his head was still comfortably under-capacity. A couple of vintage muscle cars – a Pontiac GTO and a 1970s Corvette – a ratty off-white Porsche, a custard-yellow pickup with oversized wheels and tyres, and a wild hot-rod, a 1932 Ford Model A with exposed wheels, an open top and deep, wet-look paintwork, flecks of gold shimmering under the translucent cherry lacquer.
He must have dozed off, because when the Lincoln stopped, shifting queasily on its springs for a few seconds, he’d been driving his own car back in England, with Seamus strapped in next to him, talking to him in Trooper Smudge Smith’s voice.
Maitland was looking across at him.
“Refreshed, Gabriel? I hope so. Because this is very much your area of expertise now. And Shaun’s of course,” he added.
The three men got out and stretched. Gabriel looked around. They were in some kind of farmyard. He smelled the air. Not a working farm. No manure or fertilizer. But there was a familiar tang. Burnt propellant and hot brass mixed with gun oil. It smelled like a shooting range. The perimeter was edged in whitewashed rocks, each the size of a football.
Pointing at them, Gabriel said, “You know, we had this old sergeant for basic training. He used to say, ‘If it moves, salute it. If it won’t move, move it. If you can’t move it, paint it white.’”
Shaun laughed, then stopped, looking over Gabriel’s left shoulder, eyes wide, jaw clenched. It takes a lot to make an ex-Delta Force soldier freeze. So whatever Shaun had seen was dangerous.
“I think you should turn around,” Shaun said. “Real slow. We got us a welcome committee.”
Gabriel took a breath, noticing that Maitland, too, looked terrified, his eyes flicking left and right as if searching for an escape route.
Then, slowly he turned around.
Chapter 22
From round the corner of a corrugated iron barn, a dog stalked towards them on stiff legs, muscles quivering – a big, slobber-jawed Rottweiler, the teats under her belly swollen: she must have whelped recently. No chain, no collar. Her black and tan coat glistened in the sun like wet silk, rippling over the big slabs of meat on her flanks and forequarters. She emitted a low rumble from somewhere deep in the back of her throat. A continuous sound, like she had worked out how to breathe and growl at the same time. Her black lips were drawn back from her teeth, displaying neat incisors and a set of canines that would rip flesh as easily as wet paper.
Maitland stepped back and behind Gabriel and Shaun. The two men moved in concert. Shaun backed up, shielding Maitland with his body, until he could reach behind him and open the passenger door.
“Get in,” he said.
Maitland did as he was told. Then the ex-Delta man reached inside his jacket for his pistol but Gabriel stopped him.
“No, leave her to me.”
He crouched down, left foot ahead of his right, shoes twisting and squeaking slightly on the hard concrete of the yard. The Rottweiler stopped. This was unexpected. Her hackles had peaked into a sharp ridge extending from the back of her blocky hea
d all the way down her spine almost to the root of her stumpy, docked tail. The growling continued, and Gabriel could see how her muscles were so pumped with blood she was almost visibly increasing in mass.
He spoke, softly.
“Hey, girl, what’s your name, huh? What’s your name?”
The creature looked less confident now. Gabriel hadn’t backed up, shouted, raised his arm or a stick; he wasn’t emitting the acrid smell of fear through his sweat glands. He was just murmuring, reassuring her with quiet words, making but then quickly breaking eye contact, to show her he was neither dominant nor submissive.
He waited. Saying nothing. Looking at her front paws. Breathing slowly, evenly, waiting for her to make the next move.
The bitch tensed, shuffled a couple of inches backwards and dropped her hindquarters a fraction. The growling intensified. Then stopped altogether.
She took a single step towards Gabriel. That was enough.
He extended his right hand, curling his fingers into a downward-pointing fist. He held it outstretched, half a hand’s breadth from her sharp yellow fangs. Close enough to feel her hot breath shifting the hairs on the back of his hand with every exhalation. She took another step, bent her head to Gabriel’s hand, and touched his knuckles with her nose. It was cold compared to the warmth of her breath.
“Hey,” he whispered. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
He turned his hand the other way up and scratched her under the jaw, feeling the soft skin between the wings of the V-shaped jawbone. She had enough power in her jaws to crush his hand to pulp, but he knew she wouldn’t. Her growl was replaced with a soft, keening. He rubbed the top of her massive skull, feeling the bony ridge beneath his fingers, and straightened, little by little, until he was upright again. He heard Shaun whisper, “Man, that was some real dog whisperer shit, right there. You should be on TV.”
A man dressed in khaki combat trousers, brown military-style boots and a khaki vest was walking towards them, a thick leather leash looped around his wrist. He looked like some movie fan’s idea of a mercenary, complete with half-smoked cigar clamped between his horsey teeth, a pair of dull aluminium dog tags on a ball chain round his neck and sunglasses with mirror lenses in gold frames. He looked like he worked out, too, sculpted muscles that spoke of careful diet and free weights rather than the grab-and-carry work that builds soldiers’ bodies.
He spoke as he slipped the leash over the Rottweiler’s head. She’d lost all interest in Gabriel now and was waiting to be led away, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth, saliva puddling on the ground beneath her mouth.
“Hey, that was some nice work there, man. I’ve seen Carly here take a man’s hand clean off his wrist, just for moving when he should’ve stood still.”
The man spoke with a strong Afrikaans accent, sounding more Dutch than American, but with the former language’s phlegmy sounds replaced with sharper, coarser consonants and clipped-off vowels. He stuck out a sinewy hand, its back furred with blonde hair like the paw of some exotic monkey.
“Name’s Bart Venter. But I expect you already know that,” he said, squeezing hard on Gabriel’s knuckles.
Gabriel shook hands, returning the man’s pressure – another pecking-order test.
“Gabriel. You ever think you should keep that dog on a chain?”
“What her? Nah, man, she’s a pussycat. Now, I used to have a couple of K-dogs round here. Them I did keep tied up. Vicious brutes, the pair of them.”
“K-dogs?”
“Kaffir dogs. You know. Mongrels. Mutts.”
Shaun stepped forward and also shook Venter’s hand.
“Shaun.”
Maitland stepped round the pair of ex-soldiers to face Venter, hand extended.
“Bart, old chap. How are you?”
“Good. I’m good. It’s been a long while, yah? Haven’t seen you since that business with BOSS back in the eighties.”
“What’s boss?” Shaun asked.
“Bureau of State Security, man,” Venter said, turning to Shaun. “I used to work there. Toby here helped us out sometimes with contracted services.”
“You’re the guys who used to throw suspects out of windows, aren’t you?” Gabriel said, the effort expended to sound admiring, not murderous, reducing his voice to a croak.
“Yah, man, you got that right! We used to call it ‘flying lessons’. Trouble was they all crashed on their first attempt.” He slapped one fist into the other palm with a crack.
“So, Bart,” Maitland said, “Still treating Midwestern businessmen to dress-up-and-play-soldiers games?”
Venter pointed a hairy finger at Maitland’s face.
“Oh, Toby, man. You’re such a snob, you know that?”
He turned to Gabriel and Shaun.
“You want to know how much these boys pay me for playing on my range for a morning?”
Neither man spoke.
“I’ll tell you. Fifteen thousand dollars apiece. That’s for three hours, mind. The rest of the time it’s beer and war stories in my rec room.”
“Fifteen?” Shaun said, his eyes widening with surprise.
“That’s what I said, man. You know why? Let me tell you. Down there,” he pointed to a track between two barns, “I got AKs, Heckler & Kochs, M16s. But that’s not what they come for. Guess what they want?”
Gabriel decided to play along.
“I don’t know. Light machine guns? Mortars?”
“Nah, man. Better than that. I got a mini-gun. You ever see one of those beauties in action? Jesus God, it blows their tiny minds.”
“I’ve ridden in a chopper mounted with a couple, hosing pirates in Somalia.”
“Well, then, you know what I’m talking about, man. I give ’em a thousand rounds each. You know how long they take to fire on auto?”
Gabriel did the calculation in his head. Up to 6,000 rounds per minute, fired through six electrically-powered rotating barrels: ten seconds.
He said, “No. How long?”
“I’ll tell you, man – it’s ten seconds. Ten! I tell those weekend warriors to squeeze off bursts but they can’t help themselves. They get that trigger under their thumbs and it’s wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Like a virgin with his first whore. They just can’t pull back. And the noise. They love it. Sounds like a million angry bees about to murder your sorry ass.”
Shaun spoke.
“So, let me get this straight. You got every kinda military hardware up here and y’all relying for security on a single dog? No guards. No staff?”
“Hey, look around you. We’re in the middle of nowhere, man. Nobody just drops in. I got state of the art CCTV on the gate and between me, Carly and this,” he patted a Beretta M9 pistol on his hip, “I reckon we’re safe.”
Maitland butted in.
“Which is all very fascinating, Bart. But you and I have to some business to conclude. So if you don’t mind?
“Sure, sure, Toby. Relax, man. I’ve got them set up round the back on a Land Cruiser. You want to come around and test them out?”
“Let’s go.”
The four men walked through the yard and between the two barns, the Rottweiler trotting along like a show dog now her master was with her. Shaun carried the holdall, its bulging side banging into his leg as he stumbled along the uneven path. At the other end of a short grassy track between two fenced paddocks was a galvanised steel five-barred gate, secured with a heavy brass padlock. Venter shielded the combination wheels as he twisted them into position. The gate scraped open over pebbles strewn across the track and they walked through into a landscaped field. It was hidden from the farmhouse and the barns by a screen of tall fir trees, their thick coat of needles making an impenetrable barrier. The field had been landscaped into a random configuration of berms and mounds, mostly worn down to reddish hard-packed earth and scattered screes of grey pebbles. To their right was a newish Toyota Land Cruiser pickup with a four-man cab, inky black paintwork gleaming like it had just been waxed. F
ixed onto the roof were a pair of Browning .50 cal heavy machine guns. The M2s.
“Come on over, man,” Venter said, clapping Gabriel on the shoulder with his hairy monkey paw. “Nobody’s going to mess with you when you’re firing Ma Deuce!”
They all clambered into the back of the Land Cruiser. Maitland dumped the holdall on the rear seats. Venter stood between the barrels of the .50 cals, facing the other three men. By no stretch of the imagination could the guns be called elegant. Some weapons had an undeniable charm, at least in the aesthetics of weapon collectors: clean lines, rounded edges, elegant safety levers or magazines. Not these. They were brutish machines designed to do one thing only: hurl their two-inch long copper-jacketed bullets for up to two miles and destroy whatever they hit. The guns were almost five and a half feet from muzzle to grips. The two-foot-long barrel a dull dark grey cylinder with an iron sight, sleeved at the breech end with an air cooling jacket perforated by twenty-one drilled holes you could stick your thumb through. A chunky rectangular breechblock, cocking lever on the right and twin handles with integral triggers at the rear.
“Where are the tripods, Bart?” Maitland asked.
“Ah, man, don’t be such a worry-wart! The tripods are safe in the barn. These mounts are better for the ’cruiser.”
The two machine guns were mounted about a yard apart, their tripods replaced for the demonstration with stainless steel column mounts bolted to the cab of the Land Cruiser. Two squat khaki boxes holding the belts of ammunition sat between them. One of the reasons the military fell in love with the M2 was its ability to take the ammunition belt from either the left or right, allowing them to be mounted close together in helicopters or on gunboats without the belts interfering with each other.
“Got you a couple of nice targets to shoot at,” Venter said, pointing down the field.
About 200 yards away, parked between two mounds of earth, were a couple of mid-sized sedans. Old, anonymous, maybe some GM model that never did anything more than ferry mid-level cube-drones to work for a few years. They looked like bait animals, tethered to a stake in the jungle, waiting for some apex predator to walk into a trap.