Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  remain anonymous for security reasons, but they (and only they) know who they are.

  They are the true heroes who put their lives on the line to protect our freedoms. My sincerest gratitude

  goes out to them.

  And once again, huge thanks to “Tori” who does my covers and provides great advice-you rock.

  This is a work of fiction, and all errors are the responsibility of the author.

  Introduction

  Thank you so much for buying my book. I am excited to share my stories with you, and hope you enjoy

  them.

  If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to my Hitlist at www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at writerangusmclean@gmail.com

  Angus McLean

  1

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Two years ago

  It wasn’t called the Highway to Hell for nothing.

  Driving on the highway from the city to Baghdad International Airport was like 200 miles of

  dodgems, only every dodgem potentially carried a bomb or a carload of ruthless bastards who

  wanted to slice off your head on Al-Jazheera and drag your corpse through the streets.

  Archer loved it and loathed it at the same time; the thrill of the risk was intoxicating, but the

  reality of it going bad was too terrifying to contemplate. In his team of PMCs they had a deal-last

  man standing finished any wounded then took one himself.

  Deny the pricks the pleasure of doing it themselves.

  His team, he thought to himself. For about another hour, they were still his team. After that he was

  on a big bird to LA to meet up with a tidy American Army Major, to spend 3 weeks eating, drinking

  and screwing, in no particular order. After 3 weeks R&R he was coming back, and they’d be his

  team again.

  He cast a lazy eye to the driver on his right, big Grunter, a bald former SWAT team officer in

  Johannesburg. He was built like a house and ate constantly when he wasn’t working out. He had

  seen more action in Jo’burg than most squaddies in Iraq. He drove the Nissan Patrol like it was a

  Tonka toy.

  Behind Grunter sat Jacko, a former Para sergeant who had served a full 20 years and gone straight

  into the private sector to earn his pension. The Brit was a tattooed chain smoker and notorious

  practical-joker. Archer’s boxers still scratched from when Jacko had drowned them in starch and

  turned them to cardboard.

  In the rear of the wagon was the gunner, on this occasion Bula, the Fijian alcoholic who had served

  with 22 SAS for a decade before going private. Constantly smiling and hung over he was nearly fifty

  and the veteran of a dozen wars around the globe.

  Archer kept his eyes moving, scanning his arc to the left, the barrel of his Russian AK-47 resting

  on his left knee, finger alongside the trigger guard, stock folded for ease of movement. Vehicles all

  around them, moving like people on a conveyer belt, an endless stream towards the airport and its

  surrounds. Iraqis stared back at the white faces with either indifference or open disdain and

  hostility. Not fear. These people were not afraid of the heavily armed men in the packet, identical in

  their polo shirts and wrap around shades. Men like this had come and gone, and would always do

  so, and it meant nothing. They meant nothing; just another white face.

  The sun was at a dangerous angle, and Grunter was squinting behind his shades and the sun visor.

  The white Renault in front of them carried their other team members and their clients, a pair of

  oil company execs who had spent a week schmoozing and were on their way home. Archer was

  accompanying them, which suited the team because they could tie in the drop-off with picking up

  a new team member on his way in from the UK. Dusty, up front with his fellow former Royal

  Marine, Tim, would be running the team in Archer’s absence. He was a good man but probably a

  little more conservative than Archer would have liked. Although conservative wasn’t always a bad

  thing in this part of the world.

  Dusty was giving the constant commentary that they could hear over their earpieces, identifying

  any risks or potential trouble spots as they came into range.

  ‘White truck, right, 150. Man in back with AK. 100 now, not aware. Closing up, still not aware. .’

  Bula’s voice came over the radio then.

  ‘Hey, red Beamer coming from behind, left of us, 3 or 4 boys. Unfriendlies, keeping eyes.’

  Archer caught sight in the wing mirror of the BMW coming up on the left, two boys in the front

  and at least another in the back. All of them had eyes on the Patrol, and he could see the tension in

  their bodies.

  At the same time, Dusty came back on.

  ‘Dead dog, right, 100.’

  IED, thought Archer, thumbing off his safety catch at the same time.

  ‘Drop back Grunter,’ he ordered and felt the Patrol slow immediately, ‘eyes up guys. I’ve got the left,

  keep your arcs.’

  The red BMW was almost even with them now and he could see two in the back now. The angle

  was no good for seeing weapons though. He rested his finger lightly on the trigger and kept one

  eye on the car and one on the rest of the surrounds. The gap between the Patrol and the Renault

  had opened up slightly, allowing them more room to move in an IA.

  Archer saw a flicker of movement from the back seat as the closest passenger lifted the barrel of

  an AK into view. All eyes from the car were on his now in his wing mirror and he knew it was

  game on.

  ‘Grunter, hit it!’ he barked, the AK coming into view properly as the window came down. He raised

  his own AK as Grunter jerked the wheel left and smashed into the front wing of the Beamer.

  Archer triggered a burst through the window straight into the interior of the car as it lurched to

  the left, at the same time as an almighty explosion erupted from the right, strong enough to rock

  the Patrol and blow out windows in the cars around it. The windscreen shattered under the force

  of debris and Archer felt stings across his face and arm.

  Traffic closed up all around them as cars crashed into each other, and Grunter jerked the wheel

  left again, smashing into a beaten up pick up that had drifted in front of him. He gunned the big

  engine and shoved the pick up out of the way, clearing a space to get to the shoulder of the road.

  The white Renault was also moving left, seeking a way clear of the carnage.

  Archer saw the BMW coming back, accelerating up on the left, openly displaying AKs out the

  windows now.

  ‘Contact left! Contact left!’ he barked into his mouthpiece, one hand depressing the pressel switch

  on his chest and the other levelling the AK. He cut loose another burst, longer this time, raking the

  windscreen of the BMW to blind the driver. Jacko had slid across the backseat and opened up too,

  a long burst into the back which took out the closest passenger.

  Too late, he realised they had made the wrong move, both vehicles coming to the left.

  A second explosion detonated on the shoulder of the road, bigger than the first and almost directly

  in front of the Renault. The front of the car lifted off the ground in a shower of dust and dirt and

  flame, crashing back down at an angle and almost rolling, rocking on its springs as it settled back

  down again at the edge of a smoking crater.

  Grunter was blinded and ran straight into the back of the Renault, shunting it forward before he

  manag
ed to stop.

  Surrounded by a dust cloud and with screams in his ears, Archer shouted, ‘Debus, debus! IA!’

  He threw the door open and leaped out, snapping open the butt stock of the AK and shouldering it,

  seeking targets.

  The boys in the BMW knew they were there and would be using the Patrol as a start point, so they

  needed to get clear quickly, secure the guys from the Renault, and move.

  Archer moved forward as per their IA drills, bellowing, ‘Moving!’ and making a magazine change

  on the run.

  He got to the wreck of the Renault and wrenched open the left rear door. He could see immediately

  that the two execs were shaken and scratched but okay. Dusty was bleeding in the front

  passenger’s seat, the front of his armour saturated from a wound in his face. Tim was dead, most

  of his head gone and sprayed across the execs in the back.

  Archer seized the closest client by the arm and yanked him out, shouting, ‘Move! Move now!’

  Gunfire sounded behind him above the heavy buzz in his ears but he ignored it, focussing on the

  task at hand. The exec tumbled out and Archer pushed him to the ground a couple of metres away

  with an order to stay down. The second one was frozen and wouldn’t budge. Archer grabbed him

  by the collar and jerked him across the back seat but he locked his arms and legs against the door

  frame and began wailing like a scared child.

  Not breaking stride, Archer thumped him in the face with a left jab and stunned him, then yanked

  him out and pushed him down beside his mate. Kneeling over them he scanned around, seeing the

  BMW pulled up near the Patrol, all doors open and fire coming from behind it. Jacko and Grunter

  were deployed at each end of the Patrol, trading shots with the Beamer boys. Bula was cutting

  around another vehicle, the RPK in his hands looking like a .22 to a normal sized man. He was

  seeking an angle to out flank the enemy.

  Archer slapped both execs on the head and shouted at them to stay down, then pushed up and

  returned to the Renault. The front passenger door was buckled and wouldn’t open. He used his rifle

  barrel to clear the broken glass and reached in to Dusty. The former Marine was barely conscious,

  bleeding heavily from a nasty gouge to his left cheek and another slice across his forehead. His

  nose looked broken, and Archer realised he had probably smashed his face into the dash. A quick

  check revealed no other obvious injuries.

  ‘Come on you whinging fucken Pom!’

  Archer slung his AK and grabbed his mate under the arms, heaving him up and dragging him

  through the window. He dragged him across to the execs and lay him down. Ripping Dusty’s own

  field dressing from his webbing Archer pressed it against the cheek wound and used his arm to

  wipe some of the blood away. He ripped a length of duct tape from his own webbing and secured it

  across the dressing and half way round Dusty’s head.

  He checked the lads again and saw Bula had got distracted. Somebody had opened up from the far

  side of the road at him, and he had now taken a knee behind a vehicle and was trying to pick off

  the target through the wreckage around him.

  Archer moved right, keeping well clear of his own lads’ arcs, AK in the shoulder. He could see two of

  the Beamer boys behind the engine block, each with an AK, taking turns to rise and pop a short

  burst at Jacko and Grunter.

  Archer dropped flat on his belly and took aim. He could see the side of one of the boys around the

  edge of the wrecked BMW, and let loose a quick double tap. A scream sounded and the gunman fel

  backwards into full view. Archer gave him a longer burst that shook him like a bad disco dancer

  and he dropped his AK, writhing in the dirt. His mate wasn’t stupid though and kept his position

  behind the engine block, his feet hidden by the wheel.

  Archer saw his gun barrel poke up above the bonnet of the BMW and readied himself. The gun

  edged up horizontally and loosed off a spray of rounds blindly, the bullets sweeping across the side

  of the Patrol and punching more holes in it.

  Jacko was closest to Archer and returned a burst of his own, before yelling, ‘Stoppage!’

  Archer saw him ripping his magazine off and slapping in a new one, then yanking at the bolt.

  ‘Stoppage!’ he shouted again, indicating a jam.

  The other Beamer boy obviously understood some English because he saw his opportunity to seal

  the deal. Archer rose at the same time as the insurgent and double tapped him in the chest. The

  Iraqi fell back behind the car, his AK firing wildly into the sky.

  ‘Moving!’

  Archer moved forward and right, seeing the three Iraqis behind the car. One dead on his back, the second rolling on his side with the AK still in his hand, trying to bring it round, the third at the

  back trading shots with Grunter.

  He put a burst into the wounded gunman, the third oblivious to his presence, and moved in closer.

  The third gunman saw him now and swung round to meet the new threat, but too late. As he

  moved, Grunter took his head off at the shoulders with a triple burst, and Archer caught him in the

  front as he went down.

  Archer put another burst into the head of the first man, and repeated it on the second. Grunter

  had moved forward now and finished off what was left of his own target.

  More gunfire sounded from the roadway, a couple of single AK shots then a sustained burst of

  machine gun fire.

  Bula came back through the dust at a jog, the RPK in his hands and blood dribbling from his leg. He

  was still grinning.

  ‘Got ‘im bro,’ he shouted, taking a knee near Jacko, covering arcs again.

  ‘Grunter, get the wagon going,’ Archer ordered, ‘Jacko with me. Bula; with Grunter.’

  They moved quickly, Jacko covering the growing crowd of onlookers as Archer got to the execs

  and Dusty.

  He took a knee over them and covered an arc, hearing horn blasts and roaring Humvee engines as

  an American PMC team approached from the rear. There were smashing sounds as the column

  forced its way through the traffic, even though it would have been easier to go wide into the desert.

  Not much difference between some of the PMCs and their service comrades, Archer thought.

  Grunter got the Patrol going and manoeuvred fully onto the shoulder, Bula trotting behind him as

  he made his way forward. They quickly loaded the execs into the backseat and onto the floor, Jacko

  over them.

  Archer got Dusty into the back as well then moved back to the Renault. Bula got a Union Jack out

  and slung it across the back of the Patrol to face the Yanks when they arrived. The last thing they

  wanted now was friendly fire.

  Tim’s legs were stuck under the steering wheel and Archer was working at freeing them, trying to

  ignore the sticky mess around him, when he heard the Yank packet arrive. He got the right leg free

  and got Tim half out the window when he heard a burst of fire.

  Cradling Tim in his arms he threw a glance over his shoulder, instinct telling him this was going

  bad.

  A Humvee was pulled up near the Patrol, and a gunner was leaning out the window with his M4,

  shouting at Bula who stood near the back of the Patrol with his RPK.

  ‘Oh shit...’

  Archer let Tim down and started to move back to his team, waving and shouting at the soldier, but it was too late.

  The gunner was obviously amped
up and used to giving orders that were obeyed. Bula was also

  amped up but still in control, but that wasn’t the problem. He was holding a machine gun and had

  dark skin, and even though Archer clearly understood he was shouting ‘Security patrol! We’re on

  your side!’ the young Yank obviously couldn’t understand a Fijian accent.

  The M4 burst off rounds and Bula went down.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Archer sprinted forward now, hands in the air, shouting, ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’

  He got to the roadway and the Humvee emptied out. The gunslinger who had shot Bula darted

  towards him with his carbine raised, ready to finish him, convinced he had taken a Taleban down.

  ‘Stand down you fucken moron!’ Jacko bellowed at him, debussing with Grunter, both of them wise

  enough to leave their AKs behind.

  The gunner swung his rifle towards them then paused as the two white men confronted him. His

  gaze went back to where Bula lay still in the dust.

  ‘What the hel . .’

  He never finished his sentence because Grunter seized him by the throat with one big mitt and

  stripped him of his weapon with the other. He lifted the other guy onto his tip-toes and tossed the

  carbine aside.

  Jacko went to Bula and Archer reached them just as the vehicle commander, a young surfer looking

  dude, pointed a rifle at Grunter’s head.

  ‘Stand down, boy,’ he drawled, calm and quiet. ‘Do it now.’

  Grunter tossed the gunner aside like a rag doll and stepped back, hands raised and his face as

  impassive as ever. Jacko stood and came over. He had blood on his hands and rage in his eyes.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly. He raised his hands to shoulder height, showing the blood on his hands to

  the Americans.

  Archer sucked in a breath through his nose and felt grit in his eyes. The American squad were

  facing them, guns raised. Compared to his own team, these guys were the stereotypical private

  contractors in a company uniform of desert boots, sand khakis and navy blue polos, all with

  fingerless gloves, baseball caps and wrap around shades. Their armour vests were loaded with

  radios, spare mags and bulging pouches.

  Archer recognised them straight away as Black Star operators. Known on the circuit as Death Star

  due to the high number of lives they both lost and took, they had a terrible reputation for