by Avell Kro
Ingoe cleared his throat and sat up straighter.
‘No sir. As you know, I’ve worked with Craig before and I have no doubt of his suitability.’
The Director nodded, contemplative now. He shifted back towards Archer and again his focus came
across the desk.
‘I’d like you to kidnap someone for me,’ he said.
7
The elevator trip down to the basement was slow and silent. Archer mul ed over what he had been
told, and what had been asked of him.
It was to be an extraordinary rendition; the Government-sanctioned kidnapping of a foreign terror
suspect for imprisonment and interrogation. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to snatch
someone and it wasn’t the first time he’d accepted, but this time it seemed somehow different.
Before it had been a part of being a Special Forces operator and almost seemed a bi-product of the
actual job itself, but now it was the job.
The Director had made it clear that if the snatch itself failed, the target was to be eliminated. He also
made it clear that the Brits were watching closely and were getting constant updates.
He’d now been employed as what basically amounted to a Government hitman. It wasn’t soldiering
and it wasn’t quite spying. It was a murky grey land somewhere in the middle.
Archer had no particular moral problem with the idea. At the end of the day, he reasoned, every
soldier was paid to kill for their country. But even so the whole practice had the air of
unsavouriness about it.
He chided himself and discarded the thought. There was a job to be done. A bad man, a very bad
man, needed to be dealt with. The sort of bad man who could only be effectively dealt with one
way.
‘Sometimes there’s only one way,’ Ingoe said, as if reading his thoughts.
Archer glanced at him and gave a self-conscious grin. The former Warrant Officer’s gaze was
thoughtful.
‘Not having second thoughts?’
‘No mate.’ Archer gave a brief shake of the head. ‘No second thoughts.’
Ingoe considered him for a moment as the lift came to a stop with a clunk and the doors opened.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I’ve got some toys for you.’
They stepped into a workshop area lined with benches on one side and two full walls of shelving
on the others. The smell of gun oil and leather hung in the air and Archer subconsciously inhaled
deeply.
Ingoe led the way to a solid steel vault door, which he unlocked with a swipe card and a PIN code.
He swung the door open to reveal a walk in armoury and hit the lights. Archer ran his eye over the
racks of weapons inside; assault rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, sub machine guns, handguns of
various makes and models.
‘I could’ve sworn it wasn’t Christmas yet,’ he muttered, and Ingoe grinned wolfishly.
‘You’ll need a big and a small,’ he said, ‘and I guess probably a covert chopper.’ He checked his
watch. ‘I’ll be in the workshop, come through when you’re ready and you can run them in.’
Archer walked the length of each rack, scanning the handguns and sub machine guns. It was
standard for a Special Forces operative to have the flexibility to make mission-specific selections,
and he had always had strong personal preferences.
He quickly found a Sig Sauer P226, the standard military sidearm, and put it to one side. It was a
robust 15-shot 9mm that he’d used for years, and he knew it was reliable and accurate.
The choice for a compact sidearm was harder. He had no real preference in this area, but knew a
conservative choice would usually be best. He tossed up between another Sig, either the P229 or
the P250, and the Glock 26.
He selected one of each and set them aside for now, before moving on to the sub machine guns.
The Heckler and Koch MP5 was the universal choice, and he took a short K-PDW off the rack,
hefting it in his hands. With a stubby barrel it unleashed a devastating 900 rounds a minute, and
he’d used it before.
He took all five weapons with him through to the workshop and found Ingoe waiting with an
array of holsters and magazines laid out before him on a bench. He nodded approvingly when he
saw Archer’s choices.
‘No surprises there,’ he commented, before leading the way through another heavy door into a
soundproofed 35 metre shooting range.
Paper human targets hung at the far end against the bul et trap wall, and the lights were bright. An
extractor fan whirred but the scent of cordite was still heavy. They stood together at a bench and
loaded magazines for each of the weapons, working silently and efficiently, before both donning
earmuffs and safety glasses.
When he was ready Archer moved up to the 20m mark with all five weapons and a box of
magazines. Ingoe dimmed the lights a touch and observed as his new operative test fired the full
size P226. A series of sets at different ranges satisfied him that it was a good selection, before
Archer moved on to the three smaller pistols.
Each was put through its paces with 100 rounds being fired through it, and Ingoe’s experienced
eye could tell that Archer was more comfortable with the Glock than either of the Sigs. It was
neither here nor there; all were excellent tools and personal preference was important. A man’s
familiarity with a gun was crucial when his life depended on it.
The MP5K took a 30-round magazine and Archer emptied five of them in short order, moving
between targets at different ranges and raking them with short bursts of 9mm before Ingoe called
a halt to proceedings.
‘Now you’re just showing off,’ he said, cranking the lights back up.
Archer popped the empty magazine from the MP5K and double checked the chamber before
putting the weapon with the others on the bench and stripping off his safety gear. He gave a
satisfied grin across the bench at Ingoe.
‘Haven’t had a good shoot up for a while,’ he commented.
Ingoe grunted. ‘Best you get some practice in then,’ he replied. ‘You’re going live in two days.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Archer replied, reaching for a cleaning rod.
Ingoe looked at him. ‘It’s a different world, sunshine,’ he said. ‘Just have your wits about you. It’s
not like the Group.’
Archer ran the rod down the barrel of the Glock. ‘We’re all on the same side though, aren’t we?’
Ingoe gave a wolfish grin. ‘Ever heard the term ‘smoke and mirrors’?’
Archer cocked his head quizzically.
‘What you think you see ain’t always real. Magicians use smoke and mirrors to create an illusion
right in front of you, so you think they’re doing one thing when in fact they’re doing another.’ Ingoe
held his gaze. ‘That’s what this world is all about, Archer. Get used to it fast.’
8
Archer sensed trouble as soon as he pul ed into his street. He could see a dirty grey Nissan Navara
ute parked in the driveway of Jazz’s house, blocking in her own car. She was usually at the gym at
this time of the day, so it was unusual for her to be home and he’d never seen the truck before.
He eased past her tidy little bach with the wind chimes tinkling from the apple tree out the front,
buzzing down his window and cutting the radio as he did so. He didn’t hear anything over the
rumble of the Monaro, so turned into his driveway, stopping shor
t of the garage and getting out.
He took his time walking to the letterbox to collect his mail, the salty breeze warm on his face and
the smell of freshly mown grass all around. Seagul s swooped and squawked overhead, and a crash
of breaking glass sounded from next door, followed by muffled voices.
The mail got discarded as Archer bolted across his front lawn and leaped the low side fence,
arriving at the side of Jazz’s place within a couple of seconds. He moved quickly and quietly along
the side of the house towards the rear, the sound of an angry male voice getting louder as he got
closer.
He heard Jazz’s voice now, a pleading ‘Please don’t,’ fol owed by the thump of heavy footsteps from
the kitchen out to the small back deck.
Archer stepped into view to see a large man in a checked Swandri and jeans standing near the
back door, a beer can in one hand and the other one clenched. He glanced right and saw Jazz
standing just inside the door, holding a tea towel to her wrist. Her body language was submissive.
‘Afternoon neighbour,’ Archer called out easily, walking around the edge of the deck towards the
three steps that led to the back lawn.
The other man turned and scowled at him, and a look of relief crossed Jazz’s face.
‘Who’s this?’ the other man growled at her without taking his eyes off Archer.
‘I’m the neighbour,’ Archer replied with a friendly smile, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
‘Craig. And you are?’
‘Not interested, bud,’ the man replied, and Archer quickly sized him up.
About his own height but wider in the shoulders, carrying some weight but probably very strong.
Blonde curly hair and unshaven, probably mid thirties. Looked like a fisherman or labourer.
‘Oh wel .’ Archer ignored him and glanced to Jazz, who hadn’t moved. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re
popping over for dinner later? I got some nice T-bone-‘
‘I said, not interested, bud.’ The man moved now to the top step, chest puffed out and looking
angry. From there he stood a good two feet taller than Archer. ‘Take a hike.’
Archer continued to ignore him. ‘I also put a nice Reisling on ice earlier, I thought-‘
‘Hey!’ The man’s tone was sharp. ‘I’m talkin’ to you, bud!’
‘And I’m talking to the lady, so if you’d stop interrupting I’d appreciate it,’ Archer replied calmly. He
gave Jazz a smile, noting that the man had edged forward now and was leaning down as if to touch
him. ‘And did you want me to take Jojo for a run?’
‘Bud!’ The man’s beer breath was hot and strong as he leaned down into Archer’s body space. He
placed his left hand on Archer’s right shoulder and squeezed. ‘I told you-‘
Archer looked pointedly at the hand on his shoulder then up at the other man. ‘And I’m telling you,
friend. Take your hand off me or I’ll hurt you.’
His voice was calm and quiet, but full of menace. The other man held his gaze, a pulse in his
flushed neck jumping like a frog. He didn’t move his hand.
‘Jazz, are you okay?’ Archer asked evenly, not looking at her. ‘Who is this monkey?’
‘Not really. This is Jason.’
‘Ahh.’ Archer nodded his understanding. Jazz had told him about her abusive ex-partner, enough
detail for him to have taken an instant dislike to the man without ever having met him. ‘That
explains a lot then.’
‘So you must be the soldier boy from next door,’ Jason sneered, the pressure from his hand not
easing. ‘Take a hike, bud. This is nothing to do with you.’
‘Hmm.’ Archer set his jaw. ‘Unfortunately, it is. So I think you need to move your hand, then get in
your truck and drive away.’
Jason sneered malevolently and didn’t move.
‘You’ve got five seconds, friend,’ Archer told him calmly. ‘then I’m going to move you. Understand?’
‘You-‘
‘Five.’
‘-can-‘
‘Four.’
‘-kiss-‘
‘Three.’
‘-my-‘
‘Two.’
‘-hairy-‘
‘One.’
‘-balls!’
Archer’s left fist drove straight forward into Jason’s crotch, smashing into his scrotum then
gripping tightly and twisting. His right came up and easily swept the other man’s arm away.
Jason’s breath exploded out in a strangled wheeze and his hands instinctively went to his groin, the
beer can hitting the deck and spraying foam.
He scrabbled at Archer’s hand, which remained locked tightly on his testicles.
‘I told you to move,’ Archer told him softly, ‘you need to talk less and listen more.’ He cocked his
head slightly as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Maybe that was the problem in your
relationship. .I don’t know. But it’s time for you to go now.’
Jason gasped like a landed fish, his eyes bulging. A bead of sweat was rol ing down his forehead.
‘Nod if you understand.’
Jason nodded.
‘Now I’m going to let go, and you’re going to leave. You won’t come back. Are we clear?’
Jason nodded weakly again.
‘First, you’re going to apologise to the lady. Then you drive away. If I see you here again, I will hurt
you properly. If you contact her again, I will hunt you down.’ Archer’s gaze was cold and flat and
there was no humour or fear in his eyes. ‘Understand?’
Jason managed a third weak nod.
‘Good.’
Archer released his grip and Jason doubled at the waist, cupping his crotch and sucking in shallow
breaths. Behind him, Jazz breathed an audible sigh and wiped her hands on the tea towel.
‘Now apologise,’ Archer told him.
‘Fuck. .’
‘Don’t be nasty, just apologise and go.’
‘Ho..mo...ahhh.’
Jason looked up at him with anger back in his eyes, and Archer realised immediately that he was
on more than beer. He straightened up and glanced back at Jazz.
‘Fucken slut,’ he spat.
Archer grabbed him by the left arm and yanked him forward, causing him to stumble down the
steps onto the lawn. Jason’s other hand flashed to his pocket and came out with a Stanley box
cutter knife, ready to slash forwards. He started to do so, and Archer reacted instantly.
He pulled forward further, jerking Jason off balance again and side stepped at the same time,
outside the knife hand. His right hand locked onto the knife hand and squeezed it closed and
turned, the heel of his left hand jabbing straight and hard into Jason’s right eyebrow, opening up a cut which bled immediately, then slamming it again.
He twisted the knife hand towards him, weakening the grip, and landed a left hook into his
opponent’s ribs, then again, and again. As Jason folded sideways Archer wrenched the knife from
him and tossed it aside, pulled him downwards by the arm and gripped him by the throat. He
swept Jason’s legs from under him and drove him to the ground flat on his back.
There was a whoosh of air being expelled beneath his body weight as he landed on top of the other
man, still holding him by the throat. Jason’s face was red now and Archer eased his grip slightly,
locking the bigger man’s wrist under him and bracing his leg across Jason’s closest knee.
The bigger man was pinned and unable to move, but the anger in his eyes had not diminished. He
tried to buck, but to no avail. Archer gave his throat a squeeze.
‘Don’t be silly. You have three options here, bud.’ He paused to ensure he had Jason’s ful attention.
‘One, we lie here and wait for the cops, and you go to jail. Two, we get up, I beat the living crap out
of you, then we wait for the cops and you go to jail. Or three, we get up and you drive away, never
to be seen again.’
Even in his chemically-enhanced state, Jason could see he was not going to win this fight. He
closed his eyes and nodded slightly. Two minutes later he was backing his ute out of the drive, his
testicles throbbing and his throat aching, but with a sense of having dodged a bullet. He knew that
if he ever ran into that soldier boy again, he was going to better prepared. Next time, and he
promised himself there would be a next time, he would kill him.
Archer waited until the ute had disappeared from view before turning back to Jazz. She stood on
the deck with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth turned down and her brow furrowed.
There was sadness in her eyes.
They stared at each other for a moment before she turned and went back inside without a word.
Archer shook his head in frustration and headed home. If the silly bitch was going to be like that,
she could shove it.
9
Bad-Bad Leroy had pissed and moaned alright when Cody got home.
He’d been angry that not only had she been humping her skinny ass off but worse, she’d arrived
home to their shitty flat with a beat up face and a worse attitude than normal.
It took him all of sixty seconds to call her “manager” Delton, a skinny no-chest half caste
Maori/Croatian bitch with a penchant for knives and his own girls. Delton rocked around in his
pimped-out black Cadillac XTS, all swagger and bravado, and got the rundown from Leroy.
He checked her face like he was a goddamn doctor or some shit then held her chin in one bony
hand and leaned in close. She could smell stale pot and KFC on his breath.
‘Don’tchu worry, baby,’ he said softly, in what she imagined he imagined was a cool, soothing tone.
‘Delton knows people. Gonna get shit done, yo.’
With that he turned and walked out, snapping open his cel and hitting a speed dial button. Cody