Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  Were they wrong, Archer?’

  Archer took a slow breath and rolled his jaw to ease the tension before speaking.

  ‘No sir,’ he replied softly, ‘they weren’t wrong.’

  The Director considered him for a long moment, as if mul ing over his decision.

  ‘I sincerely hope not. But for now, the mission is not over. Get out there and finish it.’ He paused

  before continuing. ‘And if you get it wrong again, I’ll have your bloody guts for garters.’

  16

  The light plane landed at 10pm, and Yassar was hustled into a blue Toyota Surf with blacked out

  windows. Not that anyone was paying attention anyway; money had changed hands and that was

  that.

  The driver of the Surf was a tall Samoan who introduced himself as Afa. He moved with the lean

  smoothness of an athlete and had a pistol tucked into the waistband of his ragged jeans. His

  partner was shorter and stockier and had the shoulders and arms of a power lifter.

  He didn’t bother to introduce himself, just roughly frisked Yassar and put him in the backseat.

  Afa drove and Yassar switched off, letting tiredness take over as the Surf hummed through Apia

  city centre and into the mountains. He had no idea where they were and it occurred to him that if

  it all went south he would be in a very sticky situation indeed. But he was anyway, so what did it

  matter? He closed his eyes and leaned against the window.

  It had been a frantic day and a half-the yacht had been met at sea by a chopper which winched

  Yassar up like a worm on a fishing line, flew him back to a private landing strip in Northland, and

  transferred him to a light plane. They had flown to Sydney first then somewhere in the remote

  Northern Territories, and on from there on the last leg.

  It seemed like only seconds later that the Surf slowed and turned off onto a bumpy road, rol ing

  and dipping a good couple of hundred metres through a tree lined avenue until they burst forth

  onto a wide expanse of open land.

  The headlights swept across the facade of a wide house as the Surf turned and parked at the front

  door. The building looked like something from days gone by, like the mansion of a Georgia

  plantation owner in the days of slavery and cotton picking, big wooden shutters and an expansive

  porch with a rocking chair and swing seat.

  A man was silhouetted by the light spilling out the open front door. Average height and long in the

  body, short stocky legs, and curly auburn hair. As Yassar took the steps to the porch the man

  extended his hand and broke into a broad smile.

  ‘Hel o my friend,’ Yassar enthused, reaching out to pump the other man’s hand. Boyle’s grip was

  strong but brief, and Yassar got the first inkling that things were not quite going to go as he’d

  planned. ‘It is so good to see you again.’

  Boyle nodded and gave a non-committal grunt as he released the hand shake. He appraised the

  newcomer silently. ‘Ye’re in a spot of bother, wee man.’

  Yassar’s smile faltered and he shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘I guess you could say that. .’ He

  turned and waved an arm at their surroundings. ‘What a paradise, I must say, hey? Beautiful.’ He

  clasped his hands together and shook his head, gazing with admiration at the Irishman. ‘Absolutely

  beautiful.’

  ‘Don’t suck my dick, pal,’ Boyle said softly, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. ‘This is business. We have a lot to talk about.’

  Yassar’s smile faltered further. Things were most definitely not going to plan, he reflected. Still,

  perhaps he could talk his way through this and come out the other side. After all, he was Yassar, he

  was Saudi royalty. No Irish village-idiot was going to outsmart him.

  But despite his bravado, as he stepped across the threshold into the old house, Yassar couldn’t help

  feeling he was passing the point of no return.

  17

  Air New Zealand’s NZ2 flight landed at London Heathrow at 1:45pm.

  On this Wednesday among its passengers was Craig Archer, a management consultant who was

  travelling alone and on his own passport. He joined the throng at one of the busiest airports in the

  world, shuffling to collect his luggage then jostling for position to get through Immigration as

  quickly as possible.

  The Immigration officer paid him no particular attention, but Archer was certain he was being

  watched. His background and previous travels would have ensured he was on the international

  watch-list, even before the Service had organised the visit and notified their British counterparts

  of his impending arrival.

  He'd left Auckland twenty eight hours ago, transited Los Angeles for five hours, and spent the

  entire flight sat next to a muscular young Indian man who smelled of curry and wore far too much

  hair product. He also noted with a sneer the paperback that the guy was reading. It was one of a

  plethora purportedly written by an ex-Regiment soldier who had left under a cloud and publicly

  touted himself as a hero. Archer had met him once and the guy lived in a fantastic parallel

  universe. His bestsellers were ghost written and Archer refused to read him on principle.

  He’d done plenty of covert trips overseas before and rarely had issues with security services, but

  he had a feeling time would be different. Sure enough, in the Arrivals hall of Terminal Four he

  spotted a watcher lurking near the door, a sporty looking young black guy with ear buds in and a

  carry bag over his shoulder. He ignored him and stopped to buy a bottle of water before joining the

  queue for a cab, waiting seven minutes before climbing into a black cab and giving the driver the

  name of his hotel in Marble Arch.

  He settled back for the journey, not even bothering to check his tail for the watchers he knew

  would be there, but instead happily reflecting that on most previous trips to London he’d either

  been picked up by a mate or caught the tube into Victoria.

  The joys of travelling on the Government’s ticket, he thought.

  Twenty five minutes later the cab pulled up at the kerb and Archer handed over his credit card,

  added on the appropriate tip-against his natural instincts-and carried his own luggage into

  Reception.

  The girl at the front desk was Eastern European-probably Polish, he guessed-and checked him in

  with minimal fuss and even less personality. Archer didn’t care-all he wanted was a drink, a

  shower and a warm bed. The meal onboard had been sufficient and he had slept briefly.

  He took the lift to the third floor, noted that the neighbouring rooms were silent, and as soon as he unlocked the door he detected the presence of someone in the darkened room. His senses went

  instantly to full alert.

  He stepped to the side and was about to slip the access card into the power slot, when the other

  person spoke.

  ‘Calm down Arch, it’s just me.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and Han Solo.’

  It was a man’s voice, calm and with a touch of amusement, and it came from the armchair by the

  window.

  ‘ Millennium Falcon,’ Archer replied, wondering who the hel came up with these ridiculous code

  words. He hit the lights and immediately recognised the man sitting watching him, a glass of beer

  in one hand. His face split into a grin and he crossed the floor to shake hands.

  Rob Moore had served the last 15 years of his 20 year military career in Special Forces befo
re

  retiring and dropping out of sight. He’d been an exemplary soldier, and had been a troop Sergeant

  in Mountain Troop when Archer had taken over as the OC. The experienced NCO had taught him

  many things and eased him into life in the Group.

  He was a huskily built man with greying temples and a weathered complexion, dressed casually in

  jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Moore told him with a grin, pumping his hand in a ferocious grip, ‘put

  on a bit of weight though, boy.’

  ‘Funny, you just look older.’ Archer smiled warmly and dropped his overnighter on the bed. ‘Still

  having to work, then?’

  Moore slapped him on the arm and sat down again. He gestured towards the fridge of the standard

  studio room.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he said graciously, ‘it’s on the firm.’

  Archer nodded and shed his jacket, pouring himself a bourbon and cola in a tumbler, aware of

  Moore watching him throughout.

  ‘So, we’re clean here?’ he asked, whirling a finger at the ceiling and walls.

  ‘As we’ll ever be,’ Moore replied, taking a draught of his beer. ‘So obviously I’m your welcoming

  committee, and I’ll be here in the morning to take you to your meeting across the bridge.’

  ‘So this is where you got to then.’

  Moore inclined his head.

  ‘After an apprenticeship elsewhere. Been here a while now though.’ He shrugged. ‘I like it, suits me.

  I get to travel to exotic places, meet interesting people..’

  ‘And we know the rest,’ Archer finished for him. ‘So we share an employer again?’

  ‘We do.’ Moore gave a short nod and drained his glass. He stood and put the glass on the counter top. ‘I’ll pick you up at nine. I’d say you’ll be done by eleven.’

  He moved towards the door then paused. ‘Oh, and the ful English here is crap. Best off getting

  something elsewhere.’ He opened the door and winked. ‘Sleep tight, Chucklehead.’

  Archer locked the door behind him and sipped his drink as he stood at the window, watching

  Moore cross the road below and disappear up the street.

  The former NCO was a throwback to his previous life, and the surest sign yet of the new life he’d

  now entered. Like anyone in his world he’d always suspected roles like this had existed-hel , some

  nations made no secret about it-but aside from the odd whisper he’d never had anything to base

  his suspicions on. Seeing Moore, and knowing his background, cemented it for him that this new

  life was not a fantasy at all, it was a stone cold reality.

  Archer felt a thrill run through him as he contemplated what lay ahead of him. He had never been

  interested in the hum-drum existence of everyday life, of commuting to a generic office in a beige

  Toyota and coming home to a mousey wife and a picket fence. Such a thought chilled him and he

  knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he were forced into such an existence he would

  certainly wilt and die.

  He lived for action and adventure, the buzz of life on the edge, of pitting himself against the odds

  and battling to win, whether it was scaling a rain-slick mountainside, penetrating defences to

  obtain intel igence or plant a bomb, or engaging the enemy at close quarters in one of the world’s

  hellholes.

  Challenges like that were the foods of life for men like Archer and Moore. Just as certainly as his

  military career had come to an end, the chapter of being on the circuit had closed, and now a new

  chapter of adventure awaited him.

  Archer drained his glass and set it down before stripping off and taking a short cold shower. The

  pressure was hard and he was soon revived. He changed into jeans and a warm outdoors jacket

  before hitting the street to find a meal.

  He took a window seat in a nearby pizza place and people watched as he ate. The Spanish waitress

  had firm, pert breasts and legs made for wrapping around a man. She showed some interest and

  he debated hard about taking it further. He was still annoyed about how things had ended with

  Jazz, who had studiously avoided him since the run in with her ex, and the urge to be with a

  woman was strong. Nobody need know. He finally decided against it, knowing that after the

  debacle in Auckland any further hiccups would not be treated lightly.

  He downed his Peroni and left a ten quid tip instead, making his way back to the hotel where he

  took a long hot soak to wash away the fug of 28 hours of international travel. The heat and alcohol

  helped tiredness to descend suddenly, and he hit the sack, pleased the bed was firm and warm.

  Within seconds he was in a deep and dreamless sleep.

  18

  He woke at 5am, wide awake and feeling like he’d slept all day.

  He threw on gym gear and took a jog through Hyde Park, a light rain falling and his breath

  steaming as he worked out the kinks and got the blood pumping. He loved London any time of

  year, and had never understood people who moaned about the weather and the rush and the

  overcrowding. It was one of the most interesting cities in the world as far as Archer was

  concerned, and he envied Moore getting a posting here.

  If all went well and he had some time to spare before flying home, he intended to head to Charing

  Cross Road and browse the old bookshops, eat at Covent Garden and share a couple of pints with

  Moore at a Weatherspoon’s-any Weatherspoon’s. He’d last been here a year ago and spent an

  enjoyable long weekend with a Qantas air hostess, eating drinking and making love in a West End

  hotel.

  Archer exited the park and glanced back as he did so, catching sight of the jogger he’d seen earlier.

  A pair of white men in their thirties, label gear and not talking, keeping pace with him from a

  hundred yards or so back. They had matching short back and sides haircuts and looked like gym

  bunnies.

  American, he thought to himself, probably feds.

  He wondered why they were keeping tabs on him, but more so, wondered how good they were.

  Picking up the pace, he turned right out of the park onto Bayswater Rd and headed towards the

  hotel. He knew they would have seen him lift the pace and would presumably do likewise. Glancing

  around, he couldn’t see a spotter in sight.

  Archer quickly turned and retraced his steps. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  As he rounded the hedge that bordered the entrance path, he heard the two sets of approaching

  footfal s hurrying towards him.

  He raced around the corner and crashed straight into them, bringing his elbow up into the solar

  plexus of the closest one and knocking the wind out of him. He grabbed the second guy’s sweater

  and they all tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

  In the confusion Archer managed to keep the first guy beneath him and rode him to the ground,

  slamming him flat on his back and double-winding him. The other guy reacted quickly and broke

  free, rolling away and getting to his feet in a tae kwon do stance.

  Archer rolled off the first guy, who was gasping for breath and scrabbling at the wet ground, and

  glanced up at the second guy. Even two years later, on a rainy London morning, he recognised the

  man.

  He was the team leader whose gunner had killed Bula on the Highway to Hell.

  ‘You get around,’ Archer commented, standing over the fallen heavy.

  ‘So
do you, boy,’ the other man replied evenly. ‘Last time didn’t end so well for you.’

  ‘That was then,’ Archer told him, ‘this is now.’

  ‘Really? You’re pretty confident for a hick from the ass-end of the world.’

  The man’s tone was mocking and Archer felt himself getting riled. He’d always blamed this man for

  Bula’s death, for failing to control his own men.

  He took a step forward and as he did so, he saw the American’s eyes flicker off-line and realised

  the man was smarter than he’d thought.

  Archer had only half turned when the shock exploded through his body, starting at the centre of his

  back and flooding outwards to every fibre of his being, a 80,000 volt current blasting through him

  like a bolt from Hell.

  He jerked and twitched and went down quickly, hitting the dirt and writhing in agony. He saw the

  blurry figure of the third man watching him, and heard their voices but couldn’t comprehend the

  words through the haze that engulfed him. Someone stepped closer and kicked him in the guts,

  hard. It barely registered on his pain scale.

  He lay there for several seconds, aware that the three men had left and he was alone again, but

  unable to move and struggling to gather himself. He mentally cursed his over-confidence, bitter

  that he’d thought himself so smart yet had fallen for such an old trick.

  Eventually he hauled himself up and gingerly touched his back where the fangs of the stun gun had

  bitten him. He rolled his shoulders and twisted his trunk to try and shake off the pain, but even his

  teeth throbbed.

  He checked his pockets and realised he’d been searched. It was his habit to take literally nothing

  when he jogged, and this time had only carried his access card for the hotel. He found it lying

  discarded on the dirt nearby. He wiped it off and tucked it back into his shorts pocket.

  Patting himself down further, he realised the search hadn’t been as thorough as it should have

  been. Shoved inside the waistband of his shorts was the slim wallet he’d taken from the first guy.

  These two things told him something; his attackers didn’t need his hotel card because they already

  knew where he was staying, and they were not as professional as they should be.