by Avell Kro
Archer smiled and nodded. ‘Maybe I should.’ He gave her his empty tumbler. ‘Better make that a pint
then.’
She disappeared and he rubbed his face. The alcohol and the downer after the adrenaline wore off
were making him tired. He needed a pick-me-up. He was planning his night with the busty Becky
when his phone buzzed. The caller ID showed Private Number.
Expecting Moore, he was surprised to hear a female’s voice when he answered.
‘Craig, it’s Tracy Spencer. We’ve got a goer, he’s coming early. I’ll pick you up in forty five minutes.’
He was silent as he absorbed the news.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yeah. .yeah, I’m here. See you in forty five.’
He disconnected and moved for the door, focussed now on the job at hand. Becky intercepted him
before he got there, looking confused.
‘Oi, what you playin’ at? I thought. .’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.’ He smiled what he hoped was apologetically. ‘Work called me in, sorry.’
‘Whatev’s.’ She tossed her hair dismissively and turned away. ‘Your loss, love.’
Archer stepped after her and whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t you worry, love, I’ll see you again.’ Her
musk filled his nostrils and she pressed back against him.
He squeezed her arm and went for the door.
25
Tracy slid to the kerb in a non-descript gunmetal grey Saab 9000 Turbo exactly forty five minutes
later.
Archer slung his bags in the boot beside hers and took the passenger seat. A pair of service station
coffees sat in the cup holder.
‘I figured I should make it worth your while to get pul ed away at this time of night,’ she said
apologetically as she accelerated away. ‘You look like a long black kind of a bloke.’
‘Any coffee’s good coffee,’ he replied, buckling himself in.
She was heavy on both pedals and used the automatic gears as if they were manual. He steadied
himself before taking his coffee. It was hot and strong and the aroma alone was enough to give him
a boost.
Tracy smelled of a popular perfume he couldn’t quite place, warm spicy vanilla, and was dressed
for work in jeans and a thermal top. She turned the radio down as they headed for the M25.
‘Boyle’s coming over tomorrow night. I had a call from the informant, he’s due at hers by dawn-
he’s promised her a dawn breaker to remember.’
Archer nodded and savoured a mouthful of coffee. It always tasted better when you were drinking
with a girl, he reflected. ‘Is this normal for him to come at the last minute?’ he asked.
Tracy’s strong hands worked the gears and wheel as she took the motorway on ramp at speed.
Archer slipped his cup back into the holder for safe keeping. Tracy noticed and grinned.
‘Not scared are you? I thought all you triggermen were tough as nails?’
Triggermen? If only you knew.
He grunted. ‘The only things that scare me are women drivers and the tax man.’
Tracy hit the fast lane and held a steady ninety, reaching for her own cup. Archer passed it to her,
pausing to sniff the mouth of it first.
‘Cappuccino? No. .long black with sweetener.’
‘Wel done.’ She sipped it appreciatively. ‘And yes, it’s not uncommon for him to come over at short
notice. He always contacts her though, to make sure she doesn’t have any other commitments first.’
She snorted. ‘He’s considerate like that.’
‘What a catch. By commitments I take it you mean clients?’
‘Mostly. She also plays bridge in a local club though, and visits her gran most days.’
‘And enjoys moonlit walks on the beach and Tom Hanks rom-coms,’ Archer replied.
Tracy shot him a sideways glance. ‘Wow, heavy on the sarcasm there, Kiwi.’
‘Kiwi? Really?’ He smiled, enjoying her sassiness.
‘I’m working with that for now. Colonial’s a bit of a mouthful, Antipodean’s even worse.’ She
frowned as she overtook a lorry with one hand on the wheel. ‘And what’s an Antipodean, anyway?
Does anyone actually ever go to the Antipodes?’
‘Not since early last century. Or maybe around the forties, when we had to save the Poms’ sorry
arse. Again.’
Tracy grinned at his needling. ‘Pom? Is that the best you can do? It doesn’t even mean anything
anyway.’
‘Prisoner of Mother England,’ he said. ‘Means you’re all still tied to the monarchy with floral apron
strings.’
They fell into a comfortable silence for a time, and Archer let his mind wander back to the events
earlier in the evening. It still puzzled him what the motive was for the American mercenaries. If
they were working for the Yank government, the CIA or DIA or whoever, they could have just
leaned on his own bosses or the Brits and taken over the mission lock stock and barrel.
No, the back door tactics didn’t fly with that scenario. In the War on Terror, the US got their own
way, no issues there. Everything he knew to date indicated something different entirely. There was
a different puppet master pulling the strings on this one, somebody unofficial but with significant
clout; PMCs did not come cheap.
Archer turned his mind to the men themselves, the men he’d killed without batting an eyelid. He
felt no remorse at all, not a drop. They were cold blooded killers themselves; they knew the score.
If it wasn’t them it would’ve been him. Two lay dead and the leader, Carl, faced a lot of difficult
questions from the police followed by a life with a crippled arm.
Archer took a certain malevolent satisfaction from knowing he’d taken them out of the game,
particularly the Dixie boy who’d murdered Bula so long ago. He’d gone through all three cell
phones, and found they were clearly all burn phones; cheap pre-pay’s used for a job then
discarded. He’d recorded all the numbers out of them-no saved contacts-and emailed them to
himself to check later.
He wondered again why Moore hadn’t got back to him, and checked his phone. No missed calls, no
messages. He tucked it away and watched Tracy in his peripheral vision. She drove with
confidence and seemed more at ease now, even excited, without Matthew Livingstone looking over
her shoulder.
He liked her enthusiasm and so far she seemed competent. Time would tell. He had to admit he
found her attractive in the way women in the armed forces often were-for some reason guns and
girls could be an intoxicating blend. But as with any mission Archer felt nervous anticipation about
the task ahead of them, and this was increased by the unknown factor of Tracy.
He was used to working with highly trained men, combat veterans who had been proven under
fire. He’d never gone into the field with a woman in tow, let alone a female spy. It made him feel
uneasy. After a time they stopped at a service centre for more coffee and sandwiches and a rest
stop for Tracy.
While he waited for the coffee order he tried calling Moore again, but still got his voicemail. He left
another message and scoffed his sandwiches while he waited. He bought some bottled water,
chocolate bars and energy drinks as well, and took the lot back to the car. He quickly checked the
boot to make sure nothing had been disturbed-he’d just had time after Tracy’s call to go and fetch
his bag from the locker where Moore had stashed it, and had beaten Tracy back to the hotel by
<
br /> barely a minute. He had no intention of giving her a heads up on his weaponry just yet.
When Tracy returned he cheerily offered to drive so she could eat.
He had no doubt she’d seen through the flimsy excuse but she handed the keys over anyway and
eased back the passenger seat. She took a sip of her cup and gave him a surprised look.
‘Hot chocolate? What am I, eighty? Is this Horlicks?’
Archer smiled. ‘Too much caffeine and you won’t sleep. I need you rested when we get there. We
won’t get a second chance at this.’
Tracy didn’t reply, burrowing instead into the plastic bag of food. She came out with a Yorkie bar
and held it up questioningly. ‘Just think of yourself then, won’t you?’
Archer looked confused.
‘Not for girls,’ she explained. ‘I can’t have that, I might hurt myself. You obviously haven’t seen the
ad.’
She half grinned then and Archer relaxed, feeling the last of the ice break. He eased back onto the
highway and accelerated hard, wanting to make time so they were in place wel before Boyle
arrived. Tracy was soon asleep and Archer settled into the drive, enjoying the almost empty rural
highways and the power of the Saab.
He mentally ran through risks and potential tactics as he drove, but it was difficult to assess
without knowing the real details of the mission. The glaringly obvious risk to him right now was
his partner, who was stirring from sleep. She cranked the seat up and rubbed her eyes.
As if reading his thoughts, Tracy glanced sideways and caught him looking away.
‘Worried?’ she asked.
‘Not worried,’ he replied. ‘Just working it through in my head.’
‘It’l be alright,’ she told him with the hint of a smile. ‘I am trained, you know.’
Archer grunted and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘I joined the Army from school,’ she told him, and reaching for her coffee as he dropped into the
middle lane. ‘My Dad was a soldier, did all the usuals for his generation-the Falklands, Northern
Ireland, the first Gulf War. I grew up on Army bases in the UK and Germany. I couldn’t wait to join when I was a kid, listening to his stories and meeting his mates. I spent a lot of time hanging round
the bases soaking it all in.’ She laughed. ‘I liked playing war more than my brother. He went and
became a doctor and I spent ten years as an MP.’
Archer said nothing, draining his coffee instead and staring out the window at the darkness
beyond the highway.
‘So where exactly are we going?’ he asked finally. ‘Cornwall’s a big place.’
Tracy was silent for a moment, as if weighing up her answer. ‘We’re going to Hampshire first,’ she
replied, ‘the Firm’s got a little place on the coast.’
26
The description of “a little place on the coast” was misleading at best.
Fort Monckton was an ancient fort perched on a cliff top, overlooking Stokes Bay in Gosport. They
swapped drivers again before they got there and Tracy seemed to follow her nose in the darkness.
A civilian security guard met them at a barrier arm on the approach road and Tracy buzzed her
window down, letting in a blast of cold air. After checking her credentials he stepped back from the
car and spoke into a walkie talkie, presumably calling his ops base. Archer and Tracy silently
watched him as he frowned and listened before coming back to the window.
‘Sorry madam,’ he said in a broad West Country burr, ‘but alternative arrangements have been
made for you.’
Tracy frowned. ‘Are you sure? I wasn’t aware.. we’re supposed to be meeting here.’
‘Sorry madam,’ he repeated, and gave Archer a furtive glance. ‘I’ve been told to redirect you to the
Holiday Inn at Portsmouth. Reservations have been made..’
He glanced at Archer again and looked uncomfortable. Archer scowled and shook his head in
frustration. ‘Was that from Mr Livingstone?’ he said pointedly, and the guard shrugged non-
committally.
‘’Fraid I don’t know, sir. I just gets me orders like.’
‘So much for trust and co-operation,’ Archer muttered darkly.
Tracy said nothing, just buzzed the window up and did a quick J-turn before heading back the way
they’d come. Archer expected her to stop and call Livingstone and when she continued driving
instead, he broke the tense silence.
‘Is this normal?’ he asked. She stayed focussed on the road ahead as she nosed towards the Holiday
Inn.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she replied finally, ‘it’s no big deal.’
Archer snorted. ‘It kind of is, really, when you get invited into the club but aren’t allowed into the
clubhouse.’
‘It’s not like that. He’s not trying to exclude you.’
‘Course he is, he’s an arrogant snob. Doesn’t anyone ever question Golden Boy Livingstone, or is
that just not the done thing in your outfit?’
Tracy threw him an angry glance. ‘Nobody needs to question him, because he’s bloody good at his
job. He’s the go-to guy for us, and this is a huge opportunity for me to be able to work with him.
You should look at it the same way-you might actually learn something.’
‘Like how to win friends and influence people? No thanks.’
‘What Mathew doesn’t know about the intelligence world isn’t worth knowing,’ Tracy snapped.
‘He’s done everything and re-wrote the book, so don’t write him off just because he doesn’t want
to be your bosom buddy. That’s his way. He has the ear of some very high level people; he’s on first
name terms with the Foreign Secretary, for God’s sake.’
Neither of them spoke until they arrived at the hotel and roused the night porter. Tracy checked
them in while Archer got the bags. The hotel was silent aside from the background chatter of a
Bol ywood movie on the porter’s portable DVD player.
Tracy slid Archer’s key along the Reception desk to him and grabbed her bag. ‘See you in the
morning,’ she tossed over her shoulder before turning and walking away.
Archer and the porter looked at each other. The porter smirked. Archer shrugged and scooped up
the key, fol owing the stiff back in front of him, noticing again the tautness of her buttocks as she
climbed the stairs.
She didn’t look back as she swiped into her room and shut the door. Archer mentally dismissed her
and entered the room across the hall. He tossed his bag onto the luggage shelf and flicked on the
TV. The room was basic and formulaic.
No expense spared; thanks Matt.
Except somebody like him would never be called Matt; that just wouldn’t be proper. Surprising he
didn’t have a double barrelled last name. Archer put the jug on and booted up his laptop. He
opened up his email to himself with the details taken from phones of the American crew. It was
only a handful of numbers that had been called, and he quickly realised they had mostly called
each other. The texts between themselves were brief and meaningless.
He forwarded the email to Jedi with a short explanation of what had happened then shut the
laptop down and flopped onto the bed. No matter how he tried to push it aside, Tracy’s mood
bugged him. Something about her had got under his skin and it bothered him that she was
annoyed.
Twice he got up and went to the door before cursing himself for acting like a fawning schoolboy
.
Finally he caved and opened the door, striding across the hall and raising his hand to knock. He
paused and decided again he was being foolish, and was turning to retreat when he heard
movement and the door opened.
Tracy stood and arched an eyebrow at him. She wore striped pyjama pants and a plain white
singlet that did nothing to hide her protruding nipples. Archer glanced down automatically then
flushed as he looked up and caught her eye.
‘Is this a social visit or what?’ she asked pointedly.
‘Ahh. .I just. .what time are we heading off in the morning? I just. .I’ll go for a run, that’s all.’ It
sounded lame and he knew it.
‘I’l meet you for breakfast at seven,’ she said abruptly, and made to shut the door.
He stayed where he was, and she paused.
‘Was there something else?’
Archer shook his head and turned away, hearing the door close behind him. Once inside his own
room he mentally gave himself a swift uppercut before bed.
He’d barely closed his eyes when his cell phone rang. It was Jedi.
‘Have you gone off the fucking reservation?’ the former RSM demanded.
Archer sat up and fumbled for the bedside light, trying to gather himself. He’d been bollocked once
before by Jedi-WO1’s were allowed to do that to officers-and he had the immediate impression
this was about to be number two.
‘No, but I think they did.’
‘They’re not on the books. Moore checked.’ Jedi’s tone was terse and edgy. ‘Our friends don’t tend
to bullshit us about that sort of thing, not when two of their countrymen are dead and a third is
found with the murder weapon and saying nothing.’
‘I tried to get hold of Rob…’
‘He was meeting a high level source. And yes, this line is secure, by the way.’
Archer was tired and getting sick of being jerked about. ‘I can’t change the facts, Jedi. They called
the play and I responded appropriately. Would you rather it was a Kiwi found with a shed load of
explosives and some bullshit story? It’d be me down at Paddington Green getting grilled right now,
and probably all over the papers tomorrow.’
Jedi was silent and Archer could almost feel the heat down the phone line. He decided to push his