Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  feeling for the hooker in the bed but realising she’d gone.

  ‘Bitch,’ he muttered, assuming he’d been ripped off. She’d been good but not great, but still.

  He turned on the side light and rubbed his eyes, hearing more knocking at the door.

  ‘Hold on,’ he called out.

  He was trying to pull his trousers on when the door was opened with a key and four men strode in.

  They were all uniformed members of the police, and two had their guns drawn. Behind them

  came a fifth man, a white man aged about fifty, dressed in a suit and open-necked shirt.

  One of the younger officers moved immediately to Livingstone’s luggage on the spare single bed,

  while two more approached him and snapped instructions in Thai.

  He knew better than to resist so put his hands in the air and tried to look non-threatening. His

  mind raced and he locked eyes with the white man. The white man said nothing, just held him

  with a cool gaze.

  The senior officer stepped up to face him, while his colleagues handcuffed Livingstone’s hands

  behind his back.

  ‘You are under arrest, Mr Lawrence,’ he said firmly, and Livingstone felt his heart skip a beat.

  At least they don’t know who I am.

  In the next second, his hopes were crushed.

  ‘Or should I say, Mr Livingstone.’ The senior officer was a small man with hard eyes and a flat nose.

  ‘You will come with us.’

  ‘What am I under arrest for?’ Livingstone tried to bluster, and the senior officer gave a small, cold

  smile.

  Without even turning his head, he pointed towards his younger colleague who was opening

  Livinstone’s suitcase. ‘For that,’ he said simply.

  Livingstone looked over and saw the younger officer holding up a plastic zip-loc bag of white

  powder. By the looks of it, it was probably close to a kilo of cocaine or methamphetamine.

  Livingstone had never seen it before in his life.

  He felt his shoulders slump and he looked back towards where the white man had stood a moment

  ago. He was gone.

  The senior officer lost his smile and gave a curt nod.

  ‘Welcome to Bangkok Hilton,’ he said.

  46

  Clifden, County Galway

  One month later

  Fahey’s did a good dinner of a Sunday, and Patrick Boyle had spent many long afternoons there

  supping pints and enjoying the craic.

  He was well known in the area and at Fahey’s he was treated as a minor celebrity. The Republican

  cause was still strong in Connemara and Fahey’s had been a focal point of this back in the day.

  On this Sunday Boyle had been to Mass in the morning, chatted with Father Gerry for a while

  afterwards, and slipped the priest a fifty Euro note ‘for the funds.’ Father Gerry took it without

  question and tucked it away beneath his flowing robes.

  Boyle walked from the church to Fahey’s, taking the time as he did so to make a couple of phone

  calls. Despite the recent dramas he still had clients waiting for orders and his clients did not like to

  be kept waiting. He promised them both delivery within a week, agreed to a 10% discount for one

  due to the delay, and made it to Fahey’s bang on midday for lunch.

  The barman Sean gave him his first pint on the house, giving a wink as he did so and a ‘Good on

  ya, pal.’

  Boyle accepted the drink with a nod and a knowing smile. He raised the glass to his lips and took a

  long, considered sup. It tasted like nectar, and it was good to be back. He wiped the back of his

  hand across his mouth and caught the eye of Maura, the waitress.

  ‘The usual, Pat?’ she called out in that flirty tone she always used with him, and he nodded and

  smiled again.

  A group of lads were in his usual corner booth, where he could see the doors, and quickly stood

  when they saw him coming over.

  ‘Alright, lads,’ he said, and the lads all nodded and muttered greetings as they shuffled off, vacating

  the booth for him.

  He took his seat and drank while he waited for his dinner. When it came he took his time eating,

  savouring the tender roast lamb, the perfectly cooked potatoes and the minted peas. The gravy

  was thick and piping hot and he went heavy on the salt.

  Punters came and went, many stopping to say hello or give a wave across the room to him. Boyle

  replied in kind but today didn’t stop to make conversation with anyone. He was in a contemplative

  mood, and was worried about closing the deals he’d made. Since losing his last shipment, he had

  nothing on hand right now to fill the orders.

  The last month had been spent travelling-London to Bangkok without luck, and home via Malaysia and Singapore. That bastard Livingstone had slipped from his grasp somehow, but Patrick Boyle

  was determined if nothing else. He would finish the job and avenge both Ruthie’s death and the

  misfortune that had come to him.

  Another Guinness chased the meal down and eventually Boyle sat back and wiped his mouth on

  his napkin, full and satisfied.

  He left cash on the table to cover the bill, gave a wave to Maura and a nod to Sean, and walked out

  of the pub, heading for home.

  Five minutes later he wheeled the blue Pajero into the yard of his farmhouse and parked beside

  the shed. The chooks were running loose and sheep grazed in the paddocks beyond the white-

  washed house. The farm had been in the family for generations now and still had the original

  stone walls. It was peaceful out here and his closest neighbours were four hundred yards away.

  They were reclusive artists-she painted, he wrote poetry-and they gave him no bother.

  Boyle crossed to the front door, whistling for the dog. He was probably off chasing rabbits, Boyle

  thought, reaching for the door handle.

  His right arm suddenly jerked and he felt a thump and heard a tiny phhtt at the same time. He

  grabbed at his forearm, feeling blood already coming through the sleeve of his jacket, and knew

  he’d been shot.

  He spun on his heel to go for the Pajero, letting go of the wounded arm and scrabbling under his

  jacket with his left hand. His Browning was holstered under his left arm and it was awkward to get

  to with that hand.

  As he moved, he knew it was already too late, but Patrick Boyle never went down without a fight.

  His fingers closed around the butt of the Browning, and he saw the Kiwi step from behind the

  shed twenty metres away. He was clad in DPMs with a floppy bush hat, and had an M4 slung across

  his back. A suppressed Sig was in his grip, pointing towards Boyle.

  Despite the situation they were in, Boyle couldn’t help but appreciate it had been a hell of a shot

  with a suppressor from that distance.

  ‘Leave it,’ Archer ordered him, advancing across the yard.

  Boyle glowered at him and continued trying to tug the pistol free.

  Archer squeezed the trigger again and put a round through Boyle’s left shoulder, blasting straight

  through the joint and ripping it apart. The impact spun him half around and caused him to

  stagger. His left hand dropped uselessly to his side and he cursed.

  Archer moved closer, barely four metres away now, the Sig still raised. ‘You had your chance,’ he

  said quietly.

  Boyle scowled at him. ‘Go to hell,’ he growled. ‘Are ye here to talk?’

  Archer considered him for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he said softly, and fired a double tap into
Boyle’s mouth.

  The body crumpled and fell in a heap on the ground. Blood began to leak from beneath the head

  and lifeless eyes stared into the distance.

  Archer stepped forward over the body, and looked down at it.

  He felt neither regret nor guilt. It was just a lump of meat and fabric now. A bird twittered

  somewhere in the sky above him.

  He raised the Sig and put a third round into the side of the head. The body twitched with the

  impact then lay still.

  Archer bent and picked up his spent brass, pocketed it, and walked away.

  Job done.

  END

  Message from the Author

  Thanks for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed it, this is the first in the Chase

  Investigations series. I’l be returning soon-check out the sneak peek below. Please take the time to

  leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

  If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to my Hitlist.

  Cheers,

  Angus McLean

  About the Author

  Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.

  His experience as a cop and a private investigator give his writing a touch of realism. He believes

  reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a

  youngster.

  His real identity remains a secret.

  www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at writerangusmclean@gmail.com. Sign up here to my

  Hitlist, to get free books and advance excerpts, plus competitions and other cool stuff!

  Discover My Other Titles

  Chase Investigations series:

  Old Friends

  Honey Trap

  Sleeping Dogs

  Tangled Webs

  Dirty Deeds

  Red Mist

  The Division series:

  Call to Arms

  The Shadow Dancers

  The Berlin Conspiracy (coming soon)

  The Service Series:

  The Service: Warlock

  Nicki Cooper Mystery Series (writing as Gemma Russell):

  The Country Club Caper

  Bonus Chapters

  The Division #2

  Call to Arms

  Chapter One

  Jack Travis saw the visitor well before he got to his front door and pushed himself up from the

  dining table, putting down his pen and picking up his coffee mug.

  The blue Hyundai Sonata bumped down the gravel farm driveway from the road, approaching the

  weatherboard bungalow slowly and pulling up near the open detached garage. A forest green

  Holden Colorado double cab ute was parked inside, splashed with mud.

  A Honda quad bike stood nearby. A border collie barked and ran from the porch, wagging his tail

  excitedly and watching as the visitor alighted from the vehicle.

  He was a medium sized man with sandy hair and an unremarkable face, dressed casually in chinos

  and a black Kathmandu jacket. When he walked he had a slight but noticeable limp, and he carried

  himself stiffly.

  Jed Ingoe-known as Jedi- had been the Regimental Sergeant Major of 1NZSAS Group until he lost

  part of his leg in an IED incident in Afghanistan. Invalided from the Army, he had traded being one

  of the hardest men to ever wear the sand beret to being the Operations Officer for Division 5 of

  the Security Intelligence Service.

  Known as The Division, it was the most covert unit of the security service. The former Special

  Forces operators it employed carried out the dirty work of the Government, the blackest of the

  black operations. The stuff that needed to be done to keep the playing fields level-within reason-

  between the good guys and those that sought to disrupt peace.

  Ingoe never did anything without reason, and so it was today that he came cold calling on Jack

  Travis. He turned his gaze from the rolling farmland to the paddocks closer to the house. A couple

  contained heifer calves and chooks pecked around another near a coop. He saw that the ground

  dropped away from the other side of the house to a pond where a few ducks swam lazily. A small creek ran through the property and fed the pond.

  Beside the house was a large vegetable garden behind a trellis fence, a smaller herb garden adjacent

  to it. Citrus and other fruit trees grew on the other side of the house and a grape vine had spread

  itself along a fence. The house was on tank water and he could see a couple of solar panels on the

  roof.

  Ingoe turned back to the house itself, which was in need of a fresh coat of paint. A pair of muddy

  gumboots stood by the door, which was open. An oilskin coat hung on a hook above the boots.

  A man stood in the doorway. He was six foot and strongly built, a few years younger than Ingoe.

  Receding dark hair going to grey and clipped very short, unshaven and with an outdoorsman’s

  complexion. He wore faded jeans and his checked flannel shirt was hanging out. A steaming cup of

  coffee was in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. He was watching Ingoe.

  Ingoe’s stoic expression creased into a smile and he moved forward, hand extended.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack.’

  ‘You too.’ Travis gave his hand a short, hard pump. He smiled and moved inside. ‘Come in, I’ve just

  made a pot.’

  Ingoe followed him in through an open living area into a large farm-style kitchen. Classic rock was

  coming from a stereo in the lounge. Ingoe wasn’t too up with the play with the genre-if it wasn’t

  about cowboys and lost love and life on the range, he didn’t want to know. Travis took another

  mug from a cupboard and filled it from the machine on the bench. He gave it to Ingoe and gestured

  for him to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

  Ingoe did so and took a sip. It was black and strong. French doors opened from the dining area

  onto a wide deck that overlooked the rolling green farmland. Ingoe admired the view for a

  moment. ‘Machine coffee,’ he commented. ‘You going all Ponsonby on us, Jack?’

  Travis smiled again. ‘Just like good coffee.’ He flicked a nod towards his visitor’s leg. ‘How’s the leg?’

  Ingoe shrugged. ‘It is what it is. I get by.’ He took another sip and put his mug down. ‘Living off the

  grid yet?’

  ‘Working on it.’ Travis used a remote to turn down the stereo. ‘It’s everybody’s dream isn’t it?’

  Ingoe changed tack. ‘Been back long?’ Travis gave him a sharp look and Ingoe grinned.

  ‘A month. I had six months in Iraq and two in Syria.’

  ‘Residential?’ He was referring to residential security, a common role in trouble spots for former

  operators on the Circuit.

  ‘Some, plus escorting some news crews.’ Travis gave a small grin. ‘Interesting times.’

  Ingoe nodded, warming his hands on the mug. ‘Seen the news?’

  ‘Yep.’ Travis gestured towards the morning’s paper spread out on the dining table. A laptop stood

  open beside it, with a notepad and pen. The pad had brief notes jotted down.

  Ingoe nodded. ‘Big news.’

  ‘Bad news. Sounds organised.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How many dead?’

  Ingoe paused, considering his response. ‘More than what the media say.’

  ‘They’ve said a security guard, three cops and two civilians dead, plus one baddie. And five cops

  and four more civvies wounded.’ Travis watched him, assessing his reply.

  ‘That’s true. Probably two more casualties for the bad guys though, we think one dead if not both.�
�

  Travis let out a low whistle. ‘That’s some serious fire fight. And in downtown Wellington too.’

  ‘And about twenty million bucks worth of gold bullion taken.’

  Travis whistled again. ‘They had a machine gun and grenades and an RPG?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Travis sipped his own coffee before crossing to the pantry and taking out a biscuit barrel. Ingoe

  took one and examined it with a wry grin.

  ‘Anzac biscuits?’

  ‘Made with my own hand.’ Travis took a bite of one and they both chewed in silence for a minute.

  ‘So this isn’t a social call then.’

  Ingoe put his biscuit on the benchtop. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘All that ordnance came from

  somewhere, and the bullion is going somewhere too.’

  ‘Sounds like a job for the cops, not our…your outfit.’

  Ingoe tilted his head slightly. ‘In theory. There’s an international angle to it though.’

  ‘And? You don’t need me. The Boss made it pretty clear I wouldn’t be coming back.’

  Ingoe met his gaze. ‘The cops involved. They were STG.’

  Travis paused. Ingoe continued.

  ‘One of them took out three of the bad guys.’ Ingoe met his gaze calmly. ‘Your nephew.’

  Travis felt a kick in his chest and put his mug down. ‘Brad.’

  Ingoe’s Hyundai was disappearing out onto the winding road to make his way from Onewhero

  back across the river towards Tuakau. Travis stood on the deck and watched it go, emptying his

  mug, his brow furrowed.

  He turned back inside and glanced at the notes he’d been making when his former boss had

  arrived. The robbery and subsequent shootout was headline news worldwide and he had followed

  it closely over the last several hours. Experience had told him it was more than a bunch of hoods

  robbing a cash-in-transit van, as had been told to the media.

  Experience. From joining the Army as a boy to eighteen years in the Group, ending up as a

  Squadron Sergeant Major-Warrant Officer Class 2, and next in line for the RSM position after

  Ingoe’s tragedy. Next in line, that was, until his run in with an obnoxious Air Force pilot. The pilot

  had objected to being taken to task over his recklessness and Travis had objected to a twenty six

  year old officer trying to put him in his place.

  The result was a broken nose for the pilot and a pending court martial for Travis. It could have