Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “I will give you three hundred, that way you will be debt free and have some left over. That way you will not betray me. But I need you to deliver it in person. Come to the club and ask for me. I will take the package and give you the money, in whatever currency you want. Then we will say goodbye and never see each other again. But if you tell anyone, even your overweight American wife, who probably spends too much on shoes and doughnuts, well then I will slit her throat and the throats of everyone in your home that is dear to you, whilst they sleep – and you will watch. Do we have a deal?”

  Scott McCall, a genuine veteran in a world where the word was overused was about to commit himself to his most dangerous ever mission. Against an enemy he didn’t know, one who he had no tangible intelligence about and importantly one who he was going to meet. Alone.

  Alex’s lieutenant waved frantically. He had something. Turning the laptop around, he pointed to some new information. It seemed that Mr Brown, from Memphis was ringing on a computer line – and he had just made a potentially fatal mistake.

  Jackdaw smiled. This would be enjoyable.

  “Mr Brown. I believe in honesty. This may surprise you, given my recent release from prison. I am innocent of all charges by the way, that is why the Bulgarian government actually released me. They said I had escaped to save their reputation. You may be speculating why I am telling you this. It’s simple, when I negotiate with people I expect integrity. From some simple checks made by my people I sense you are not who you say you are. I asked for honesty. One chance. One chance only.”

  He waited.

  “So who are you? And what do you want?”

  McCall knew he had made what appeared to be a mistake. It was a game of chess. He held the queen in his fingertips, pausing long enough for Alex to make his own move. He was confident, strong, physically and mentally, but this was different. When he faced an enemy, he always had his team alongside him, the backing of technology and intelligence and a belief that the mission would be a success.

  One chance only.

  “My name is immaterial. As irrelevant as the name Jackdaw is to you. If you use a nickname, then so shall I. You can call me the Bushman. And if we work well together, I will take what I need and disappear. You must respect that. I have not been greedy, you know I could ask for more, from elsewhere, from the media particularly, but your name is on the document, so in my world – a world enshrined in honesty – that means you own it.”

  “OK Mr Bushman, then bring it to me. You can have your money, and then yes we will both free of debt. Before you go, I have to ask one last question of my own.” He did not wait for permission to continue.

  “Just where did you find this document?”

  “In the hands of a girl. In a car that crashed, a long way from where you are now.”

  Alex Stefanescu, the big game fish, the Striped Marlin, was running now, a foot or so under the surface, ripping line off the reel and diving deep.

  “This girl you speak of. Was she beautiful?”

  “Yes. She was.”

  “And alive?” McCall sensed that this was the absolutely critical question.

  “No.”

  “And you know this how?”

  He had to be careful not to play his hand. He heard Alex exhale deeply.

  “A friend told me.”

  He expected one but there was no reaction. “Let me know when you are here. If I like you, I may even employ you. If you fail to arrive, I will hunt you down. You are committed. We have a deal.”

  The phone was dead before McCall realised it.

  “You trust him boss?”

  He laughed. “No, not at all. I trust no one, not even you. But he has what I want and I like his confidence. He’s a brave man – how the American’s say, ‘pissing on my parade’. Killing him may be a waste. Only the Bushman himself will dictate his future.”

  McCall couldn’t afford to implicate the people he trusted and respected so he took a cheap taxi to Auckland Airport – less of a start point for any investigation. In a black backpack, he had his essential travel items; noise cancelling headphones, bottled water and sleeping tablets. He queued with everyone else, tapped the side of his luggage and prayed it would make it safely through the hold stow system, then headed through departure screening, towards a China Southern Airlines 787 Dreamliner to Guangzhou and eventually, Frankfurt. It was the cheapest and quickest flight he could find at short notice.

  His dark hair was collar length, slightly wavy and his beard neat and trimmed in a way that added a sense of ruggedness, seemed to emphasise his bitter chocolate eyes – eyes that drew in women and made men look away. His attire said man about town, or rather a New Zealand man from a tough background who had spent wisely on well-fitting clothes that allowed him to move easily, but also offered a sense of played-down style. They told a tale of what lay beneath – years of training, a physique that had been forged from years of hard labour, injuries and sheer physical resilience.

  His coat was made by Barbour. Green, waxed, three-quarter length. Boots, brown and handmade by R. M. Williams were a luxury he could afford after his last overseas deployment. He’d hardly worn them but they felt good.

  Politic chinos and a Working Style navy checked shirt did the rest.

  His theory was simple. He might not return to the Land of the Long White Cloud. So he may as well look good on his departure photo.

  The cherished size eleven boots guided him through screening and towards duty free. He was in scanning mode. The black Labrador caught his eye first. He was a good-looking dog. He just hoped the handler kept him busy, hunting for whatever it was he had been tasked to look for. It had to be drugs. It always was.

  ‘Please keep away.’

  He continued at a pace that avoided attention whilst allowing him to get through and away from the crowds.

  The dog followed.

  “Excuse me, sir.” He stopped. Disciplined. He’d been polite. His English voice had called him sir.

  He turned and fixed his eyes on a white male, same height, slighter build. He had an inquisitive but kind face. However, his eyes remained steadfastly on their target.

  “Yes sir. How can I help?” Equally respectful. It always helped. He had a job to do. And McCall had no issue with that.

  “My dog here is trained to find drugs and cash. He has indicated on you. I must ask, are you carrying either?”

  Two choices.

  “I would never carry drugs.”

  The dog handler was now holding the New Zealand passport in his right hand. “I’m pleased to hear it. Cash then?”

  “Do I look like a man who would carry cash? I’m married.” He laughed. The handler followed suit. “I can recommend a great lawyer. Look, I’ll cut to the chase, Ajax here knows you have something. I have the power to detain you, you could miss your flight, but you seem like a reasonable man…”

  “I had cash a while ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A few weeks…”

  “Look mate he’s good but not that good…”

  “Fair call. I’ve got a thousand. Cash. Euros. I thought that was OK? It’s for my kid sister. She’s in trouble. I’m heading to Europe to bail her out. It’s yours if you want it…”

  The handler checked the amount, opened the backpack and satisfied himself that there was nothing else of interest.

  There was something about the man who stood confidently before him – but there was also a sense of urgency and to a trained customs officer that meant something. Smoke or fire? Or just a decent Kiwi bloke heading overseas to bail out his sister?

  “What is your final destination today?”

  “It’ll be tomorrow probably, but to answer your question, Frankfurt.” They would know in seconds, anyway.

  “And what do you do for a living, sir?”

  “I’m what they call a Bushman. I look after forests – sustainable ones – I work the land for the future of our children. Not
as interesting as your job, but it pays me a wage and keeps me fit.”

  The clothing, the physique. The vocabulary. It all fitted.

  There was nothing else to hold him on. He was polite and had been honest. His case could have been full of Class A for all he knew, but it was too late to drag the luggage off and delay the flight. And besides who took drugs out of the country? Damned if he did.

  McCall knew the luggage contained a stripped down Glock pistol with its parts distributed and concealed and his favoured knife. He had packed them in such a way that even the best aviation officer wouldn’t detect them, unless the young Englishman in front of him, with the inquisitive black dog decided to take things to the next level.

  The wait was worse than being told he had to do administrative work, whilst his team jumped from a helicopter into unfamiliar and unforgiving scrubland in a foreign land far away.

  “Well, Mr McKee you are the best-dressed Bushman I’ve ever met. Whatever trouble your sibling is in, I hope you resolve it. Look after her, yeah? We need to protect our sisters. And don’t forget, this dog is the best in the country. Remember that when you come home – he has a superb memory. Have a safe journey.”

  McCall shook his hand and exhaled. “Thanks brother. I owe you one.”

  You have no idea.

  The handler and his partner continued their work. The faithful hound was focused on someone else already. His handler couldn’t shake the thought that in the Bushman there was something he had missed.

  Something bad? Or the alternative. Stay in law enforcement a while and you develop a sixth sense, you also risk becoming cynical.

  He liked what he saw in the Bushman’s eyes.

  The passport had passed its test. Having aroused no suspicion at the Customs’ primary line – where the majority of passengers first interacted with border staff. The falsified document was as good as any in the world. His military colleagues were exceptionally skilled in that area; creating a false identity to allow their people to move around the globe quickly and discreetly.

  And that is what he intended to do. Quickly. And ideally, discreetly.

  McCall stopped at the first bar. Ordered a beer and a bowl of fries and sat in a corner away from the point-tilt-zoom camera system that now sat above his head – unable to fix its remote gaze upon him.

  He laid his waxy coat over the adjoining chair and crossed his legs, sitting back into the red casual lounger he pretended to watch the rugby. It was what good looking Kiwi men did. The difference between McCall and his fellow countrymen was that he was on the way to make a new life for what was left of his family. He had already decided that if anyone got in his way, he would use the skills and knowledge acquired on faraway streets and jungles and deserts to deal with them.

  That, or die trying.

  He took a lone, last look at the passport, with its dark blue cover and his image, staring back at him from behind the laminated green bio page.

  ‘Scott McKee’ – it suited him and so far the document had worked. He knew he might not need it again, but it was worth the risk of removing it from his locker. He closed it, slipped it into the backpack and walked a hundred metres to gate ten where his aircraft waited to take him a step closer to his target.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Four hours north, an A320 Airbus was dropping, almost skimming over the blue-green ocean, skirting alongside pristine atolls and over the Hamilton Island harbour. Beneath it, yachts of varied sizes and much larger motor cruisers flitted from berth to ocean and back.

  The small airliner landed with a familiar protest from its six wheels and taxied to the end of the single runway.

  Clear skies, white beaches and a classic Australian accent welcomed the holiday makers to their dream destination.

  “G’day this is your pilot Donald Sawyer welcoming you all to the glorious Whitsunday Islands. The weather outside is a reasonable thirty degrees with a cooling easterly. Please wait until we come to a stop before enjoying your holiday. On behalf of Virgin Airlines thank you for travelling with us and we look forward to seeing you again soon. Crew disarm doors.”

  He was there. On time. The note was still in his pocket. The easy part was done, he looked out of the aircraft window at a catamaran leaving the harbour and wished he was on board, lying on the rope deck and watching the dolphins play beneath him. One day. Perhaps.

  “Right let’s go Cade. We’ve got a job to do. First things first let’s dump the luggage at the apartment. We’ll look ridiculous riding around the island with all this lot in a golf buggy!”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know? Priceless mate. The only mode of transport for visitors is a golf buggy.”

  “But what if we get involved in a pursuit?” It was supposed to be amusing.

  “I guess we’ll have to use a compact version of the Stinger.”

  The notion of spiking a golf buggy at ten kilometres an hour was ridiculous. But equally funny.

  They arrived at the apartment, left the luggage in the hallway and jumped into the buggy that was parked outside. Every apartment had one.

  “To Catseye Lodge, Jack?” Helston was keen to get this done.

  “No. Not yet. I’m hungry. Let’s grab a bite to eat and a cold drink. It’s warm, and it’s been a busy day.”

  “You going soft in your old age, Cade?”

  “Is that a euphemism, Miss Helston?”

  “It’s Mrs, and no, it wasn’t.”

  They ate a light lunch, next to the harbour, sheltering from the summer sun under an avenue of white umbrellas and avoiding the gaze of the resident cockatoos that had done their best to beat the gulls in a lucrative turf war.

  “So tell me about this girl, Jack.” Helston gazed at him as she sipped on her G&T.

  “More than I told you back in Sydney?”

  “Yes, please. I want to know what I’m letting myself in for. Fair? You know there aren’t many men who would travel halfway around the world to meet a girl. Unless they wanted to get inside her knickers of course.”

  She smiled, took a mouthful of the fish of the day and waited.

  “Past tense, Kim. That happened. Oh boy did it happen. It seemed too good to be true. Caveat emptor and all that. Hashtag gullible, or whatever they would say these days.” His sentences were clipped, guarded, but he knew she’d drag it out of him so he relented. She always did that, back in the day, back in France when they operated in the hedonistic world of organised crime.

  “Jeez, you didn’t tell me you’d fucked her, Jack?”

  “Ever the eloquent Aussie!”

  “Well, excuse me for missing that part. Perhaps I was pissed. That puts a whole different spin on things. Are you coming here for Round Two – whilst I watch?”

  “Sadly not. I’m here to ask her a few questions and then go. If indeed it’s her. Kim, I got to the point last year where I didn’t trust anyone beyond probably three or four people. I trusted her, but then Stefanescu’s group unleashed merry bloody hell on me and mine.” He reflected back to the roadside once more.

  “I was probably love drunk. A foolish, older male with a pulse and an oh-so-pretty girl laying herself bare to me. I should have known.”

  He went over the whole story whilst they ate.

  “Tell me, Jack. Would you do it all over again?”

  “Elena?”

  “Yep.” She swilled a fresh Pinot Gris around her mouth, washing the fish down, allowing its fresh flavours to cleanse her palate.

  He smiled. “Yep, probably – in a heartbeat. But I would need a thorough briefing first, Kim. I’ll go and pay for this.” He stood and walked across the road narrowly missing two golf buggies that whispered along the main harbour thoroughfare, paid the bill and returned.

  “You can drive. You know the territory better than me!”

  They whipped into the convoy of identical buggies that took them up and away from the harbour. It was pristine, warm and spoke of its natural beauty at every turn. Minutes later they were
on top of the island. Catseye Bay to their right and the main harbour to the left.

  One of the most beautiful places on earth.

  “Just there.” Cade pointed to a white gate, bordered by two impressive stone pillars that led to landscaped grounds, filled with palms and the endless call of the local bird life. Helston stopped the buggy twenty metres short of the gate and stepped out onto the immaculate lawn. All that stood between them and the answers they needed was a stone wall.

  “Shall we?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cade pressed the intercom and waited. Nothing. He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket:

  ‘Catseye Lodge – Whitsunday Islands – 17th January 2015.’

  He looked at his partner. They’d done this a hundred times, but they normally had some level of back-up. He looked up and down the street and checked for obvious cameras. A few seconds later they were both over the wall, landing in amongst the palms and native Hibiscus.

  They took their time, checking for obvious trips, traps and surveillance equipment. Cade had no idea who owned the property, assumed it had been rented and convinced himself that it wasn’t Jackdaw or any of his team. He saw the sea sparkling to his left and thought that it was a fine place to end his days. He held up his hand. Stop!

  They both listened. Water. Still – not running, but disturbed.

  They continued through the garden – its size surprised them both and then they saw the pool, one of those horizon pools that just demanded a camera and a drink and few days to relax in and around it, better still time with the girl that swam up to the edge and stared out to sea.

  Helston looked at Cade. Without words she said incredulously ‘That her?’

  He nodded. She replied, again in a mime, ‘You are punching way above your weight, Cade!’

  It was her. Of that he had no doubt. He watched as she lowered her head back into the blue pool then ran her hands over her head, squeezing the excess water away before walking through the shallower end towards the steps.