Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  McLoughlin was splattered with his partner’s blood and in the two or three seconds it took for him to realise what had happened, his body was momentarily frozen to the spot in shock. He was quickly brought back to his senses when another shot from the .50 calibre tore through a small tree he was resting his body against. He began screaming as he scrambled to get to Bourke’s side. He was physically sick when he saw the damage to his partner’s body. When he tried to cradle him, he felt as though he was picking up a small bag of crushed pebbles. His clothes became soaked with Dave Bourke’s blood. Blind panic tore through his enraged mind.

  Seeing quickly he could do nothing for his partner, he suddenly realised he was also in grave danger. He knew if he moved any great distance, he’d be an easy target. He also knew his attacker was The Weasel. He raised his binoculars.

  Perspiration and tears clouded his eyes. He couldn’t see anything. He was stunned to think his partner was taken out from such a huge distance. And because of the isolation of the area neither policeman was wearing a bullet-proof vest. He instinctively grabbed for it and put it on. Then he realised the damage caused to his partner’s body could not have been caused by a conventional weapon.

  No way, he said to himself. The fucking Weasel’s got something military. Has to be. Probably a .50 calibre. Could hardly be anything less. Not from that distance.

  McLoughlin was frantic. He knew if he climbed onto the four-wheel motor bike, he’d be an easy target. His vehicle was a long way away. The Cessna had already landed and was now taxiing back along the runway.

  * * *

  A thousand metres to McLoughlin’s right and twelve hundred metres from the runway, The Weasel was still trying to find McLoughlin in his scope when time ran out. He knew he had to make his move and make it now.

  As the Cessna approached Luigi, standing by the side of his vehicle, The Weasel put the Leupold scope right on him. As the aircraft turned away from Luigi, who was standing by the vehicle, causing those on board to momentarily lose sight of him, The Weasel fired. Luigi Mogliotti, his stomach blown to pieces, was dead before his body hit the ground. McLoughlin, however, off to his left, still bothered him.

  He’d recognised him as one of the two men. He knew he’d already claimed one of them. Somehow he knew it wasn’t McLoughlin. He desperately wanted to seek him out again with the scope, but the main game was about to begin. The small aircraft swung around by Luigi’s vehicle and the pilot cut the motors. It was the last thing he’d ever do.

  The Weasel fired again. This time the bullet smashed through the glass of the cockpit catching the pilot in the throat, almost decapitating him. The Weasel worked the bolt of the Barrett and fired again.

  This time, the projectile tore into the sheila in the front passenger seat. She, too, died instantly. The Weasel could see mass panic in the rear seats of the aircraft. He loaded another magazine into the rifle and fired at random into the rear of the Cessna, not being able to draw a bead on any one person. With his own adrenalin now racing, he lifted his binoculars. He could see no sign of life. As he watched, a rear door was opened and a person dropped onto the ground. It was the guy he recognised as their ringleader, Franco. The Weasel watched for a moment but saw no movement.

  He looked across to his left but could see no sign of McLoughlin. He grabbed his Barrett and raced back to his vehicle. He tore off the camouflage cover, dropped his weapon onto the front seat and roared off towards the aircraft. As he approached, a shot rang out, and The Weasel ducked as pellets from a shotgun blast ricocheted off his windscreen. He quickly spotted where the shot was fired from. It was the last desperate act of Franco as he lay torn to pieces from two .50 calibre bullets which partly found their mark. The Weasel spotted him and drove straight towards him, crushing his head under the wheel of his car. He pulled up, quickly checked there’d be no more surprises but was physically stopped in his tracks when he saw the horrific carnage he’d created. Enrico’s body had been dismembered. To calm himself he began to scream. He tore open the luggage compartment door of the aircraft and dragged two large bags towards himself. He quickly unzipped one of them and his eyes nearly popped from their sockets.

  “The bitch was right!” he yelled. “The bitch was right!”

  He grabbed wildly at the other bag and pulled open the zip. As he did so, gold ingots spilled onto the floor of the aircraft and the ground. Quickly he snatched them up.

  “Jesus Christ, this one’s the same. Got to be twenty mill…”

  The sound of an approaching vehicle a long way off brought him back to the immediate. He spun round. In the distance he could see a small four-wheel motor bike racing straight towards him. He bolted to his car, dragged out the Barrett and threw himself to the ground with it. He flicked open the tripod and put the small approaching vehicle in the cross hairs, which he figured was about 500 metres away. He worked the bolt, chambered a round and prepared to fire.

  “It’s that mongrel bloody copper! Farewell, arsehole!” he yelled as he squeezed the trigger. At that precise moment, McLoughlin’s motor bike struck a small rise on the ground which catapulted his machine about a third of a metre into the air. The .50 calibre bullet struck the piston head of the bike’s engine and smashed it to smithereens. When the bike came to a standstill, McLoughlin had been thrown off and the machine was lying on its side. Dust and smoke were billowing into the air. McLoughlin heard the heavy calibre fire again. This time the seat of the bike was annihilated. He crawled frantically on all-fours to take what cover he could from the gunman. Again the weapon fired. This time the projectile smashing into the bike’s gearbox. McLoughlin knew much more of this and he wouldn’t survive.

  * * *

  Back at the plane, The Weasel began to panic. He knew the longer he stayed the greater the chances were of his getting caught. He also knew that while the policeman was alive he would continue to hunt him down. He braced himself for one last shot at McLoughlin. He could make out part of his body hidden behind the remains of the bike. He was about to fire when a bullet ripped into the ground next to him.

  * * *

  McLoughlin had salvaged the triple two and tried for a shot. He got a lot closer to The Weasel than he expected to, being so far away. The Weasel screamed and cursed, lined up the policeman and fired again. The projectile tore through the front suspension, the petrol tank, headlight and lodged into McLoughlin’s bullet proof vest. The impact, even with what it had already passed through, sent him back about 20 centimetres. He knew The Weasel had his range. He also knew if he fired two more shots, he probably wouldn’t hear one of them.

  * * *

  Up at the plane, The Weasel decided to split. He loaded another magazine and fired four shots into the engine and dashboard of the greeter vehicle and quickly slashed its tyres. He then threw the Barrett into his vehicle, opened the boot and loaded the two bags containing the cash.

  He was tempted to throw a match into the plane, but chose not to, knowing it would only bring undue attention to the area and limit his chances of escape. He grabbed the hand luggage of the passengers and pilot and did a quick body search. Despite picking up twenty million dollars, he squealed with glee at locating Gina’s Remington and the pilot’s Browning. He cocked the little .25 calibre and fired several shots into the aircraft’s radio. He bolted from the plane, got into his vehicle and roared away.

  * * *

  McLoughlin, watching from behind the wrecked motor bike, raised his triple two but lowered it again.

  Too bloody far, he told himself. Just too bloody far.

  He turned his body round and slumped against a wheel of the bike. He had never been in a more hopeless position. He knew his only hope of getting any immediate assistance was to get back to his vehicle. He also needed to get to the plane. With much of his clothing soaked with blood, McLoughlin half walked and half ran to the Cessna. Again, the sight of what greeted him had him on all-fours, vomiting profusely. He had never seen such damage caused to human bodies.

  Wha
t the fuck was this guy using? he cursed.

  His question was soon answered. He leaned down and picked up one of the spent cartridges that had obviously been fired at him.

  “Jesus Christ!” he uttered in shock and disbelief. “.50 calibre! The bastard’s got a .50 calibre. That’s Gulf War shit. The bloody snipers used to use them.”

  Suddenly McLoughlin felt incredibly vulnerable. Christ, he could be lining me up now from half a bloody mile and I’d never know. Quickly he moved to get himself in behind Luigi’s four-wheel-drive. It was just as well he did. The instant he moved The Weasel fired again, and the bullet rammed into the fuselage of the aircraft at the precise spot where McLoughlin had been standing. He screamed from the terror of escaping death by a millisecond.

  McLoughlin stayed crouched behind the vehicle for several minutes. He looked at the distance from where he was to the aircraft. He wanted to make a dash for the cabin and use the radio. When he felt it was safe to do so, he made a run for it. As soon as he opened the door he saw The Weasel had destroyed it, so he charged back to his safe position. His heart was pounding in his eardrums as he tried to decide what to do. He knew that if The Weasel was still out there he’d pick him off as soon as he showed himself. He also knew he was desperate for help.

  He looked around himself. Nothing. Not even the gunfire had provoked curious onlookers. He didn’t have his phone either.

  Probably wouldn’t work out here anyway.

  He was desperate to get to his vehicle, but couldn’t risk trying to make it across so much open ground. Underneath the Cessna was now a pool of blood. Flies had already begun attacking the bodies of Luigi and Franco. McLoughlin was able to get a quick glance at Luigi but decided he didn’t recognise him. Trying to put a make on Franco was impossible because The Weasel had almost crushed his head into the tarmac. His rush to the plane didn’t shed any light on the identities of the woman or the pilot. He knew the longer he sat there and did nothing, the better the chances were for The Weasel to escape. He decided The Weasel’s desire for self-preservation would be stronger than waiting for him to show himself.

  Cautiously McLoughlin began to make his move. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the bodies from the plane and placed them at the edge of the airstrip. He used whatever he could find in an attempt to cover them. He put the greeter’s vehicle in neutral and pushed it as far as he could away from the aircraft. Using a drum of fuel in the vehicle, he poured the contents all over it. He stood back and threw a match.

  Moments later, Luigi’s vehicle was a ball of flames with black smoke pouring into the air.

  Jesus, this better work or I’m going to have to try and get to my own bus.

  He was beginning to lose hope that the smoke and flames had been noticed by anyone. Finally, he saw a vehicle approaching in the distance.

  Chapter 19

  It was now three weeks since Bill Murphy had returned home from London. For the first couple of days his routine had been disrupted as he tried to overcome jet lag and generally tidy things up around the place. Lonely was constantly under his feet, almost as though it was some kind of protest in being left to fend for himself for a week in a strange environment. For those initial days he was home, the urge to write had not returned and it began to bother him. He suffered mood swings and he started to blame himself for taking off on a whim. On the morning of the fourth day he was propped in his seat overlooking the ocean when the reality of the situation suddenly dawned on him. He had to admit to himself the problem could be found in two words: Georgette McKinley. He tried to laugh it off by telling himself he was too bloody stupid to see the wood for the trees and the last thing on the mind of a vivacious and beautiful young woman would be a staid old boring conservative who was bordering on the edges of burnout.

  As Bill sat looking out over the ocean, a cool breeze running through his four day growth, Lonely appeared to sense that all wasn’t well. Instead of chasing seagulls up and down the beach, he sat at his master’s feet with his head resting between his master’s knees. His eyes were focussed directly onto Bill’s face. A gentle hand reached down and stroked his head.

  “What’s your bloody problem?” he asked.

  Lonely’s tail wagged in response to being spoken to.

  “So what are we gonna do, boy? It’s no good getting involved there. Besides, she might have a cat! You want to share your life with a cat?” He laughed. “I’d like to see that! Besides, she’s probably forgotten all about me by now anyway.”

  Bill Murphy slowly made his way back to his house and again sat down at the keyboard. As he did the phone rang.

  “Bill? Felicity… have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “No, no… g’day luv… how’s London? Any problems?”

  “I have a few people climbing over me for the book,” she replied.

  “I’m trying to wrap it up, but I can’t get into it right now.”

  Felicity laughed. “Maybe you better ring her.”

  “Who?”

  “Now Bill! Obviously your mind’s elsewhere at the moment. What can I tell them this end? A week… two weeks?”

  “I’ll walk in your door in four weeks time with it in my hand.”

  “You’re a love. Ring me if there’s a problem. But more importantly, I think, you better ring her.”

  “Goodbye, Felicity.”

  Bill heard her giggle then hang up.

  He sat looking at the phone desperate to speak with Georgette, but he also knew he had chosen the lifestyle he had because he didn’t want an involvement. He wanted to be on his own and not be answerable to anyone. He had pined for financial security. He now had it. The more he wanted to pick up the phone, the more he reminded himself of what he’d set out to accomplish.

  He lit a cigarette and walked outside. He stood looking out to sea. Finally, he made a decision.

  * * *

  Georgette McKinley should’ve been on top of the world, but her aggressive, win-at-all-costs spark was missing. George Hanks called her into his office.

  “What the hell happened in London with you two?”

  She looked at him. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Come on, babe, I’m not blind! Where’s the Georgette of old? The zip! The zing! The aggressive fuck-you mentality! You in love or just having a bloody downer?”

  Georgette was taken aback with such an aggressive line of questioning. “Bloody hell, George, you’re a bit tough!”

  “It’s a tough business. If you’re not well, tell me!”

  “I’m fine, really! It’s been pretty quiet, too. Not a lot happening out there.”

  “Never stopped you before,” he told her matter-of-factly.

  “So you want the big one every day?”

  “You know what the old man’s like.”

  “The big one’s not always there.”

  “You tell him that.”

  “So you know about the contract?”

  “And the goodwill.”

  Georgette was floored at her boss’s last remark. She had learned early in her career that if she was asked to sign a big contract, always ask for goodwill. Goodwill is a demand stars put on owners as a mark of their goodwill. Georgette had done exactly that with Sylvester Monkhouse. Obviously loaded up with enthusiasm over how his young reporter had performed, he didn’t hesitate. When she left the old man’s office after signing her new contract she also walked out with a company cheque for fifty thousand dollars.

  “Don’t tell me he’s hanging that over your head?”

  “Not in as many words, but he was pretty pissed you weren’t here for a week.”

  Georgette smiled. “He’ll live through it,” she asserted.

  “So you’re OK?”

  “Never been better,” she replied, leaving to return to her desk.

  After a week back on the job, Georgette began to see her life in a entirely different perspective. There would be no more John Talbot. And she’d also made up her mind there’d be no more corporate ‘gam
es’. Something had happened to her during her week in London, but she didn’t know what. The seething, burning, ambitious desire to ‘get the story or else’ attitude had dissipated. She wondered whether the new contract and the goodwill cheque had quenched her hunger to achieve. She tried to weigh up herself before and after London. Finally, she had to accept the big problem she had was two words: Bill Murphy. She found she had lost interest in chasing down stories, and the mid-week movie she seldom missed had also gone by the way. Instead, she found herself sitting by a telephone that didn’t ring.

  I don’t know why you’re stewing over this man, she said to herself. He told you it was a no-strings-attached week with no mention of a follow-up phone call. Face it, girl, men like that aren’t interested in women like me. Besides, he detests women journos. Boy! Does he ever!

  For the next three weeks, Georgette went through the motions of doing her job. She became vague and disinterested. George Hanks again questioned if she was all right and she assured him she was.

  “I’m babysitting the bloddy dog again,” he said.

  “The dog?”

  “Yeah, Bill’s pissed off to London with his new book, so I’ve got his dog to look after for the week. Didn’t you know?”

  “Haven’t spoken to him since we got home,” she replied glumly.

  “Be buggered! Hasn’t he phoned you?”

  Georgette didn’t answer. Instead she shook her head.

  George was going to continue the conversation until he saw her eyes fill with tears. He walked over to her desk and moved round behind her, shielding her from other staff. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “I didn’t know that. I’m really sorry. What a prick!”

  But Georgette sprang to his defence. “He didn’t say he would, you know. It was simply a week away. No strings.”

  “He’s a prick! He could’ve called you. Wait till I talk to…” Georgette cut him off. “No… no. You’re not to do that. He knows where I am.”