by Angus McLean
Fucker. Whoever was doing that had fists like bricks. At least they’d have some damage to their knuckles as a pay-off. Archer tried to take some satisfaction from that, but it was a weak attempt and did nothing to make him feel any better.
Gut again, and so on it went. Archer lost track, just tried to roll with it as best he could, taking each hit and absorbing it, trying not to black out. His whole torso and head ached and throbbed with pain. He searched for a happy place to go to.
His mind went back to the resistance to interrogation training he’d gone through in the Group, years ago now. It had been hell at the time, but as realistic as possible. Back then, spending hours in stress positions between bouts of interrogation by a bunch of sadistic clever bastards, he’d found a happy spot and gone to it.
A camping holiday as a kid, he was thirteen years old, and the family had camped a fortnight at a remote Coromandel beach. Bugger-all there, just other families camping, soaking in the summer sun, swimming, fishing, hiking in the hills, talking and playing board games at night before crashing out and doing it all again the next day.
The blows kept coming, solid impacts that rocked his body with each shot, but they seemed somewhat abstract now, as if he was observing it rather than taking it.
And Belinda. Oh, Belinda. A fourteen-year-old goddess from Christchurch, holidaying with her own family. Long brown hair, lean but curvy, a favourite red bikini. She could curse with the best of the boys and had her own fishing rod. And she’d let him get to second base. Thirteen-year-old Craig Archer was in love, completely infatuated with this tomboyish older girl, unable to think of anything else from the first moment he saw her on the beach, walking to the water with her younger brother.
Belinda. His happy place. For the life of him he couldn’t remember her last name now. Huntly? Huntington? Something like that. Good times. He wondered had become of her. Probably married with two kids, a station wagon and a picket fence, a husband who worked too much and laughed too little.
A shot to the crotch brought him back to reality with a jolt. Pain exploded through him, right to the pit of his stomach. It had been a knee to the balls, right on the plums, and he wanted to vomit. All he could manage was a guttural growl, deep in his chest, his eyes squeezed shut tight against the excruciating agony. Bile rose in his throat, burning acid, up the back of his sinuses.
JesusfuckingChrist, Jesusfuckthathurt. Motherfucker!
He was sagging now, his knees buckled and his weight hanging solely on the reels of duct tape. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore.
He could hear panting, heavy breathing that wasn’t his own. He had no idea how long the beating had taken. Was there more to come? Who knew. Better get organised for that.
He tried to straighten up but his balls were on fire, chugging like a vintage steam engine. The slightest movement sent bolts of fire through his pelvis and made him want to spew. He struggled to breathe. Sweat was pouring off him now, soaking his hair and neck, running down his back and chest.
Fuck me, this isn’t going well.
He heard muted conversation and tried to listen, but the blood was pounding so hard in his head he couldn’t hear a thing.
Hands grabbed him and he felt movement, the bonds of tape coming loose as someone sliced through them, and suddenly he was falling forward, unable to hold himself upright.
They let him fall and he hit the concrete flat on his front, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending more bursts of pain shooting through him. Knees, left shoulder, chest, chin. Everything hurt.
‘Get him up.’
Hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. He sensed someone stepping up close, face to hooded face.
‘Count yourself lucky, pal.’ The voice was soft, American, and full of menace. ‘Where I come from, trespassers get shot. Don’t be stupid enough to come back again. Ain’t nothin’ worth stealin’ here, anyways. Take the hint, y’hear me?’
Archer managed a weak nod, coughing as the bile threatened to break the banks.
‘Get rid of him.’
Chapter 10
The hands dragged him sideways, he heard a door open and then felt the rush of cool evening air.
A vehicle door opened and he was hauled closer, a hard edge catching the back of his knees. He was pushed inside what felt like the back of a SUV, his legs lifted in, hand shoving him roughly onto his side.
The slam of the hatch behind him.
Doors opened, two, the vehicle rocked, the doors closed again. The engine started, a pause, then they were moving.
Archer shifted to try and get comfortable. Who knew how long the journey would be, or what would happen at the other end. For now he had to do his best to get his shit together and be as prepared as possible for the next step, whatever that might be. There was a fair chance he would be taken to a remote area and get a bullet in the head, so that was what he had to plan for.
Maybe Sarah would be in a position to intervene before that happened. She was unarmed and ill-equipped to deal with these guys. Maybe not.
There was hope though. The guy who’d spoken to him at the end, presumably the leader, was hopefully convinced he was just a thief, a chancer who got caught. If that was the case, maybe there was a chance they would just give him a good kicking and toss him aside.
Archer didn’t know, and there was no point hoping for the best unless he also planned for the worst.
Could he get free and escape? As things stood right now, it seemed unlikely. These guys were good – and brutal. His hands were still bound behind him. His body had been thrashed and he ached all over. He doubted he’d be able to run with plums that felt like grapefruit.
He was unarmed and alone, and had no idea where he was – or where he would end up. There were at least two baddies with him, and presumably they would be on familiar ground. And they were armed and physically capable.
No, the chances of escape seemed slim. If you just focussed on the negatives.
On the other hand, he was Craig fuckin’ Archer. Six years as a Captain in the SAS, commanding a troop fighting at the sharp end. Highly trained. More trigger time than any other officer in the Group, probably ever. A couple of years on the Circuit in Third World war zones. More trigger time. Trained more since then. Black ops missions for Division 5 of the Security Intelligence Service.
He’d been in tight scrapes before and come out in one piece. No reason today should be any different. When all else was equal, it came down to the top two inches.
The vehicle was moving at speed on tarmac, presumably city road surfaces, not speeding but not wasting any time either. It smelled newish, clean. Not a work truck then. He couldn’t feel anything around him, nothing he could use.
He got his breathing under control, worked his tongue to get some moisture going in a mouth that felt like cardboard, rolled his neck and shoulders to loosen up – something popped but it felt better – and got his head together. His sweat had cooled and dried on his skin.
No point panicking. Panic wouldn’t stop a 9mm round to the skull. Fuck ‘em. If he was going to go down, at least he’d go down fighting.
Finally the vehicle turned off tarmac onto a bumpy surface, slowed marginally, and rocked along for a few hundred metres. It slowed, turned a 180 and stopped.
The doors opened, the engine remained running. Footsteps, the rear hatch popped and cool air hit him. Hands grabbed his arm and waistband, dragging him out and helping him to his feet. They turned him, ran him a few steps and threw him down.
Archer tumbled and rolled, getting to a knee before he took a boot in the ribs. He went down again, gasping for breath, the bare earth damp against his exposed skin.
A boot was placed against his neck and pushed his head down into the dirt. Archer gritted his teeth and took it, waiting for the punchline. He heard a pistol being drawn, the sound of steel on leather. The metallic snick of a hammer being cocked.
Where the fuck was Sarah?
The man above him spoke. It was a di
fferent voice now, not the leader.
‘You should stay off private property, asshole. It’s dangerous to go snooping around. Accidents happen.’
The sound of the shot was deafeningly loud and Archer jumped involuntarily, bracing himself for the impact of a bullet. Slamming through his clothes and skin, ripping up muscle and organs, smashing bones.
Nothing but the splat of a round punching into the dirt beside his head.
The two men laughed, full belly laughs as if they were in a bar and had just heard the greatest joke in the world.
The boot shoved his head further into the dirt.
‘Let’s get going,’ said the other guy, a few steps away.
The boot lifted off Archer’s head and he lay there, collecting himself. His heart was slamming in his chest and he was panting. Footsteps moved off, doors slammed, and the vehicle revved. It eased away and the engine sound gradually receded until silence fell.
Complete silence, not even bird song. No distant vehicles.
Archer lay still for a couple of minutes, running a check over himself before he moved. Nothing seemed broken. No bullet wounds. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
He got to his knees and bent forward, rubbing his head against the ground until the hood worked its way off. He shook it clear and drew in deep breaths of fresh air. It seemed like he was in a clearing of some sort, dark mounds around him, some fencing beyond that. No lights, just a quarter moon that cast a silvery sheen over the area.
He stood and paused again, shaking out his legs and letting his senses get used to his new surroundings. He had to get out of there but he had to get free first. If he came across any civilians with his hands bound behind his back, they’d call the cops and that was no good. Too much time, too much explaining to do.
He could make out his surroundings better now, and could see it was some kind of a construction site. That was good. Builders left tools and useful bits and pieces lying around. There might even be a vehicle parked up that he could hotwire.
Moving carefully through the area, his hopes were dashed. No vehicles, no tools that he could see. Nothing he could use to free himself and get the hell out of there. He sighed and reassessed. It was going to be a long walk.
He turned and started making his way along the track. It took him a moment to realise he was not alone.
Sarah stood at the top of the track, backlit by the headlights of the black VW. She silently watched him approaching. He stopped a few metres short, averting his eyes from the headlight beams.
‘Gee,’ he said, ‘thanks for showing up. I just got my arse kicked and a pretend execution.’ He scowled at her. ‘Hope you’ve had a nice evening.’
She hiked her shoulders. ‘Seemed like you had it all under control.’
Chapter 11
An hour later they were back in the hotel room. It was close to two in the morning and nothing was moving outside.
Archer stripped to his briefs and lay on the bed while Sarah attended to his injuries. He was too sore to feel self-conscious in front of her.
She had found an all-night pharmacy on the way back and stocked up on first aid supplies. She put together ice packs using towels and ice from Room Service, and had Archer apply them to his lumps and bumps while she assessed the damage.
‘Nothing broken,’ was her verdict.
‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ he grunted.
‘Here, open up.’
She shoved a couple of strong anti-inflammatories into his mouth and held a cup of water for him to slurp. He drained the rest of the cup to chase them down.
‘Any hits to the spine?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
She ran her fingertips over his face and he grimaced. ‘Might be a bit banged up tomorrow.’ She grinned. ‘Lucky you didn’t have much to start with.’
He lifted the ice packs off his torso and shuffled back into a better sitting position against the pillows. His gut felt suitably numb. Sarah took one of the packs and applied it to his jaw while he held the other one against the side of his head.
‘How’s the old fella?’ Sarah asked with a cheeky grin.
He frowned, not getting her meaning. She tossed her chin towards his pelvis.
‘You know, the old how’s-your-father? Did you get a crack in the crackers?’
He gave a grunt of understanding. ‘Both sides.’
‘Better sort that out too,’ she said, removing the ice pack from his face and reaching for his waistband.
His hand shot out and stopped her short. She gave him a look.
‘Don’t be a baby. I’m a grown woman, Mr Archer; I’ve seen naked men before.’
‘It’s not…’
‘Shut up. We need you fit and well otherwise you’re a liability. If that means you need an ice pack on your bollocks so you can walk tomorrow, then suck it up, princess.’
He relented and released her hand. He lifted his butt while she expertly tugged his briefs down. It felt like he was carrying a package of roadkill down there.
‘Oh,’ Sarah said, ‘is it a bit cold in here?’ She looked him in the eye, completely straight-faced. ‘I can turn the heating up?’
Archer pulled a face, in no position to protest too much. ‘Just be gentle, doctor.’
The ice pack was like an arctic blast and it took his breath away.
‘Oh no,’ Sarah smirked, ‘now it’s cold.’
Archer gritted his teeth and tried to block out the pain and embarrassment. But no matter which way he looked at it, he was sitting naked in a hotel room while a woman he barely knew held an ice pack to his balls.
There was nothing to do but lie back and pray for it to end.
***
It seemed like his head had just the pillow when Sarah was shaking him awake, her tone urgent.
‘Get up, we’ve gotta go.’
He rolled onto his back and sat up, feeling worse than when he’d gone to bed. The curtains were closed and the side lights were on, giving the room a warm orange-yellow glow. Sarah was hurriedly dismantling the OP and shoving things into the kit bag. She paused long enough to throw his clothes at him.
‘They’re on the move,’ she said. ‘Get dressed.’
Archer got dressed as fast as his aching body would allow him, tying off his boots while Sarah moved their bags to the door. She was fully dressed and he guessed she probably hadn’t been to sleep. He checked his G-Shock. 03:00hrs.
‘Where are they off to?’ he enquired, straightening up and grabbing the painkillers from the bedside table. He threw a couple more down his neck and chased them with half a glass of water.
‘Don’t know yet, but they’re heading to the plane.’ Sarah cast a last look around the room in the half light. ‘Your visit must’ve spooked them. Let’s go.’
Archer grabbed both his bag and the kit bag and followed her out. The rest of the hotel was silent and they saw nobody on their way down to the lobby. Sarah left him to sort out the bill while she went to get the car.
Six minutes after leaving their room they were on the road, Archer at the wheel, heading towards the private airfield. Sarah was on the phone and whoever was on the other end wasn’t moving fast enough to avoid a roasting.
He listened in silence as he guided the black VW through the nearly empty streets. The city was starting to come to life with early commuters rising for work and the night shift heading home.
‘I’m not asking for the fucking world,’ Sarah snapped into the phone, ‘it would just be good to know where these fuck-holes are flying to, don’t you think? …yes, I know that, so sort it out. I need the info now, we don’t have time to fuck about, so if it’s okay with you…that’s right…I’ll be waiting.’
She rang off and scowled at him. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she grumbled. ‘Fucking useless.’
‘“Fuck-holes”?’ he enquired. ‘Really?’
Her cheeks coloured slightly. ‘Well, for fuck’s sake…’
‘That’s a lot of fucks this morning,’ he observed.
‘I wish,’ she blurted before catching herself. Her cheeks burned hotter and she looked away quickly. The trill of her phone saved her. ‘Yes…where? ...right, got that.’ She had adopted a much friendlier tone now. ‘Get us the first available flight, you’ve got our details…right, thanks darling. Love your work.’
She rang off again. ‘They’ve just filed a flight plan to Croatia. Head to Tegel.’
By the time they pulled into the car park at Tegel, Sarah was back on the phone. She listened intently before pressing the handset against her chest and turning to Archer.
‘The first available commercial flight is bloody twelve thirty,’ she said. ‘They’re about to leave and they’ll be there in a couple of hours; we’ll be way behind them.’
Archer pulled the hand brake on but left the engine running. ‘What about a private flight?’
‘It’d still take too long to organise.’
He thought hard for a second before the light bulb went off. ‘Any military birds currently here?’
She gave him a dubious look. ‘Why?’
Chapter 12
‘I’m still not convinced this is a great idea.’
Sarah’s words were almost drowned out by the thunder of the C-17’s engines as they waddled down the tailgate of the big Boeing.
Archer said nothing, just shuffled forward further, secured snugly to Sarah’s back. Another pair of jumpers was ahead of them, also lashed together as a tandem, the difference being that those two were fully trained and qualified. Sarah, on the other hand, had had a crash course on board from Archer. It was a big enough ask doing a jump with bugger-all training, let alone from a relatively low height and at night. All he could do was trust himself to get her through it.
The RAF crew had been in Germany to pick up some gear, and a mad dash of phone calls that went high up the chain and back down again had secured their services at short notice. The plan put forward by Archer was not perfect by any means, but in the circumstances, it was the best they had. The air force guys they were jumping with had thought it was a great lark, and even their pilot, a baby-faced Flight Lieutenant, had been up for it.