by Angus McLean
‘One-one, we have a machine gun in a white Transit, taking fire. We have another casualty. We need eyes in the sky and an SFP at Waring and Taylor Streets, copy?’
The proposed Safe Forward Point was two blocks away; plenty of space for back up to assemble and move forward.
The boss came back. ‘Zero-Alpha, working on it, struggling to get a chopper. Stand by for further.’
‘We need it now,’ Brad snapped back, ‘it’s a fucken war zone down here.’
He ducked as rounds pierced the van around him, and glanced at Matt who was still trying to dress Craig’s wounds.
‘Fuck this. It’s time for offense.’
The bus moved back to the curb and the M3 gunner jumped into the cab of the armoured truck. The rocket man got behind the wheel of the Pajero and slipped it into gear. Jonah Jones paused before joining him, and raked the cars on the far side of the road with the Mini-14, emptying the magazine as he blew out windows and sent rubber-neckers diving for cover. He ejected the mag, slapped in another thirty rounds and put bursts into the vehicles on the near side of the road.
Satisfied with his work, he took the passenger seat of the Pajero and keyed his walkie talkie.
‘Let’s go.’
The bus driver paused to collect the guns from the two STG operators before climbing into the front of the armoured truck and both vehicles calmly moved off towards The Terrace.
As they got to the intersection, they went to turn left but suddenly the Pajero stopped. Barely eighty metres away was a marked Police car, with two cops hurrying to arm themselves from the gun cabinet in the boot.
The driver got out with his RPG and raised it to his shoulder. A watching civilian shouted a warning and the cops looked up, just in time to see a rocket propelled grenade streaking towards them. They both dived to the side and it took the car out in a ball of flame, the explosion setting off car alarms all around them. Flaming debris rained down and a mushroom cloud of smoke rose to the sky. The rocket man climbed back into the Pajero and followed the armoured truck towards the motorway.
Brad heard the machine gun open up again as he crab walked around the side of the van. Pieces blew off the van and bullets chipped the walls of the building behind him. The gun fell silent and the engine revved. He took a last deep breath and dashed forward.
The white Transit was moving off, the back doors still open, going straight ahead down Featherston Street.
Brad raced into the road, the MP5 at the shoulder as he triggered short bursts at the rear gunner. The risk of collateral damage was huge from all the rounds flying around the place, and he was willing every round onto the target as he fired. The slide locked back before he knew it and he did a rapid magazine change on the move, slapping his last one into place and chambering a fresh round. The gunner cut loose again but the barrel was jumpy, sending the rounds wide and high. Brad methodically pumped the trigger, seeing a second guy in the back of the van step up beside the machine gunner, who was lying prone.
He could see his rounds impacting in the back of the Transit, sparking and ricocheting, and he saw the second guy drop as he took a hit. The mag went dry and he dropped the MP5 on its sling, snatching the Glock 17 from his thigh holster instead.
The Transit was accelerating away across the intersection, maybe forty metres away now. Brad kept moving forward as he kept the Glock up in a two-handed aim, squeezing off shots at the machine gunner, who was still firing short bursts.
Seventeen squeezes later the slide locked open and he automatically dropped the mag out and slammed his spare into place, the Glock never moving off line. The Transit was fifty metres away now and about to move out of sight behind the stationary traffic.
The machine gunner raised himself off the floor, reaching for another belt of ammo and Brad squeezed off two shots, knowing this was it.
The first round took the gunner in the left armpit as he reached up and across, punching straight through and into his neck. The second round blasted through his left ear into his skull. He slumped across the machine gun.
The Transit continued on and Brad came to a stop, lowering his gun.
He turned and looked around him. He could see bodies further up Brandon Street, three lying in pools of blood and two others starting to move.
Pedestrians and motorists were everywhere. Bullet casings littered the road, sparkling in the sun. Gun smoke hung in the air.
He glanced down and saw blood on his pants. He didn’t know if it was his or not.
He keyed his radio and gave an update to the boss back at the station. Sirens came closer and he could hear the roar of engines approaching. A couple of patrol cars flew past, chasing the Transit. Still no chopper upstairs though.
Brad unstrapped his helmet and yanked it off, feeling the fresh air on his sweaty face.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
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 d
idn’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 been dealt with had the pilot not been the son of a senior Cabinet Minister. His exit without charges had been arranged quickly and Travis found himself out in the cold, thrown into work on the Circuit with former comrades from all arms of the forces round the world.
The last year had been a journey of intense self-discovery for the tough former SSM, and he had planned on taking some time out to get his property operating how he wanted it to be. His remark to Ingoe about living off the grid wasn’t too far from the truth; the attraction was strong, although he was realistic enough to know that to be completely self-sufficient was a big ask and very time consuming.
He had heifers and chickens, sufficient fruit and vegetables all year round, and a good trade arrangement with neighbours who ran sheep and pigs. Seasonal hunting helped keep the freezers full.
But as he watched the Hyundai disappear from sight down the winding country road, Travis knew without a doubt that he was about to step back into the fold.
He’d let his nephew down before; he wouldn’t do it again.
Chapter Two
The Division’s base was in Upper Queen Street in an otherwise innocuous seeming building.
Government employees came and went downstairs, but two floors were reserved for the operators and support staff.
Travis was on time for his meeting with the Director, and was met in the reception area by a pair of heavies in suits. He was put through a metal detector, an electronic fingerprint scanner, checked for recording and transmitting devices and eventually allowed to sign in. His photo was taken and he was issued a Visitor’s Pass.
Ingoe took him up in the elevator to a different reception area lined with floor to ceiling shelves of heavy tomes. An older lady manned the desk there and checked his Visitor’s Pass before pushing an intercom button to alert the Director.
‘Thanks Trixie,’ Ingoe said, and Travis was amused to note that Trixie gave Ingoe a lingering smile as she buzzed open a side door. Ingoe led the way into a long conference room. Three people were waiting at the polished table.
The first was a chubby man somewhere around sixty, with a bland Government-issue face and an understated charcoal suit. He had the air of authority about him, a full head of grey hair and shrewd blue eyes which sized Travis up as he entered the room. He had spook written all over him. The Director.
The second person was anything but bland. She was taller than average for a woman and athletic looking, maybe mid-thirties. Her chestnut hair was thick and wavy and fell to the shoulders of her sharp navy blue suit. She had intelligent hazel eyes behind dark rimmed glasses and her skin was tanned and clear of makeup aside from subtle lipstick. Travis felt her eyes on him as he let the door swing shut behind him. Maybe a lawyer?
The third person he sensed before even laying eyes on him. Brad Travis stood by the window, his big mitts in the pockets of his jeans. His sandy hair was messy and he was unshaven and scowling. He was in his late twenties. He wore a black T shirt that accentuated the bulging muscles in his torso and arms. He didn’t smile when Travis made eye contact, just nodded.
Travis nodded back and shook the Director’s extended hand.
‘Thanks for coming in, Sergeant-Major,’ the man said, with what might have been a smile. His hand was surprisingly hard and Travis mentally reassessed him. ‘It’s very important to us that you are here, for reasons that will become apparent very soon, I am sure.’
‘No problem,’ Travis murmured, ‘and it’s Jack.’ He turned to the woman.
‘Susie,’ she said. Her hand was firm and dry and she made solid eye contact, assessing him close up. Not a lawyer, he decided. Probably another spook. He caught the whiff of scent
, something alluring and warm and probably very expensive.
‘And of course no introductions are needed for Brad,’ the older man continued, gesturing to the six foot four monster at the window.
Travis stepped forward and extended his hand. Brad enveloped it in a crushing grip, holding for longer than was necessary and staring intently into his uncle’s eyes as he did so. He had green eyes that were hot and defensive. Travis extracted his hand and took a seat beside Ingoe.
The Director sat opposite them, Susie at his side. Each had a leather compendium open before them. The Director gestured for Brad to sit as well but he shook his head and stayed where he was.
‘I’m fine thanks,’ he rasped.
The Director eyed him for a moment before relenting and turning back to Travis and Ingoe.
‘Obviously everything said in here stays here. This meeting never happened and we have never met. Any breach of that trust will be treated extremely seriously, is that clear?’
Travis nodded his assent.
‘As you are aware, Wellington’s Police Special Tactics Group was involved in the bullion robbery and shootout yesterday. Sergeant Travis was one of those involved. It was the largest shooting incident the New Zealand Police have ever been involved in and left three officers dead plus two civilians and one of the security guards. Further to that five other officers and four civilians were wounded, three critically-one of the officers and two of the civilians.’
He let that sit for a moment before continuing.
‘One of the robbers was confirmed dead at the scene. Two more of the robbers were shot and we believe at least one of them is dead, if not both. They escaped along with the rest of the gang, and no bodies have turned up.’
The Director looked to his colleague beside him and she took the lead.
‘The robber whose body was recovered has been identified as an Auckland-based criminal, a member of the Southern Bandits outlaw motorcycle gang. Raymond Baillie, known as Little Ray. A patched member with various convictions, including previous robberies, firearms offences and Class A drug dealing. On parole for the last year from a seven year stretch.’ She paused, watching Travis. ‘My area of focus recently has been home grown terrorists, including the usual jihadists but as part of an investigation into them, these guys have floated to the surface.’