by Angus McLean
She hit a button on a remote and screens slid up from the table top in front of each of them. A montage of photos appeared, each being either a mugshot of a hardened criminal or a surveillance type photo of a patched gang member. They wore gang regalia with the Southern Bandits patch.
‘Over the years they have been one of a number of gangs working in the methamphetamine trade, running brothels and gambling rings, and the usual stand overs and aggravated robberies and other violence that comes with their business. They have made millions and are traditionally hard to pin down.’
‘Obviously Little Ray abided by his parole conditions,’ Brad growled.
The Director looked at him sharply. ‘That’s something that the Corrections Department will have to answer. It’s not something we are concerned with.’
He looked back to Susie and gave her a nod to continue.
‘Intel tells us that the jihadists are actively fund raising in this country, via all the usual routes of fraud, donations from sympathiser’s etcetera.’ Susie’s eyes took on a gleam now as she got to the guts of her narrative. ‘More recently we’ve had intel that the Southern Bandits have lined up a big job that will potentially earn them millions.’
‘And so it was,’ the Director commented. Susie sat back and he took the lead again. ‘The bullion being transferred was almost 400 kilograms, close to twenty million dollars’ worth. It was a fairly standard job as far as bullion transfers go.’ He caught the questioning look on Travis’ face. ‘They happen more often than you would think.’
‘Do Stidge always do the escorts?’ Travis asked, using one of the nicknames for STG-the other one was Super Tough Guys, but it didn’t seem appropriate to use right now.
‘For jobs that big, yeah,’ Ingoe replied.
Travis nodded and the Director watched him intently.
‘What’s on your mind then, Sergeant-Major?’
‘Well,’ Travis said carefully, ‘I’m just wondering why I’m actually here.’ He ticked points off on his fingers. ‘I’m in neither the spooks, the cops nor the Group. I’m not involved in any way at all. I don’t know who did it aside from what you’ve just told me.’
He cocked an eyebrow at the Director and waited. The Director looked to Ingoe, who rolled his chair out from the table and turned to face Travis.
‘You know Brad was the shooter. Unfortunately his face is all over the media now, so keeping him as unnamed Officer A isn’t an option anymore.’
Travis nodded. He’d seen it-the front page of the morning Herald was a close up of his nephew holding his ballistic helmet in one hand and his Glock in the other, standing in the middle of an intersection surrounded by smashed cars and glaring at whoever had taken the photo on their cell phone. There was also footage on the internet of some of the action, including the clip from the kid who Brad had braved fire to drag to safety. The little punk had sold his soul to the media devil and there was Brad, forever immortalised on the ‘net swearing at the kid and threatening to shoot him.
‘Brad was interviewed last night about his involvement,’ Ingoe continued. ‘It usually takes a few days for that to happen, but he wanted to get it done and we helped facilitate that.’
‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ Brad stated firmly. ‘I just did my job.’
‘And nobody is disputing that,’ Ingoe replied evenly, ‘but obviously there is a lot of work to be done before you can be officially cleared from any liability in that. The civilians who were wounded don’t appear, at this stage, to have been wounded by Police fire. Two were injured by the patrol car explosion, one crashed their car into a wall trying to get away and the other one appears to have been hit by shrapnel in Brandon Street, which Brad never fired into.’
‘What about the dead?’ Brad enquired softly, and Travis immediately realised this was also news to him.
Ingoe glanced at the Director, silently handing the baton back to him.
‘The post mortem of the first one was started first thing this morning. The second is underway now. The first one was clearly killed by the robbers-she had multiple hits from 7.62mm rounds. None of her injuries were caused by 9mm rounds.’
Brad let out an audible breath and Travis felt his own tension drop a notch. He didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath too.
‘She was in the building behind you,’ the Director continued, ‘so it would seem that the rounds have gone through a window or wall and got her.’
Brad nodded silently, absorbing the information. It was one less thing to worry about.
‘The second person was killed near the intersection of Featherston and Brandon Streets,’ the Director said carefully. ‘Hopefully we’ll get a result back soon as to the cause on that one.’
Brad nodded again, his face sombre. Silence hung for a few moments before Travis spoke.
‘So, back to my point then; why am I here?’
The Director glanced at Ingoe then Susie, before speaking.
‘We obviously have an interest in this matter and will be actively working it. Unfortunately at the moment we have a couple of other operations underway which have taken our resources elsewhere.’
‘So you need an operator to come on board,’ Travis finished.
The older man nodded and folded his hands together on the table in front of him. ‘We do, and the pond we fish from is very small.’
‘Sergeant Travis is being seconded to us for this operation,’ Susie continued. ‘It’s not a one-man job though, and he specifically asked for you to come on board.’
Travis glanced over, but his nephew’s face gave nothing away. He looked back to the woman across from him.
‘No problem,’ he said coolly. ‘What’s the plan?’
The plan, as it turned out, was for Travis and Brad to kick their heels while the spooks got things organised.
The Director sat behind his wide mahogany desk. It was spotlessly clean. Ingoe and Susie sat opposite him. He folded his hands and fixed his gaze on the Operations Officer.
‘So, Jed,’ he said, ‘is he the right man for the job?’
Ingoe inclined his head slightly. ‘I wouldn’t vouch for him if he wasn’t, sir.’
‘I respect that, and you know I don’t question your recommendations; I’ve never had cause to.’ The Director seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘I have no issue with his credentials as I understand them to be, for a Special Forces role.’ He puckered his brow. ‘I also recall his name from some jobs assisting the Service previously, although of course I never met him myself.’
Ingoe nodded. If he was offended by the questioning he didn’t show it. ‘He did some escort jobs,’ he said.
‘Is he suitable for an intelligence type role?’ the Director clarified. ‘You know what we want; does he fit the bill?’
Ingoe replied without pause, going from memory. ‘Yes. He was Regular Army first and got a tour to Bosnia. He’s got eighteen years in the Group behind him. He did every operational deployment possible in that time-Bougainville, Kuwait, East Timor, the Solomons. Multiple tours in Afghanistan. He did a couple of long-looks and went to Iraq and Africa.’ Ingoe gave a minimal shrug. ‘Operationally he’s done everything going, and some.’
‘Long-look?’ Susie queried.
‘An attachment to another unit,’ Ingoe explained. ‘Going for a long look. He was with Two-Two and Delta.’
‘Two-Two? You mean 22 SAS?’
‘The Brits, yeah. And Delta is…’
‘American, I know.’ She gave a hint of a smile. ‘I don’t know all your acronyms, that’s all.’
Ingoe nodded again and continued. ‘And as you mentioned, sir, he did some escort jobs with the Service in various locations, which requires some finesse. He’s more than a blunt instrument, if that’s what you’re concerned about sir.’
The Director nodded, a low chuckle sounding in his throat. ‘On the head, Jed, on the head. If you say he’s okay, then he’s okay. My apologies for even asking.’
Ingoe had nothing el
se to say so that’s what he said. Susie cleared her throat gently, catching the Director’s attention.
‘Something else, Susie?’ he queried.
‘Just, ahh…I couldn’t help but notice…’ She flushed slightly, unsure how best to put it.
‘The tension?’ the Director asked, nodding studiously. ‘Yes, it was pretty clear. Jed?’
‘Old water, sir,’ Ingoe replied. ‘Just some family stuff. I’m sure they’ll sort it out between themselves.’
They waited in the conference room and a tray of morning tea was rolled in. They watched silently while the receptionist, Trixie, unloaded a platter of savouries and sandwiches plus matching pots of coffee and tea. She gave them a smile and wheeled the trolley out again, closing the door behind her.
Brad went straight to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, chugging it straight down in one go before refilling it. He grabbed a handful of savouries and stepped back over to the window.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get mine,’ Travis said. He poured himself a coffee and took a tiny chicken and cream cheese sandwich.
They ate in silence for a full minute before Brad turned and reached for the sandwich platter. Travis moved it smoothly out of reach and waited. Their eyes locked. Brad squinted angrily and reached again. Travis moved it further away.
Brad straightened to his full height. ‘Don’t be a fuckwit,’ he growled. ‘Just give me the plate.’
‘Show some manners,’ Travis told him.
Brad cocked his head and sneered. ‘Seriously, Jack?’ He reached a huge mitt out and waggled his fingers. ‘Give me the plate.’
Travis put it down and took a sandwich from it. He took a bite. The platter was still out of reach. He said nothing but held the younger man’s gaze. The silence was heavy.
Brad eventually sighed and stepped forward, reaching out again. Travis moved the platter further away and held his ground. Brad stepped into his personal space. Travis didn’t move. They were toe to toe.
‘Don’t try now to be the man you never were before,’ Brad rasped, the muscles in his jaw and neck tight.
Travis could his hot breath on his face. ‘I accept my previous shortcomings,’ he said evenly, ‘and I accept I should have been there for you but wasn’t.’ He held his nephew’s gaze. ‘And I’m sorry about what happened to your Mum,’ he said, softer now. ‘But you asked me to be here, so get over yourself and let’s get on with it.’
Neither of them spoke for several moments. Finally Travis saw a shift in the younger man’s face and he slid the platter forward. Brad reached for it and Travis stepped away, creating space and breaking the moment.
Brad took three sandwiches and wolfed them in one hit. He washed them down with more coffee then put his cup down and looked at his uncle. He extended his mitt.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said quietly. ‘And I’m sorry for being a tool.’
Travis shook his hand. ‘It’s been a pretty rugged day for you.’
Brad shook his head. ‘No excuses.’ He took another savoury off the other platter and inhaled it.
‘You got worms?’ Travis asked.
Brad snorted. ‘Na, caught the red eye this morning and hardly ate. Spent most of the night with the Fitters and Turners.’ He saw Travis’ quizzical look. ‘Professional Conduct. The fit-up squad.’
Travis nodded. From his own dealings with the MPs, he knew what that was like. He sipped his coffee. It was good enough and strong enough. He was about to speak when the door opened and Ingoe stuck his head in.
‘This way,’ he said, holding the door open.
Travis looked at Brad. ‘Go time,’ he said.
Chapter Three
Thick eye fillets were sizzling on the barbeque grill, the smell wafting into the house through the open French doors. The late afternoon sun was dropping over the horizon and the air had cooled to a comfortable 20.
Travis stood back from the grill, a pair of tongs in one hand and an ice cold Krombacher pilsner in the other. He took a draught and put the bottle down. Droplets ran down the outside of the glass. He watched the neighbour’s sheep grazing in their paddock, and saw a flock of birds rise suddenly from the wood at the back of his property, disturbed by an unseen intruder. He continued to watch and a few moments later saw his dog lope out of the trees and make his way towards home.
Most of the day had been spent being briefed and making arrangements. It had taken the media just the blink of an eye to identify Brad as the shooter and besiege his flat in Johnsonville. The Director had made it clear he could not return home, at least in the short term, and plans had to be put in place for that. He had accepted-somewhat reluctantly, Travis thought-the offer of a bed at the farm, and an underling had been sent out to buy a new wardrobe for him, since he’d arrived with simply an overnight bag.
On returning home Travis had given him a quick tour of the property, shown him to the spare bedroom and left him to it. The younger man had quickly found the weights and boxing bag in the garage and set to them for a hard workout while Travis checked on the animals and prepared dinner.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. Brad helped himself to a Corona from the fridge and joined him on the deck. He cast an eye over the countryside and inhaled the cooking smells, then picked up the Krombacher bottle from the side tray of the barbecue and examined it.
‘German,’ he said and set it down. ‘Fancy.’
Travis shrugged. ‘They make good beer.’ He tilted his glass to clink his nephew’s bottle. ‘It’s good to see you, considering the circumstances.’
Brad gave a brief nod. ‘Considering.’ He waved his bottle at the paddocks beyond. ‘Why here? Onewhero’s nearly the arse end of the world.’
‘It’s a good community. It’s affordable, and close enough but far enough away.’ Travis supped his beer and jabbed one of the steaks with his tongs. ‘I’ve got seven acres. The old couple next door look after it while I’m away; I bought it from them. Plus, I’m going for self-sufficiency.’
‘I noticed. Not a bad thing.’
Travis turned both steaks. ‘So what took you to Wellington? A girl?’
‘The job. Promotion.’ Brad leaned his hip against the deck railing. ‘STG’s only small, you’ve gotta be prepared to move for promotion. I’d been on the squad up here for a while and was ready. A job came up down there six months ago.’ He gave a short, barking laugh. ‘No, not a girl. It’s always the job.’
Travis smiled. Brad cocked an eyebrow at him.
‘What about you? I don’t see any feminine touches inside.’
‘Tried it once,’ Travis replied. ‘I was okay at it when I was around.’ He shrugged. ‘Wasn’t around much though.’
They ate at the dining table; baked jacket potatoes, well-cooked steaks, and a large bowl of salad. Brad had another Corona and demolished his dinner in short order. He was pre-occupied with his thoughts when his cell rang. It was Ingoe. He listened for a minute, grunting occasionally before ringing off. He put the phone down and took a long draught of his beer.
‘The second civvie who was killed,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t my round. He only took one hit and it was a ricochet from Tony’s gun.’ He shook his head angrily and scratched at the Corona label with his thumbnails. He looked like he wanted to throttle the bottle. ‘The poor bastard.’
Tony was one of the operators who’d been in the back of the armoured truck and had then been executed by the robbers. Brad had been through recruit training with him and knew him well. He’d been married with a young daughter.
Travis stayed silent. He knew what it was like to lose comrades; two of the boys had been killed in the ‘Stan while he was there. It was not pleasant but was a fact of life in their trade. He knew that Brad had to find his own way to reconcile it all in his own head. The fact that the funerals for the three cops were to be held over the next few days, and Brad would be unable to attend due to the operation, made it that much harder to deal with.
‘Fuck it,’ the big man said
eventually. ‘Nothing I can do about it now.’ He drained his bottle. ‘Except get the pricks who did it.’
Travis leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘We will,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll do that.’
Jonah Jones looked around the other men, taking his time to meet each man’s eye before moving on. The room they stood in was deep in the bowels of the Southern Bandits’ pad, formerly a commercial property in Takanini, south Auckland. It had been extensively remodelled over the years since the gang extorted it from a struggling business and moved in, and now boasted all-round defence via high corrugated iron fences, barbed wire, spotlights and a guard tower on the roof.
Some members lived on the premises and used some of the rooms as barracks, while other rooms were used for business, meetings, or recreation. The room they stood in was the clubhouse, fully decked out with a bar, pool tables and dart boards, juke box and bar-leaners. Memorabilia adorned the walls-various patches taken from other gangs, photos, pictures of naked women, Harley Davidson and other bike-related posters, and a bloodied Police hat taken some years ago from a cop who Jones himself had beaten to a pulp after being stopped for riding his hog with no helmet.
On the bar leaner to Jones’ right was a stack of cash bundles. Beside it stood Kruger, the gang’s Sergeant-at-Arms. He was a man mountain, six and a half feet tall and nearly 150kg. He had a blonde Mohawk and goatee, and was missing his top two front teeth. His huge arms were completely covered in tattoos and his chest was covered by a single tat of the side by side barrels of a smoking shotgun draped with barbed wire and roses, the rocker above it reading Live to Ride, and the one below it reading 1%, referring to the old adage that only one percent of bikers are trouble.