Call to Arms

by Angus McLean

The gangsters were busy shouting at each other and loosing off wild shots into the darkness where he had been moments before, and he made it to the dead sub-gunner.

  The SMG was an old Sterling 9mm with a side-mounted magazine, and the gangster had a spare mag tucked into his waistband. Brad found the mag release and dumped the empty, clipping the new one into place and chambering a round before someone spotted him.

  Rounds started coming down and he sprinted forward, jamming the Smith into the holster and firing the Sterling from the hip, pumping short bursts at the figures ahead of him. He got behind the Statesman, which had rolled off the road and ended up half in a ditch, the motor still running.

  Ricochets sparked off the body of the Statesman as he scrabbled round to the left, yanking the rear door open and grabbing the Mossberg. He slung it across his back and reached through to the front passenger’s seat for the SLR. He knew the big battle rifle would up his chances of survival significantly. A long burst of automatic fire punched through the windscreen and seat in front of him and he felt pieces of glass and dashboard plastic tearing at him.

  He ducked back and unleashed the Sterling with one hand, spraying the magazine empty through the blown-out windscreen where he could see the outline of a man rushing forward. The guy flopped sideways and Brad dropped the SMG, ducking back inside and grabbing for the stock of the SLR.

  More rounds filled the interior of the Statesman, ripping the seats to shreds and exploding glass all around him.

  Brad threw himself back into the ditch, hearing bullets snapping past him as he took cover. He scrambled back through the ditch and into the scrub beyond, unslinging the Mossberg and flicking the safety off. He got it into the shoulder as he hustled through the low scrub.

  He heard a tyre explode behind him and more shouting. Coming up in a crouch, he scanned the road-the gangsters had helpfully left the headlights of their cars on, providing a decent back light. Five of the gangsters were right up by the Statesman now, raking fire into and around the car. Two others stood back near the two cars, and the other two were in the middle of the road, half way between the two groups.

  As Brad watched his car get shot to shit, he felt the anger rising.

  ‘Fuckers,’ he muttered. He sighted on the closest of the gangsters, who had a sawn off shotgun in his hands. He squeezed the trigger and the Mossberg bucked. The man dropped instantly and the guy nearest him turned and stared with his mouth open. Brad pumped the slide and sent a blast of 00 buckshot at him. He saw him fall and moved left. Five metres later he stopped again and snapped two quick shots at the three guys still near the car before moving again.

  Bullets whizzed overhead into the wild blue yonder. Brad took another position at the knee and sighted on the two guys in the middle of the road, who were now closest to him. One had an M3 “grease gun” in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The second had a pistol of some sort drawn, hanging at his side. They were watching their men at the car still cutting loose at the undergrowth.

  The guy with the phone, who Brad assumed to be the leader, looked worried. Neither seemed to have any idea of his presence.

  He tucked the stock into his cheek and fired a round, gut shooting the leader and sending the phone and M3 flying. The second man turned and ripped off a shot that went wide. Brad took him in the shoulder with a shot, knocking him down. The man writhed on the ground, clutching his shattered shoulder. He’d dropped his gun and Brad left him-wounded men caused the enemy more problems than dead ones.

  The three guys near the Statesman started up the road towards him, firing wildly.

  ‘Go go go!’ one was shouting, firing a Mini 14 from the hip like he was Arnie.

  Brad took a few seconds to reload the shotgun from the sleeve on the buttstock. The three were getting closer, the guy with the Ruger still shouting encouragement to his mates.

  Brad picked on him next and triggered a shot just as the guy stumbled and nearly went down. The wedge of heavy buckshot skimmed just over his head and produced a shriek of terror. The guy pinned the trigger back and shot out his magazine into the ground, rounds pinging off at all angles. One ricochet took out the leg of one of the men in front of him and he went down, screaming.

  One of his buddies stopped to help him up and together they ran at a fast hobble.

  Brad let the group go past and scoop up the man who had been shot in the shoulder. He screamed as they lifted him. Brad heard the leader calling out weakly after them.

  ‘Hey, ese…c’mon, ese…don’ leave me man…’

  The two guys from the cars came forward to meet them and one of the guys continued past, grabbing the leader under the arms and dragging him backwards like a rag doll until the guy with the Mini 14 came back to help.

  Brad watched them go. They reached the cars and piled in, one of them pausing long enough to unleash a burst of fire back down towards the ambush site. Brad frowned and came up to his full height.

  The man unleashed another long burst while his buddies got the cars ready.

  Brad sighted on the guy, now forty metres away, and pumped off two shots. One took him in the legs and knocked him back into the car he stood beside. The second tore through his right elbow, almost severing the arm.

  The man was screaming like a banshee as someone pulled him into the car and they peeled away, one of the cars throwing a U-turn to get round and chase the other vehicle.

  Brad stayed standing and kept the Mossberg at the shoulder, rock steady. He sighted on the rear of the back car and began to squeeze off shots, steadily pumping rounds into the back of the car. He saw the taillights explode in red clouds and the rear windscreen shatter.

  It was strictly beyond the effective range of a shotgun but he wanted to discourage them from returning. He sent the last round as the cars disappeared into the distance.

  Brad lowered the Mossberg and automatically slipped his last couple of shells into the tubular magazine.

  The silence of the desert was broken only by the strains of Knightshade coming from the stereo in the destroyed Statesman. He surveyed the scene below him, partially illuminated by the moon. Three gangsters lay dead on the road near it, weapons discarded nearby. Further back was the crashed Falcon wagon with two guys lying dead on the road. All of them wore some parts of Police uniform.

  Brad made his way down onto the road. In front of him he could make out the shapes of a revolver and the M3, both lying near pools of blood. He’d have bet the house it was the same M3 used in the bullion robbery, and the same one sold by Malcolm Cook.

  He spotted the cell phone dropped by the leader and checked it. The line was still open and he held it to his ear. Even over the partial deafness from the shooting he could hear someone breathing at the other end. He dug out his own phone and held it beside the recovered phone.

  ‘So I guess you’re the big cheese,’ Brad said.

  There was silence for a moment then a rough-edged voice sounded in his ear.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m the guy you fucken pussies can’t kill.’

  The man gave a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘That’s right, mother fucker. Your Mexican mate’s got his guts hangin’ out and the rest of them ran away. The ones that could, anyway.’

  ‘You made a bad mistake, arsehole,’ the man breathed. ‘You don’t wanna fuck with us.’

  ‘Wrong, cock sucker,’ Brad growled. ‘You don’t wanna fuck with me.’

  ‘We’ll meet again,’ the man replied. ‘This ain’t over, pigshit.’

  ‘Huh.’ Brad snorted. ‘I haven’t seen you yet. Feel free to get your balls outta your panties and give it a crack.’

  ‘Watch your back you cunt-you won’t see me coming.’

  ‘Huh.’ Brad snorted again. ‘Don’t worry mate, you’ll see me face to face when I slit your fucken throat.’

  With that he disconnected the call and pocketed the recovered phone. He hit Stop on his own phone and ended the recording, then pocketed that phone too.


  He checked both ways; still no traffic. He ran to the Statesman and grabbed his torch, then ducked back into the scrub and scouted round to recover as many of his spent shotgun shells and ejected wadding that he could find. He pocketed them and ran back to where he’d discarded the Sterling sub-machine gun. He used his T shirt to quickly wipe it free of prints, then did the same with the spent magazine he’d dropped.

  He heard the rumble of a gear change in the distance and spotted a truck approaching a couple of klicks or so away from the south. It had to get through the hair pins to reach him, so he still had some time.

  He took another half minute with his phone, snapping photos of the scene and the dead men, then ran back to the Statesman.

  Broken glass jabbed him as he got behind the wheel and clicked the stereo off. The engine was still running and he shifted it into reverse with difficulty-something was grinding in the gearbox.

  The car protested when he revved it to get it back on the road and rammed it into Drive again. Steam was blowing from the radiator and as he got moving it seemed like every warning light on the dash was lit up. With the headlights having been blown out he drove by moonlight, nursing the destroyed car north as quickly as he dared before he reached a rough turn off into the scrub. In his rear view mirror he could see the headlights of the truck arriving at the scene and slowing to a stop. Approaching in the distance was another truck, heading south.

  In minutes the balloon would be going up and he needed to make himself scarce.

  The Statesman limped along the rough path until it came to the dead end of a turn-around area where hunters and hikers parked up.

  The Statesman ground to a halt, shuddered and died. Brad glanced to his left, where the SLR rested against the passenger’s seat. The stock was smashed by bullets and it looked like the receiver had taken a hit as well.

  His classic car and his classic battle rifle, both fucked. What had started out so promisingly had really turned into a shit night.

  Brad plucked his phone out. Time to make a call.

  Jed Ingoe was used to being woken at unusual hours for unusual matters, but the call from Brad Travis at 5am was a new one.

  Ingoe had rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb his sleeping wife, and quickly attached his prosthetic leg. He made his way in the darkness to his study downstairs, hit the desk light and got to work. Within twenty minutes he had a team of operators from the Group racing south in a chopper from Papakura to pick Brad up from an RV in the wilderness. They would extract him back to Auckland and a couple of operators would remain with the Statesman, which would be recovered by a covered truck being organised from Waiouru. Ingoe then woke the Director and updated him.

  The Director thanked him for the call and said he would take care of it.

  Ingoe ended the call and put the phone down. The cops would be on it by now, unaware it was a national security matter-he could leave it to the Director to get a handle on it now.

  He ran a hand through his short grey hair and reflected on Brad’s sit-rep. Five dead gang members, probably three more badly wounded, two wrecked cars, automatic weapons, and shell casings and blood everywhere.

  Ingoe wondered just how the fuck they were going to keep a lid on this one.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Paul Watkins’ apartment was on the seventh floor, a small box in a tower of boxes.

  The building manager had already had Watkins’ uncle and a couple of embassy staff there wanting access, so was not surprised when Travis and Susie turned up.

  ‘You no come last time,’ he said, hesitating with a key in his hand.

  ‘No,’ Travis agreed. ‘This is Paul’s sister, we’ve just flown in.’

  Susie gave a realistic enough mournful look and suppressed a sob into a tissue.

  ‘We’d just like the opportunity to get some family heirlooms and things before the funeral,’ Travis told him. ‘Come on man, help us out here aye?’

  The manager wasn’t entirely convinced but he gave up the key anyway. They left him in the ground floor office and took a rickety lift to the seventh floor. The car was barely big enough for four people.

  ‘Jesus,’ Susie commented as the lift gave a deep groan and shudder. ‘I’m guessing there are no safety standards here.’

  The doors creaked open and they quickly alighted, both glad to be rid of the certain death trap. Watkins’ apartment was to the left and across from the lift lobby, and they were inside in seconds, shutting the door behind them.

  The apartment was a four room affair, with a separate bedroom and bathroom, a tiny kitchen and a living area.

  ‘He clearly doesn’t entertain much,’ Susie observed, looking around. ‘I’ll take the bedroom, you do in here?’

  Travis nodded and they set to work. The search took less than half an hour. They didn’t expect to find anything untoward, since there was no reason to suspect Watkins himself of anything, but it always paid to be cautious.

  They found that Watkins lived a minimalist lifestyle with one set of everything and everything fastidiously clean and in the right place

  ‘Hardly the crazy backpacker on his OE, is he?’ Travis called out from the living area. ‘All I’ve found is copies of Lonely Planet books and some aerogrammes from his Nana.’

  ‘I’ve got his laptop,’ Susie replied. ‘No password, fortunately. Apparently he’s a bit of a gamer and likes European porn.’ She came out of the bedroom and set the laptop by the door to take with them. ‘Oh, and a little stash of weed wrapped up in a sock.’

  ‘That’s a bit more backpacker-like,’ Travis grinned.

  ‘Not really a backpacker though, was he? If he was, he wouldn’t be tapped as a courier.’

  Travis replaced the cushions on the two-seater sofa, and shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing,’ he said. ‘I wonder what the embassy staff and his uncle took.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything obviously missing,’ Susie noted. ‘I’ll check with the embassy after this.’ She shrugged. ‘There may not have been anything to take.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They stepped out into the hall and Travis locked the door behind them. As he turned to speak, he saw a flicker of movement down the hall near the entrance to the stairs.

  ‘Down!’ he shouted instinctively, grabbing Susie’s arm and hunching down. A shot rang out, whistling over their heads.

  Travis ripped the Sig from the hip holster and snapped a double tap in return, unable to see the enemy due to the light in his eyes from the large window at that end of the hall.

  He scuttled across the hall, keeping low and his pistol raised. A head popped out from the stairs and he fired again, knowing he’d missed but wanting to at least keep the attacker at bay.

  Susie was tucked in behind him, her pistol drawn and her back against his as she covered the other end of the hall.

  A door opened and a head popped out. It was a middle aged woman who disappeared as soon as she saw the white woman’s gun aimed at her.

  ‘Hit the button!’ Travis hissed. ‘It’s the only way down.’

  He saw a hand appear at floor level with a pistol in it, and three shots sounded, blowing holes in the skirting board near his feet. He sent a shot back and the hand disappeared from view again. He briefly considered a frontal assault down the hall, but knew that he would be horribly exposed. The better call was a tactical withdrawal, and he was horribly mindful of how many walls a .357 SIG round could travel through.

  Another pair of shots sounded and he felt the rush of wind as the bullets passed overhead, smashing a large plant pot at the end of the hall.

  The lift arrived with a thunderous groan and the doors dinged open. The unseen shooter fired again as Susie dived into the lift and Travis scrambled after her. He paused in the doorway and saw the shooter start to come into view.

  The shooter was a wiry Thai but Travis couldn’t make out any other features. The shooter’s pistol belched flame again as he started to duck back but Travis obstinately held his ground, sightin
g down the stubby barrel. He triggered a single shot and ducked back into the lift, where Susie was desperately jabbing the Door Close button.

  Travis automatically swapped his spare mag into the Sig and slid the partially-spent mag into his pocket. He looked at Susie, who was still clutching her own Sig and the laptop.

  ‘What the fuck was that about?’ he wondered aloud.

  Prasong ignored the pain in his left arm and instead hit the talk button on his walkie talkie.

  ‘Go,’ he said, and shoved the radio back in his pants pocket. He switched the magazine on his Glock 17 for a full one, and checked his arm. The enemy had creased it with his last round, leaving an ugly gouge that was leaking blood, but he knew he wouldn’t die; he’d had worse and survived.

  He started to descend the stairs.

  In the basement of the building, Terry Yates stepped back from the elevator control box and took cover in an alcove.

  His training with the Selous Scouts had included demolitions, and Terry was something of an expert with explosives. He activated the circuit and heard the detonation in the control panel from the small explosive charge he’d placed there.

  Smoke puffed out and he quickly recovered what remained of his gear, before heading for the exit.

  Above him he imagined he could hear the elevator plunging down the shaft towards the ground seven floors below.

  In the tiny box high up the shaft the two Kiwis heard a far-off crack echo towards them and felt the elevator lurch beneath their feet.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Travis reached for Susie and the elevator dropped like a stone, throwing them both off-balance. Susie screamed and he heard an animal-like snarl erupt from his own mouth as he hit the wall and bounced off.

  Something in the back of his head prodded him in that first second and he instinctively threw himself across the small space into the opposite wall and back again. Some long ago lesson told him that elevators could be thrown off balance and jammed, if the safety brakes didn’t activate.

  From what he’d seen of this elevator so far, he wasn’t counting on any safety features working.