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  More trucks rolled into the town square, a jeep in the middle of the convoy making directly for the elder. It pulled up beside him and the front passenger got out. He was a tall, barrel chested man in an impeccably smart uniform, and with a face like stone. His black eyes bore into those of the elder, who immediately recognised him.

  Josef Durakovic, Major. Commanding Officer of the Red Wolves.

  The elder felt his bladder loosen and warm urine trickled down his leg.

  Durakovic walked slowly towards him as the soldiers kicked in the doors of the houses nearby, dragging the occupants out at gunpoint, women, children, men, old and young alike. Screaming, terrified.

  They were bundled into a group in the centre of the square, soldiers surrounding them, rifles raised threateningly. The soldiers were calm and in control, waiting for orders.

  Durkavoic halted a metre short of the elder, his eyes never leaving the face of the old man.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Durakavic asked softly.

  The old man nodded slowly.

  Durakovic nodded too.

  ‘Then you know why I am here,’ he stated.

  The old man nodded again, slowly.

  ‘I know,’ he croaked through a mouth dry as tinder. ‘You come to kill us.’

  Durakovic’ thin lips twitched into a smile, fleetingly then gone.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘All Muslim pigs like you. You had your chance to go. You didn’t go.’

  ‘We had no chance,’ the old man croaked angrily, tears welling at his eyes. ‘We are just peasants, we are nothing to you. We don’t fight.’

  Durakovic nodded again, not smiling now.

  ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘You are nothing to us.’

  His right hand went to the holster on his hip, and undid the flap. As he started to draw out his pistol, the old man took a step forward and spat as hard as he could. The dry white spittle landed on Durakovic’s tunic front and hung there.

  ‘Serbian shit,’ the old man snapped hoarsely, and Duracovic’s pistol came up.

  The single shot made the civilians jump, and the bullet blew a spray of blood and brain matter into the air behind the old man. The body dropped like a stone into a crumpled heap of stick-like limbs and thin tatty clothes.

  A woman screamed and her scream echoed around the town square.

  Durakovic turned to the sergeant standing nearby, and holstered his pistol.

  ‘Kill them,’ he said calmly.

  The snarl of automatic fire was deafening as bullets ripped through the throng of people, and within seconds magazines were being rapidly changed as the eager soldiers tried not to be the last one to get a kill.

  Silence fell again and the soldiers began to move between the bodies, single shots ringing out now as they administered kill shots to those still twitching.

  Durakovic let his eyes wander across the buildings around them, seeing the odd flicker of movement as civilians who had been hiding made a break for freedom. He was happy to let them go; they would spread the word of what had happened here today, and his reputation would spread further.

  He turned to his sergeant again and an unspoken warmth passed between the two men.

  ‘Burn it,’ Durakovic ordered.

  Chapter One

  Botany Town Centre

  Manukau City

  July 2015

  The afternoon rush hour always started early on a Friday, which suited Bahar Pasha well.

  It meant that by the time she had finished work and closed up the reception desk at the medical clinic, walked to the Starbucks and got herself a creamy cappuccino-her weekly treat-and made her way to the car, traffic had cleared enough to give her a good run home.

  Botany Town Centre always got busy on a Friday with the cinema, the pub, and the various eateries all picking up trade. People knocked off work and came to shop or meet friends and relax.

  She checked her watch as she crossed the car park towards the red Nissan Sunny. 615pm. She should be home by 630 and be eating dinner by 7. She could put her feet up and finish the magazine she had borrowed from reception. She smiled to herself, a stocky woman with greying black hair and a weathered, hard face. Life in New Zealand was good.

  She got to the car and started to unlock it, then felt for the magazine in her bag. Nothing.

  Damn it. She would have to go back and get it. She locked the door again and started to head back towards the medical centre, craning her head back to drain the last of the coffee from the paper cup.

  As the froth hit her tongue her ears picked up the sound of a car, but too late. The Pajero backing out of the spot beside her clipped her on the side and knocked her flat, the Starbucks cup flying and froth spraying up her arm.

  Bahar hit the ground on her side, her head cracked into the asphalt and everything went black.

  When she came to a young police officer was leaning over her. She was lying on a gurney with straps across her chest and legs. She could feel nothing but pain everywhere, and her vision swam as she tried to focus.

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you hear me?’

  The young cop looked very concerned and childlike, and she almost smiled, but all she could manage was a tired hmmmm.

  ‘Ma’am, what’s your name? Where do you live?’

  ‘Tat....Tatjana,’ she murmured painfully. ‘Tatjana Durakovic.’

  The cop frowned as he tried to spell that into his notebook.

  ‘Where do you live, ahhh....ma’am?’

  ‘We need to go mate,’ another male voice interrupted in the background, and Bahar felt herself being lifted and moving backwards. ‘You can speak to her at the hospital.’

  Bahar let her breath out and relaxed. Her head really hurt...

  Message from the Author

  Thanks for taking the time to read my book.

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  Cheers,

  Angus McLean

  About the Author

  Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.

  His experience as a cop and a private investigator gives his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.

  His real identity remains a secret.

  www.writerangusmclean.com

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