The Division Collection Read online

  ‘Hold on,’ he panted, edging his right hand around for a greater purchase. He found a small patch of floor hard against the wall that was still intact and didn’t move when he pulled on it.

  He managed to get his elbow onto it and heaved, trying to haul himself up. He felt Susie being dragged down as he did so and he tried to release her wrist but she held on in a death grip.

  ‘Let go,’ he rasped, and saw the horrified look on her face. ‘Do it!’

  She refused, not realising what he meant.

  ‘I’m not letting go!’ she hissed through clenched teeth, hauling at his arm.

  He felt himself swing like a pendulum below the elevator, which was still groaning and creaking loudly. His left boot hit the wall and he felt a hint of purchase beneath his toe. He pushed off, jerked free of Susie’s grip and lunged upwards with his left arm outstretched.

  His fingertips snagged the handrail and he clung on for dear life. Levering with his right elbow and with Susie pulling at his left, he managed to work his way back into the car, getting a knee then a boot onto the tiny floor space where his elbow had been moments before.

  Leaning back against the wall with sweat streaming down their faces, they stared at each other, breathing hard.

  ‘Hold on?’ Susie panted. ‘Really?’

  ‘All I could think of.’ He looked to the service hatch in the ceiling again. ‘Gotta go up. This thing’ll probably fall.’

  He carefully climbed up onto the handrail and braced a hand against the ceiling while he pushed it at the hatch. It was stuck fast and he slammed it with the heel of his hand, finding where it was secured. He’d done plenty of training in elevator shafts over the years on counter-terrorism duties and knew that, far from what was portrayed in movies, service hatches were usually fastened from the top. At least this one felt like it wasn’t top-quality hardened steel.

  ‘Gunna have to shoot it open,’ he told Susie, drawing his Sig.

  ‘Won’t it ricochet?’ she balked.

  ‘Yep, and that might kill one of us. But if we don’t get outta here this thing will drop and we’ll both be dead anyway.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘Better to die tryin’.’

  ‘Cheerful bastard.’ Susie carefully moved to the corner away from his angle of fire.

  ‘Here we go.’ He turned his face away and fired a shot into the edge of the hatch. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. The round ricocheted off the ceiling and wall and down into the blackness. They each checked themselves but were unharmed. Travis slammed the hatch again and it moved further, so he gave it another round.

  He holstered the Sig and hit the hatch again, finally popping it open with the third impact.

  ‘Climb up,’ he told Susie.

  What?’ she shouted, deafened by the gunshots.

  He jabbed his finger at her feet then the handrail and she nodded. He caught her hand and helped her up. Her face was white and he could tell she was way outside her comfort zone. He wasn’t exactly ecstatic himself.

  She got up on the rail and looked dubiously at the small hatch in the ceiling.

  ‘Built for Thais,’ she commented.

  ‘You’ll be alright, fatty,’ Travis said, giving her a grin. ‘Get your hands in and pull yourself up; I’ll push you up.’

  Susie got both hands onto the edges of the hatch, took a deep breath and pulled upwards as she pushed off from the handrail. The elevator shuddered with the movement and shifted slightly with a metallic screech. Her legs kicked wildly and Travis copped one in the chest as he grabbed for her. He seized her right foot and heaved, but she kicked free. He planted a hand on her butt instead and shoved hard.

  Her legs and then feet disappeared from sight and he could hear her above him. The elevator lurched alarmingly and he heard something metallic snap.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Susie urged him, and he edged closer to the hatch before getting his hands up onto the rim.

  The elevator made a loud cracking sound and shifted again, dropping an inch or so. Travis pushed off and heaved up, scrabbling for purchase. He got his hands flat and levered up, scraping his side on the edge of the hatch as he wriggled through the small gap. Susie got her hands under his arms and hauled at him, and in seconds he was sitting beside her on the filthy dirty roof of the ancient elevator car.

  Dim light came from lights at intervals up the shaft above them. None of the doors appeared to be open up there.

  ‘Follow me,’ Travis rasped, his throat dry with the exertion and dust.

  He found the rungs on the wall that were used by service technicians, and started to climb. Susie followed him and they climbed to the floor above. Travis got a foot onto the lip of the doorway and reached across, working his fingers into the gap between the doors. He could hear movement on the other side and prayed it wasn’t the bad guys. If they opened the door, he and Susie would be trapped like rats in a barrel.

  He pounded his fist on the metal of the doors.

  ‘Help! Open the door! Help!’

  He continued to haul at the door, feeling them budge open slightly. He hauled again, straining every fibre in his body and praying to gods he hadn’t recognised for a lifetime.

  The doors gradually started to open and a crack of light appeared. He could hear voices speaking excitedly in Thai on the other side.

  ‘Feel free to help,’ he grumbled.

  Suddenly the end of a metal bar appeared in the gap and he could feel someone levering the doors from the lobby. He continued to pull and together he and the unseen person worked the doors open far enough for a head to poke through and peer at them.

  ‘Okay, mister?’ an older Thai man enquired.

  ‘Yeah, brilliant,’ Travis replied, pulling the door open properly. He pulled himself up and stepped into the doorway, quickly scanning for enemy as he got free of the shaft. The sign by the lift said they were on the third floor.

  Susie appeared beside him, grabbing his shoulder for support as her feet found terra firma. Her face was smudged with dust and grease and her clothes were filthy. He guessed he didn’t look any better.

  The older man with the pry bar looked them up and down and shook his head. ‘Crazy tourists,’ he said.

  Susie peered back into the shaft and saw the elevator car still jammed there. She looked back at Travis.

  ‘Pessimist,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t moved.’

  He was about to reply when there was a wrenching tear of metal followed by a groan and a creak, then the elevator fell down the shaft. They jumped back as the crash echoed up the shaft and a cloud of dust blasted up and billowed out into the hall.

  Travis clapped the older man on the shoulder. ‘Thanks mate.’

  He grabbed Susie’s hand and they hit the stairs. The building manager was in the lobby shouting into a cell phone and waving his hands excitedly when they got to the ground floor, and Travis tossed him the key to Watkins’ apartment.

  He jerked a thumb at the elevator doors as they headed for the exit.

  ‘You might want to get that serviced,’ he said. ‘It seems to be playing up.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brad had spent nearly three hours being debriefed by the Director and Ingoe. They fed him and had him physically checked out by a Service doctor, who found no injuries aside from some minor scratches and bruising from shrapnel, plus some decent bruising to his right shoulder from diving out of the car.

  ‘Your car’s a write off,’ Ingoe told him at the conclusion of the debrief. ‘It’s stashed at Waiouru, but you won’t be driving it again.’

  ‘Great,’ Brad grunted. ‘This op is costing me a goddamn fortune. Better go car shopping.’

  ‘No time for that,’ the Director said, ‘you’re off to Thailand.’

  Brad eyed him carefully as the older man topped up his cup from a tea pot.

  ‘What, Uncle Jack got himself in the crap?’

  The Director poured his tea. Ingoe’s face was impassive.

  ‘They could do with a hand over there.
Sounds like they’re storing up a hornets’ nest.’ The Ops Officer checked his watch. ‘You’re wheels up in about four hours.’

  ‘Luggage?’

  ‘Trixie will sort you out.’

  ‘Vehicle?’

  Ingoe tossed him a set of keys. ‘Jack’s truck’s downstairs. Leave it in the long term park’

  Brad nodded.

  Ingoe glanced at the Director. ‘I’ve gotta go, sir. I have somebody arriving about now.’

  The Director dismissed him with a nod. Once the door had closed, the Director fixed his gaze on Brad. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’ve killed between six and ten men in the last few days.’

  Brad stayed silent.

  ‘You okay with that?’ The Director’s shrewd eyes gave nothing away.

  Brad considered his response carefully. He had the feeling it carried weight with the Director. ‘It’s been a busy week,’ he finally rasped.

  The Director said nothing. Brad waited. He’d had enough debriefs by shrinks to know they wanted you to fill the silence. He didn’t.

  The Director finally nodded slowly and took a sip of his tea. ‘Good luck in Thailand,’ he said.

  Brad took that as his cue and left. The Director’s PA, Trixie, handed him a bulky envelope on the way out to the lift. On the way down to the basement he checked the contents – plane ticket, new passport for Bryan Taylor bearing his photo, a new platinum card in the same name with a post-it note attached showing the PIN, a new smart phone and five grand’s worth of baht.

  He was already sterile, so filled his pockets with the gear and headed across the basement garage to Travis’ double-cab Colorado. As he headed for the exit he saw a young techo parking a late model fire engine red Monaro in a service bay. Ingoe was standing by the lifts with another man.

  The second man made eye contact with him, and Brad felt a jolt of recognition. Captain Craig Archer of the Group, who he had met on a training exercise some time ago when he was still on the Auckland team.

  Brad gave him a nod of recognition and rolled on past. He presumed Archer was now part of the Division.

  He smiled to himself and rolled out to Queen St, heading for the motorway. He gave himself three hours to do what he needed to do and get to the airport.

  His first stop was the Sylvia Park shopping centre. He needed to get himself kitted out with sufficient clothes and gear for the trip, given it was now unwise to return to his flat. Twenty minutes at an outdoors store gave him most of what he wanted. Another ten minutes at a menswear store completed his shopping, and he was back on the road, heading south.

  Reaching Jack’s home, Brad let himself in and checked the details on the text Ingoe had sent him. He found Travis’ safe keys, and went out to the garage. The external back wall was two metres from the interior wall, and he found the door handle that was concealed alongside a shelving unit. Unlocking it, Brad discovered the shelving unit itself swung out completely and was actually the door.

  He found a light switch and stepped inside the long narrow cavern. The wall to his left bore rifles and shotguns on individual horizontal racks. The last metre or so of the wall carried pistols on individual mounts. A two-tier shelving unit at the bottom carried storage bins with holsters, magazine pouches, and slings. He saw a bin of different scopes, and a bunch of various cases.

  The wall to his right had racks of different camping gear, including boots, packs, clothing and sleeping gear.

  ‘Fuck me, Jack,’ Brad breathed. ‘Preparing for Armageddon?’

  He moved to the far wall and unlocked a large safe there. It was stacked with boxes of ammunition in different calibres and weights.

  Brad let out a whistle. He felt like a kid in a candy store.

  He checked his list and got to it.

  The service on the Thai Airways flight was to the usual high standard, and Brad demolished every piece of food put in front of him.

  The flight attendants in the Business Class section were all of indecipherable age and beautiful and could have been sisters. Brad’s seat companions, however, were standard Kiwi tourists and unintentionally did their best to ruin his flight.

  He got the window and offered to swap with the wife for the aisle seat, to give himself more leg room. The guy politely declined on behalf of his dolly-bird wife, who was too busy flicking through the latest Cosmopolitan to reply. Brad could see the headline of the article from where he sat – something about how getting your bloke to open up about his feelings would lead to more explosive orgasms. He groaned inwardly.

  ‘She gets up a lot for tinkles,’ the guy explained, and his wife elbowed him sharply. ‘Well you do.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I have to,’ she snapped, ‘and he doesn’t need to know anyway. Just shut up.’

  The guy gave Brad an exasperated “Whaddaya do” look and popped his ear buds in. He had the build of a prop and a buzz cut, and some kind of a tribal tat curling down his arm from under the sleeve.

  Brad could hear some kind of hip-hop blasting from the guy’s iPod and curled his lip with disgust. He glanced down at the pocket on the seat back in front of the guy. The hardback book tucked in there was the latest from a former British SAS guy who had a string of books ghost-written under his name and had appeared on TV. The guy had paid full price for it from an airport bookshop.

  Brad’s lip curled further and he shook his head in disgust as he turned back to the entertainment guide, looking for a movie.

  The guy caught his look and nudged him as he took his buds out again. ‘Something the matter, fella?’ He looked down at the hardback. ‘You don’t like my book?’

  Brad shrugged, non-committal because he didn’t care enough to argue the point with the guy. ‘If you wanna read it mate, fill your boots.’

  Brad turned away again and the guy snorted dismissively, not wanting to let it go. He gave his wife a mocking grin and jerked his thumb in Brad’s direction.

  ‘Like he’s ever had the balls to put his arse on the line for his country, eh?’

  The wife gave a simpering smile that nearly cracked her thick foundation. Brad kept his mouth shut. The guy turned back and gave him a look of derision.

  ‘Until you’ve served, fella, you don’t get an opinion.’ He glanced down pointedly at his tat. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Big difference between service tats that mean something, fella, and tough stamps that don’t mean shit,’ Brad rasped, starting to lose his patience.

  The guy opened his mouth to retort but caught himself. Brad was leaning slightly towards him now, in his body space, his eyes fixed intently on the guy’s face. His arm was planted firmly on the armrest between them, the bicep straining against the sleeve of the T-shirt.

  It became suddenly apparent to the guy that not only was his fellow passenger huge but he was also one very scary dude. He turned back to his wife and patted her hand reassuringly.

  ‘Not worth worrying about, babes,’ he said weakly.

  Brad could see the disdain in her eyes as she looked at her husband. He shook his head again and sat back. The couple immediately started whispering heatedly to each other, the gist of which seemed to be her berating him for being a fucking pussy and him pleading with her.

  Brad put his earphones on and found a movie, a decent Liam Neeson thriller. He liked Liam Neeson; he had a very particular set of skills.

  As he watched Neeson smash and bash his way through bad guys, Brad thought about the couple beside him, and the passengers all around him, and reflected on himself. They were nothing like them; he was nothing like them. He felt like an island in an ocean of dreariness. They were like mice on a wheel, stuck in an endless cycle of mundane daily life, paying bills, doing chores and just fighting to stay awake.

  If he was honest with himself Brad had to admit that, the trauma of colleagues being killed and wounded aside, the action of the last few days had been a rush. STG guys trained hard for such situations, and he was proud that he had survived two intense firefights against superior numbers and
had acquitted himself well.

  Most guys went a whole career without ever having a single contact or pulling the trigger. He knew only a handful of guys who’d killed in the line of duty, and rarely was it more than one bad guy who went down. He knew that he was therefore unique, for the Wellington bullion robbery alone, let alone the second incident on the highway.

  He looked around at his fellow passengers again. No, he decided, he was definitely not one of them.

  He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, getting rest while he could.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Another change of hotels had seemed an obvious safety measure, and Travis and Susie had made every effort to throw off any watchers.

  They took a tour bus around the city and ditched the tour partway through, criss-crossing the city on a succession of cabs and tuk-tuks before they were satisfied they were clear. They changed their outfits twice with purchases from cheap stores and vendors, ditching their old clothes as they went. Finally they hit a mall and topped up their bags with more clothes, plus some emergency food supplies in case they ended up on the run – after the events of the last couple of days, anything seemed possible.

  They finally booked into another large hotel where they could melt into the background, taking a suite on the eleventh floor and getting their bags taken up by a porter. Shutting the door behind him, Travis leaned against the frame and rubbed his face. He had to admit, it had been a hell of a day.

  He looked across at Susie, who was calling down for room service. He smirked as he listened to her order, which consisted of coffee and a double order of pasta.

  ‘Sick of Thai food already?’ he asked, securing the door and drawing his weapon.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said with a grin that was too strained not to be forced. ‘And yeah, maybe I need a taste of home.’ She sniffed suspiciously at herself. ‘And a shower.’

  Travis unclipped the holster from his belt and checked the spare magazine, now reloaded. He didn’t have a cleaning kit, so simply field stripped the gun instead and unloaded both magazines to check the ammo. Susie watched him refill both magazines while he sat at the table.