The Division Collection Read online

  He headed away down a side street towards Millbank, and Archer glanced around him, feeling suddenly self-conscious. If he was honest with himself he’d felt out of his comfort zone with the spooks. He was getting reminded repeatedly that he was in a new world, and he wasn’t sure yet that he liked it.

  Tracy Spencer interested him though, he had to admit, and he looked forward to meeting her later. He waved down a cab and got dropped near the far end of Oxford Street then walked the famous shopping street back towards his hotel, taking his time and breathing in the city life around him. It was a melting pot of cultures and flavours, and in the space of a block he heard three different European languages being spoken by passing pedestrians.

  Archer suddenly realised he was hungry, and checked his watch. 1115am. He found a Pret a Manger and sat in the window with a long black and a blueberry muffin, warming himself and feeling re-invigorated as the caffeine hit his bloodstream.

  As he sat he began to formulate a plan in his head. Patrick Boyle had been seeing a woman in Cornwall named Ruth, who he had met when she was a teenage street worker in Belfast. She had moved to England several years ago and they had reconnected online. The relationship built to the point that he came over once a month for an overnight stay. His paranoia of the security services was still high, and he never stayed longer than twenty four hours.

  His next visit was due in two days’ time.

  The spooks knew this because prostitutes are creatures of habit. Ruth was still on the game and with that came the drugs scene. She had managed to beat a crack habit but had also become an informer for a local copper. Her information had proved credible over the years and she had eventually dropped her lover in it.

  Despite having moved on from his terrorist activities, Boyle had an unhealthy fascination with guns. The timing of his monthly visits to Cornwall had been linked to the flood of firearms onto the black market, and it was believed he had access to stores previously held by the Provos. Assault rifles, sub machine guns and pistols were all readily available from dealers in the south-west.

  This information had been elevated to the security services, and due to the international aspect of it MI6 – specifically Tracy – had ended up handling the informer.

  The plan was to nab Boyle while he was at his mistress’ house, hopefully still in possession of a shipment of weapons, giving them leverage to get at Yassar. They had no idea what weapons he may have but they knew he travelled alone, flying his private plane under the radar to a remote field. He drove to his dealers to make the transactions before heading to Ruth’s place.

  Archer was tasked with intercepting Boyle safely. Matthew had made it clear there would be no tactical support from either the police or military. This was strictly need-to-know. He would, however, have the services of Tracy. Once he had a basic plan in his head, Archer left the cafe and went to a nearby stationer’s, where he bought a map book and pens. Electronic gizmos were all well and good but Archer had a healthy appreciation for the old school.

  22

  Striding along the footpath, he turned into the street his hotel was on and immediately sensed trouble. A silver BMW SUV was at the kerb outside his hotel and he could see a man behind the wheel and exhaust fumes pumping from the tail pipe.

  As he stepped into a doorway to watch, Archer saw two men descend the front steps of the hotel and head for the BMW. He recognised the first man as the American former sergeant, but the second man was partially obscured by him and Archer couldn’t see him clearly. The sergeant moved round to the front passenger’s door, and the second man opened the door behind the driver. As he did so, he cast a look over his shoulder in Archer’s direction.

  A cold fist gripped Archer’s gut. It was the gunner who had killed Bula two years ago. The Dixie boy he’d laid out cold, and who’d been cleared of any misconduct by an inquiry.

  He felt his pulse quicken as he watched the two men get in and the BMW move away from the kerb. If they were operating as a three-man team that meant the driver would be TJ Wheeler. It also meant that it had been the Dixie boy who’d Tasered him.

  He’d never learned the names of the Black Star contractors involved in the shooting, but hoped that the lead from the stolen wallet would now lead him somewhere.

  As soon as the BMW turned the corner Archer made his way into the hotel, bounding up the steps into the foyer.

  The receptionist behind the desk was the same Eastern European girl who’d been on duty the previous night. She was bent over something on the desk behind the counter-top, and looked up with a start when Archer strode in.

  ‘Aahh...’

  ‘Morning,’ he said cheerily, plucking a brochure from a display on the counter-top.

  It advertised guided bus tours of the city, and he held it up for her to see.

  ‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘are these tours any good? I need something to do tomorrow, but I don’t want anything really touristy. What would you recommend?’

  She hesitated, as if unsure whether to answer or not.

  ‘Aahh, umm...yes, I would say they are very good, in my opinion.’ She nodded vigorously, her blue eyes wide under a formidable set of false lashes.

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘Can I order lunch here, or do I have to call room service? I’ve got an awful lot of work to do and I can’t be bothered going out.’

  ‘Umm, aahh, yes, if you can order here is okay.’

  She produced a pad and Archer ordered a steak sandwich, fruit salad and orange juice. Giving her another smile he went upstairs to his room.

  The piece of tissue had been dislodged and was on the carpet by the door. His suitcase was on the luggage rack where he’d left it, and he noticed the zip had shifted positions slightly.

  The room had clearly been searched, and he was certain that the receptionist would be on the phone right now to the Americans. While speaking to her he’d seen she had a handbag on the desk, presumably putting away the money she’d just been paid for allowing access to his room.

  It was safe to assume the deal would include making a phone call once he returned.

  Archer paused to think for a moment. The Americans clearly didn’t want him to know they’d been there, which in turn meant they wanted to know something on the quiet. Either they had wired his room or they had been looking for something particular in his luggage. He knew there was nothing for them to find, as he had taken the stolen wallet and its contents with him.

  That left the first option as the most likely.

  He tossed his coat and jacket on the bed, and loosened his tie, trying to figure out what it all meant. They obviously knew who he was and who he worked for, and therefore presumably the reason for his presence in London. This made it clear they had a shared interest, but Archer couldn’t determine how far that went. Were the Americans after Yassar, Boyle or both? Did they want to kill or capture either of them? Were they working for the Government or a private entity, and if so, who? Were they simply after the bounty on Yassar’s head?

  He decided he had more questions than answers right now, but at least he knew one thing for certain; there was a leak somewhere.

  23

  Archer had spent the afternoon in his room as he’d indicated to the receptionist.

  The steak sandwich had been excellent and he’d had an hour’s sleep to try and counter the jet-lag he’d felt creeping over him. After showering and freshening up, he dressed warmly and headed downstairs. There was a different receptionist on now, a pale young man who ignored him as he crossed the foyer.

  Tracy had emailed him details of the target address in Cornwall, and he had spent some time on his notebook working out a strategy for capturing the Irishman. Moore had also been as good as his word and sent through details of where to pick up his gear that had been sent in the diplomatic pouch. He left the warm hotel and hunched his shoulders against the chill of the evening as he waited for a cab. The city was buzzing with commuter traffic and pedestrians hurrying for the Tube
, and lights were on everywhere. He knew every building around him would be centrally heated and cozy and momentarily contemplated returning to his room and ordering in. Maybe he could just go and pick up his gear and be back quickly.

  A black cab pulled up as he debated with himself, and he began to turn away, raising a hand in apology to the driver. He sensed a presence behind him and felt a hand grip his arm. Something hard dug into his side and Archer stiffened. A Southern drawl whispered in his ear at the same time as the cab’s rear door opened.

  ‘Be smart and get in.’

  Archer realised resistance was futile right now, and moved to the door. He bent and saw the side of the driver’s head. It was the Dixie boy, which meant his captor was probably the sergeant. He stepped into the back of the cab and a strong hand pushed him firmly against the far side, followed by the man’s body weight hard against him. The gun barrel hadn’t moved from his ribs. Archer glanced sideways and met the sergeant’s steely gaze.

  The cab moved off into the traffic.

  ‘Surprised?’ the sergeant asked mockingly.

  ‘Only that you were stupid enough to kidnap me on camera,’ Archer replied. ‘Aside from that, no.’

  The sergeant smirked. ‘Kidnapped? That’s pushing it a bit far, compadre. We’re just a couple of old soldiers catching up. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?’

  Archer gave him a disdainful look and turned his attention to the driver.

  ‘So it’ll be you I have to thank for the shocking introduction to London, then?’ he asked.

  The Dixie boy’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror and a grin crossed his lips.

  ‘No thank you’s are necessary, my friend.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t thanking you. I was just making sure I had the right person.’ He paused, and the Dixie boy’s eyes flicked up from the road again. ‘I owe you twice now.’

  The Dixie boy glanced at the sergeant now, who shook his head placatingly.

  ‘Don’t worry, pal, he’s just tryin’ to get inside your head.’

  ‘No no no.’ Archer shook his own head now. ‘I’m not doing that mate. I’m just making sure I have the right guy.’ He met the driver’s eyes again. ‘Because I will kill you. That’s all.’ He ignored the gun in his side and leaned forward slightly, still holding the driver’s gaze. ‘I mean it, mate. I will kill you.’

  The sergeant jerked him back against the seat and jabbed his pistol harder into Archer’s side.

  ‘Shut yer mouth, boy. Stop the trash talkin’.’

  Archer ignored him and looked out the window, identifying landmarks as they drove. Heading east, he figured. Some thirty minutes later they pulled off into a side street in Leytonstone, and headed into an industrial block.

  It was the sort of premises where you could rent a unit on a weekly basis, usually used by tradesmen for a specific job or by gangsters for drug dealing. There were five units in a row on each side of a driveway, and they all seemed to be closed up for the night.

  The cab eased through an open door into the middle unit on the right and the door came down behind them. Lights were on inside and directly in front of the cab was an office with a set of stairs going up the side wall to a storage area above the office. Standing on the stairs was the guy Archer had bumped in the park, cradling a suppressed Beretta M12 chopper in his hands, watching the new arrivals.

  TJ Wheeler.

  Archer glanced quickly around, getting his bearings and scoping any possible weapons or escape routes. Stacked against the left wall were bags of garden fertiliser, enough to fill a Transit van. Directly ahead were six fuel drums.

  The sergeant caught his eye and smirked as if reading his mind.

  The driver got out and opened the door, and Archer alighted. He paused and looked coldly at the Dixie boy across the top of the door. The younger man flinched but held his gaze.

  ‘Your days are numbered, kid,’ Archer told him softly.

  ‘Yer in no position to be making threats right now, boy,’ the sergeant told him, and pushed him against the side of the cab

  While the others covered him the Dixie boy searched Archer roughly, emptying his pockets and efficiently checking every possible hiding place without stripping him. As the young man’s hand explored his crotch, Archer let out a snort.

  ‘I knew you’d linger.’

  The Dixie boy let go immediately and slammed him into the side of the car. Archer’s face bounced off the pillar and he took a knee in the side of his thigh, causing his leg to buckle.

  The sergeant stepped in and pulled the Dixie boy away. ‘Ease up, don’t damage the goods.’ He grabbed Archer by the arm and hustled him to the office, shoving him through the door. ‘Get in there.’

  Archer stumbled into the unfurnished office and was still turning to face them when a rabbit punch caught him behind the ear, sending him crashing against the back wall. The room was only about four metres square and faced with a glass door and windows either side of it. The two mercenaries faced him from the door. There was not a single item in the room that he could use as a weapon. The carpet was worn completely flat and the walls were bare.

  ‘Make it easy on yerself, boy,’ the sergeant told him calmly, holding his compact pistol loosely at his side. It looked like a stainless Walther, a common back up weapon amongst operators. ‘Lose the tough guy act and start listenin’.’

  ‘Do we have to talk? Can’t we just go for dinner and a movie?’

  The sergeant ignored him and stepped aside to let the Dixie boy join them. He had a large pistol in his hand and was loading a feathered dart into the breech.

  Archer gave a wry smile. ‘What is this, amateur hour?’ He gestured towards the vehicle bay. ‘A load of fertiliser and fuel, I’m lying here drugged to the eyeballs, an anonymous phone call to the cops...’ He shook his head.

  ‘That’s the basic idea, yeah.’

  ‘You guys don’t get any smarter, do you?’

  ‘Shut yer mouth, dickwad,’ the Dixie boy snarled, cocking the dart gun.

  ‘Witty,’ Archer commented, ‘clearly you’re the brains of this fuckin’ shambles. I bet your mother-sister is really proud.’

  ‘Enough talkin’,’ the sergeant interrupted. ‘Time for you to start listenin’. This ain’t a joke.’ He leaned against the doorframe and waggled the pistol at him. ‘We tried playin’ nice but it didn’t get through.’

  ‘Oh, is that what you call it?’ Archer nodded his understanding. ‘Sorry, my fault. Here was me thinking it was just another cheap shot from behind.’

  The Dixie boy bristled and looked to the sergeant. The older man was unruffled.

  ‘You needed to butt out and fuck off back to the ass end of the world where y’all come from. If you can’t take the hint, well...maybe we need to be more direct.’

  ‘A little bit obvious, don’t you think?’

  ‘In this world?’ The sergeant let out a laugh. ‘Everybody jumpin’ at their own shadow? Raghead terrorists behind every pot plant? The Brits’ll be all over you like a fat chick at a buffet, boy.’

  ‘Good one, Carl,’ the Dixie boy chuckled, and the sergeant shot him a scowl.

  ‘So Carl, TJ and sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Enough!’ The sergeant waved for the Dixie boy to get on with it. ‘Stop jawin’ and do it.’

  Archer gave the Dixie boy a mocking smile. ‘I bet you love jawin’ him, don’t you?’ he sneered.

  The Dixie boy immediately threw a questioning look to his boss, and Archer knew he’d pegged them right; the younger man was a hot head but unsure if his boss would back him. In the split second the two mercenaries looked at each other, Archer seized his opportunity. He sprang forward and lashed out with a frontal kick at the sergeant’s gun, connecting hard enough to make the other man involuntarily trigger a shot that was deafening in the small room.

  The Dixie boy grabbed at him and Archer spun, seizing the outstretched hand and yanking him forward, pinning Carl in the corner. He snatched at the hand hol
ding the dart gun and twisted savagely, bringing a yelp of pain. The Dixie boy tried for a head butt. Archer took it on the shoulder and smashed his elbow into his opponent’s face.

  Carl was pushing them both away and bringing the pistol around when Archer twisted the Dixie boy’s wrist harder. A bone snapped audibly and the Dixie boy yelped again. Archer forced his own finger into the trigger guard and squeezed, pumping the dart into Carl’s side.

  He slammed a knee up into the Dixie boy’s groin and shoved him away, ducked and caught Carl’s swinging arm, locked it straight and drove the heel of his palm up and through the joint, obliterating the elbow.

  The sergeant’s face went white and he shrieked in pain, popping off a second shot which shattered the glass in the door. Archer slammed his forehead into Carl’s nose and flattened it in a spray of blood. He dropped him and ripped the pistol from his hand.

  As the man fell TJ came into view, the Beretta up and flashing a short burst through the shattered door, rounds buzzing past Archer’s shoulder. He dived to the side and snapped off a double tap, realising he was trapped in the room with the only exit covered by a chopper.

  TJ risked a glance around the window frame and Archer fired again, blowing out the glass. Glancing down, he saw the Dixie boy struggling to pull a weapon from where he lay on the floor. Knowing he had at best only three rounds left, Archer threw himself forward in a slide, crashing both feet into the boy’s torso and knocking the gun away. He drove his heel into the boy’s face and as he pulled back for another go, saw TJ’s head come into view above him in the shattered window frame.

  The merc was scanning the room with the SMG’s suppressor following his eyes, not realising Archer had moved. He never had a chance. Archer squeezed off a double tap that took him in the temple and spread his brains across the wall. The slide locked open and Archer rolled to his feet, checking for threats.

  TJ was in a heap on the floor by the cab, blood running freely from his head. Carl was unconscious but moaning, his shattered arm lying grotesquely at his side. The Dixie boy was twitching and groaning, the crotch of his pants soaked wet.