EPIC, FAST-PACED, CAN’T PUT IT DOWN
The
SUNSTRIKE PROTOCOL B I L LY D O Y L E
When a headless body turns up in a Porsche in Auckland, New Zealand, little does an ex-special forces soldier turned detective realise that his life is about to change forever. With a wife and child to protect, Cole must draw deep to muster every survival skill he learned in the Middle East and shut down a terror plot before hundreds are killed. But it’s not what you think; not everyone is who they seem. In an action-packed story of betrayal, author Billy Doyle’s gripping debut novel asks a fundamental question:
“JUST HOW FAR UP DOES THIS THING GO?...”
About the Author Billy Doyle is a medic and former Intelligence and Security Consultant from Auckland, New Zealand. He has worked in some of the world's most remote and hostile environments. He now writes, teaches survival skills and consults. This is his first novel.
Dedication Dedicated to all those who have served. To anyone stitched up, wronged and seek Justice and revenge. cave iniuriam et furor viri —Beware the rage of a wronged man Special thanks to friends for support and encouragement when the path seemed dim. Rod Moratti Martin Bell Jack Toa Doyle
The Sunstrike Protocol
Billy Doyle
Sunstr ik e Publishing
First edition published 2015 by Sunstrike Publishing 4 Fisherman’s Bend, Whiritoa, NEW ZEALAND Email: sunstrikepublishing@gmail.com Copyright © Billy Doyle, 2015 Copyright © Sunstrike Publishing, 2015 The moral rights of the author have been asserted. The Sunstrike Protocol is copyright. Except for the purpose of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including via technology either already in existence or developed subsequent to publication, without the express written permission of the publisher and authors. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-473-32853-5 (print) 978-0-473-32854-2 (epub) 978-0-473-32855-9 (kindle) 978-0-473-32856-6 (pdf ) Cover photo by Dreamstime Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro Cover concept: Heidi and Ian Wishart Book design: Bozidar Jokanovic
Contents Prologue................................................................................................................................................ 6 Chapter 1................................................................................................................................................ 9 Chapter 2............................................................................................................................................. 47 Chapter 3..............................................................................................................................................65 Chapter 4.............................................................................................................................................. 85 Chapter 5........................................................................................................................................... 108 Chapter 6 ......................................................................................................................................... 140 Chapter 7.......................................................................................................................................... 179 Chapter 8............................................................................................................................................212 Chapter 9...........................................................................................................................................233 Chapter 10......................................................................................................................................... 251
Prologue DISCOVERY
Puysegur Trench NZ TERRITORAL WATERS E164o09’54’’ S48o20’6’’ Waves pummelled the massive hull of the 1500-tonne scientific vessel. Designed to hunt for undersea minerals, ‘Southern Wanderer’ had a crew of ninety and a team of specialist divers including an aptly named little robot called ‘R2’, a remote controlled deep sea submersible capable of reaching the depths of the great southern ocean. With his lobster like mechanical claws, and a tail resembling an oversized hand drill, R2 was designed to drill for rock samples at depths of several hundred metres. Despite her bulk and design, the New Zealand flagged, Swedish built ship rolled and pitched like a kid’s rubber ducky in the bath. Such were the size of the swells. Wind whipped past the bridge faster than an F18 on its way to 6
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bomb Iraq, and despite the industrial strength anti-nausea tablets, all on board felt ill. Even the seagulls thought better of flying today. Standing outside on the deck and braving the 90 knot winds laden with ice and frozen ocean would guarantee instant exfoliation and weight loss. Forty-two year old Captain Donovan Fitch had seen serious swells in the North Atlantic and Arctic Ocean, but the swells of the great southern ocean in the tail of a cyclone a thousand kilometres north were something else. “No diving today—obviously,” the seasoned skipper said to the man accompanying him in the bridge. Even R2 had limits. “Obviously. When can we complete the operation, we need just one more sample?” the other queried, his heavily accented English strained as he swallowed hard, avoiding yet another retch. The Captain regarded the man disparagingly. In truth, he thought the little Chinese was an arrogant shite, but he was the bill payer, and he’d been told to afford the man a small modicum of respect. “This little bit of bad weather should be finished by morning, no worries, should be sweet to launch then.” They had been in this part of the Great Southern Ocean for nearly a month and been lucky. The unmanned deep submersible had launched for all but ten days, and they’d drilled for all but five days. “It is OK, Captain. I have heard from Mr. Soo and the scientists in China. It seems we have found what we came looking for, we need just one more sample to be certain of the purity.” “Good, good. I don’t suppose you can tell me what that is?” “Of course, only now Captain can I tell you. Mr. Soo has authorised me. We wanted to keep this a great secret, but soon the media will be notified.” The Chinese man swallowed hard again, a bead of sweat dripped. Several large swells rocked the ship twenty degrees or more to the 7
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port. The Captain steadied the little man. To him he appeared like a Hobbit. The tall and burly Kiwi Captain towered above him. “Our mission was to look for a certain rare element and we have discovered these waters are abundant with it.” The Captain raised his grey thick eyebrows. No wonder so much secrecy, must be gold or oil—New Zealand, the next great oil state, who would have thought—nah, couldn’t be oil. “—yes, when the world learns we have found oil, vast reserves of oil here, perhaps your country can be rich like the Arabs. What do you think Captain?” “I guess we’ll be seeing more Chinese-backed oil companies down here then. Good for my business—I think that’s great, just great. I am glad we could help.” Both men were lying. The Asian staggered away from the bridge as if drunk, holding a tissue to his mouth, ashamed to throw up in front of the Captain and keen to get below. The Captain looked at his number one and shrugged. “You know mate,” said the Captain. “What?” “That guy is full of shit—since when have we ever used R2 to look for oil?” The ink was barely dry on the New Zealand-China free trade agreement. The captain made his way back inside, still wondering what his guests had really found...
8
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Everybody dies. Death is believable. Pain can be believed. God—I am not so sure about. Time? Yes, time is believable. Relentless, inevitable and revealing. Time moves forward no matter what we will and sometimes we are just too late. Time is something to believe and is something I fear—just like my dreams—— “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” The RPG detonated behind them as they all scrambled for real estate not occupied by high-speed lead. Not an easy task. Nowhere was safe and shards of projectiles, concrete and stones were flying all over the place. “Celsius Alpha-Zero, Celsius Alpha- Zero, CONTACT, CONTACT, HEAVY CONTACT—request immediate air support and QRF over.” The duty radio operator hundreds of clicks away could barely hear over the sounds of the intense fire-fight. “Arrr—Rodger Celsius Alpha Zero, heavy contact request immediate air support and QRF over.” 9
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“Fuck!—I’m hit, ahh fuck it man!” “Hang on bro.” The man beside him swung his M4 around and opened up, exporting some more lead downhill to where the bastards were. Not that his direction of fire made much difference— they were surrounded. A scream to his left. Smoke to his right. Flames above. High pitched zing and thud was everywhere. The enemy were on top of them. Out of M4 ammo, the same man drew his side arm, a SIG P226, and fired. Deliberate, disciplined double taps. Each shot killing. Emptied the magazine then skilfully reloaded just as one of them charged. He fired, watched him reel backwards, and then quickly shifted aim and targets—dropping four more enemies including one who made it to within a few metres. He hadn’t even realised he was hit until he tried using his comms. His voice raspy, he coughed blood. “Celsius Alpha-Zero, Celsius Alpha-Zero, BRING THE RAIN, I SAY AGAIN, BRING THE RAIN—DANGER CLOSE, DANGER CLOSE.” The man was yelling now. Had to. “Arrr—Rodger Celsius Alpha Zero, hang tight sir, danger close on your six over.” Then came the rain. “Cole. COLE—Its OK baby—It’s OK, shhhh, shhhh, It’s just a dream baby, just a dream.” Cole wrenched himself up in bed. Gasping. Sweating and wide eyed. Took a few moments to catch his breath before turning over. His beautiful wife stroked his head, rubbed his back, and kissed him gently on the forehead, cradling him close. She ran delicate long nails through his damp hair and then held his ears and took the time to kiss him over and over again before relaxing the tempo, ending her therapy with one long and slow loving kiss. The type that melts a man no matter how hard. 10
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“Was it the same dream honey?” “No Angel, no, I’m Ok now, thanks Angel. I’m sorry for waking you, so sorry.” Cole checked time. 0445hrs. A light rain fell and subtle rumblings warned of threatening thunderstorms out on the Hauraki Gulf, so subtle a keen fisherman could still be heard, his tiny outboard straining to make headway, its skipper optimistic for an early catch, or perhaps he, like Cole was an early riser. “May as well get up. You sleep babe. I love you.” Cole sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasping his face, his reality still quivering between the dream and the bedroom. Gradually, the bedroom won. Cole sighed, grabbed the glass of water he always never finished and walked to the blinds. Draining the glass, he peeked outside and considered a run and swim. The warm bed beckoned, however, usually did after one of those dreams, so he stole a few more minutes, snuggling next to Natasha, enjoying her soft skin and the smell of her moisturised toned arms. A lingering kiss made his morning before hitting his daily cold shower and getting ready for work. His shower and shave took longer than most days. Today he meditated under the icy water until his skin dimpled and he started to shiver. Focusing on his breathing he let his brain freeze and head ache like you do when you scull ice cream too fast. The ritual completed, he ironed his crisp white shirt with practiced ease in the lounge, wearing just a towel and watching BBC news, but he was distracted and regretted skipping his usual punishing run and long ocean swim. He needed to burn the tension off. Today of all days he needed focus. Returning to the bathroom, he paused before slapping on some after-shave and sorting his hair. Looked into the mirror and stared, adjusting his tie and fiddling with his hair some more. Aye—ready. 11
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With his affirmation complete, Cole grabbed his keys and cell phone, then checked on Sam, the child still sound asleep in the land of sweet dreams he long had forgotten. As he reversed his car and headed to work, Cole checked his mirrors, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Ran the number plates of the last ten cars he had seen behind him through his near photographic mind, before he realised he was doing it again. Paranoia. It came with the territory, with the training. It had kept him alive once, but now it was a burden. This wasn’t Iraq. Wasn’t Afghanistan or places of similar ilk. This was home. He grinned at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Probably another sign of paranoia. So what—fuck off. The drive into the city was unremarkable except for the pissed-off parking warden cruising the car park. Ready to swoop down and issue a ticket, he seemed disappointed that everyone who parked here had paid. It was his version of upholding democracy and fighting for freedom, reinforced by the ever present, unrelenting orange cone. Such was the ferocity of the war fought here. If only people really knew, Cole thought as he paid for his two hours at the pay and display. The walk to court was brisk. He scanned rooftops, checked alleys and cleared his tail at least twice. Fuck! Why did I do that? Cole could tell his boss was uptight before he shook hands. Sitting outside the High Court, he glanced at and acknowledged Detective Sergeant Max Flannigan, who still smelt like a bottle of rum and a brothel from his previous night’s activities. The man’s liver was partially fossilised but Cole had to admit he had learnt a lot from the cheesy, sexist slut over the past year. “You ready?” asked Flannigan. Cole nodded. 12
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“Good—let’s go, is Simpson here already?” Cole shrugged. “Bound to be—he’s like fucking Spock.” The two detectives entered the court. Bowed, as was required, then took their positions as proceedings kicked off. Detective Constable Simpson, already seated, greeted them both. He looked clear-eyed and bushy tailed, as keen as ever and reviewed his notebook diligently. “All rise,” the clerk commanded. It was kick off time. Within hours, Detective Sergeant Flannigan’s bored and worried mind watched Niles McKenzie, Crown Prosecutor, get his legal arse kicked in Auckland’s High Court in horror. He knew another objection was on the way. The crown was losing this case and it was only day one. The prosecutor had led Simpson into a no-go zone. Five times, scumbag’s lawyer Pendalton has had his way with Judge Smith. Objection after bloody objection, here it comes! “Objection, your Honour—I must protest. The prosecution can’t—” Flannigan’s mind raced and changed gear, his thoughts coming fast, each begging to break free and be heard. He needed the right thought for the right moment and it was best his dark thoughts remained just that. He was tempted to let them loose and explode into voice but knew this was all part of the game, and he had played it often enough. For now, he allowed his thoughts to stay in the pits for maintenance. Justice, what is the ultimate justice for families of a murder victim? Is it the wrath from a judge handing down a life sentence—Nah, this fuckwit won’t care about that! The death penalty maybe—dream on. Flannigan reflected on the unfairness of this case. Changing headgear once more, he ramped up his philosophical ramblings. 13
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Revenge is always thought through. It is in our nature as humans. You fuck on me. I will fuck you up! The race stopped, and his internal ramblings scrambled back to the pits as the prehistoric Judge held up his sun-damaged knotty hand. Pendalton abruptly ceased his protest, shrewdly recognising Judge Smith’s signal. “Yes, yes, quite right,” the deep gruff voice commanded respect. Judge Smith turned to McKenzie. His leather seat squeaked and his weary eyes settled on a nervous and flustered prosecution lawyer. “Mr. McKenzie, once again I must ask you to stop referring to that particular piece of evidence. It is inadmissible. It was deemed so by the court at depositions, and it remains so.” Lambasted by Judge Smith, McKenzie was a stressed out critter. Flannigan’s inner ramblings raged furiously and his jaw clenched. Bastard, he’s going to get off, that mongrel is going to get off thanks to Pendalton! Flannigan had the sudden urge to throw his shoes at the defence counsel. Detective Constable Simpson sighed and looked at both Flannigan and Detective Constable Cole from the stand. It was a look of desperation, resignation, maybe even despair, and the judge saw and heard the cynicism. Flannigan wished he had his hip flask of old navy rum—his favourite—but denied such a treat he couldn’t help but sink his face into hands and think. Revenge is a meal best served cold. Who said that? What a fucking great saying—Jesus, I wish someone would take an eye for an eye, with this bastard! Nothing was going well for the prosecution in the matter of, ‘The Crown versus Wilson’. McKenzie was losing. Wilson was a killer, there was no doubt about that, he had form as long as Gandalf ’s beard and during the interview had mocked them, knowing damn 14
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well all the evidence was circumstantial and the police case thin. He might go free, and the idea of that sent shivers up the detective’s spine. Judge Smith turned toward the jury. His movements were deliberate, focused and perfunctory as he peered over his bifocals and spoke. Same tone, slower tempo, kindly, patient, as if talking to children. “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, you are to disregard the comments just made by Detective Constable Simpson.” The jury, summoned from the electoral roll, were supposedly the defendant’s peer group. This lot look like the escapees from a dementia ward, I’ve seen fucking bacteria move faster. Smart people excused themselves from jury duty. This lot are a bunch of lethargic sheep! As if agreeing with Flannigan’s unspoken comments to the universe, the jury heads all nodded in unison. Baaa. “Nothing more—your Honour,” said Niles McKenzie. He sat down, still and chilled. He had a face like a smacked arse, red and angry. The Judge turned to DC Simpson. “Thank you Detective, you are excused.” Simpson plonked himself next to his Sergeant and DC Cole. Farckin hell. It was Pendalton’s turn. A formidable defence for such a low blower like Wilson. That fact puzzled Flannigan and prosecutor McKenzie. “What the Hell?” Flannigan had knee-jerked when McKenzie told him Pendalton would be representing Wilson instead of his publically supplied Barrister. Pendalton was classy and of high reputation in matters of law. He was the best money could hire. A man of swaggering arrogance, he spoke with a cultured but verbose tongue from time spent in England’s lordly haunts. In short, Flannigan thought him a pompous arrogant wanker but 15
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one hell of a lawyer. Pendalton stood. He was a tall, lean man who moved his hands to illuminate his fluffed up sentences, twisting then turning every phrase before eventually making his point. It was mesmerising for some, sickening for others. Rare to see a defence lawyer with such reputation in these courts, defending scum like Wilson, how did Wilson manage you as his lawyer. It bugged him, didn’t make any sense. He had the crown and justice against the ropes on this one, had kicked poor old McKenzie in the balls several times. “Your honour, I would like to recall Mr. Nepia.” He was the Crown’s only real witness, but Flannigan and McKenzie were optimistic about Mr. Nepia. The evidence so far was circumstantial. However, Mr. Nepia was there and was very credible. A retired cop, the Jury would believe what he saw, when the thug Wilson kicked and beat the old man to the ground and then robbed him of $38.50 and his modest wristwatch. Fuck you Pendalton, we’ll show you pal! Thought a confident Flannigan, as Mr. Nepia took the stand to be sworn in. However, they soon lost any remaining hope. It was a painful twelve minutes watching their only witness torn apart by the defence. Thorough; Pendalton left no aspect of Mr. Nepia’s testimony intact. He shredded it. Diced and delivered it back to the jury repackaged into a version of the truth that wasn’t necessarily a lie, but convincing enough to sow seeds of reasonable doubt. —And that, reasoned Flannigan, was all he had to do. Clever, so damn clever! Poor Mr. Nepia. Flannigan, seated in the gallery, was looking at a worried and clammy Mr. Nepia, frowning and unsettled. The rest of the day was just as bad for the prosecution and at day’s end; McKenzie left the court with his head down, broken. Flannigan and his colleagues however, held their heads high, searching for the nearest and quickest relief from their pain. 16
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The Gloucester, yeah, The Gloucester. On the street just outside the courthouse Flannigan looked at Simpson; his face broke into a grin as a gorgeous blond woman, with the world’s shortest dress, passed them with a cheeky smile, and skipped into The Gloucester. It was a place to help bury fathoms of pain under one’s choice of poison. The bar was equidistant to the District and High courts, and lawyers and paralegals met, drank and hooked up. Flannigan winked at his colleagues: “Come on guys, let’s get drunk and womanise, fuck it mate!” Cole and Simpson nodded their agreement and, as they entered The Gloucester, their senses were greeted with the usual scent of sexy women on the prowl. CK-One, DK, and every other perfume under the sun wafted past them as they strutted to the bar for service. Last decade’s music was playing and almost everyone had a glass of wine, even the blokes. Flannigan could see Pendalton at the bar celebrating. Arse hole! Flannigan thought, his nostrils flaring slightly. “How do you sleep at night you bastard?” spat Flannigan, joining the lawyer and signalling the bar man. “Whiskey, Irish, double with no mixer.” Simpson was conservative, typical of young Gen-Y cops. “Coke, thanks Mike.” Cole ordered a beer before settling outside for a cigar. A married man, he’d stay to be social with his boss and colleagues but, in truth, Cole hated places like this. Filled with what he called ‘oxygen thieves’, airheads who were fakes, like their Rolex watches, all pretending to be the shit. He had a better place to go but played the game. Flannigan pressed. He knew Pendalton was just doing a job, but somehow the horrific nature of this case grated him. He wanted Wilson 17
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to go away for a very long time. If it had been anyone else defending that scumbag, he would have had what he wanted. Pendalton, however, never lost a case. Flannigan pushed, even harder than before. “So, how do you sleep?” “Justice is as mysterious as it is enlightening, old bean,” remarked Pendalton, holding his port like a flamboyant movie star. Prick. “Do you really think Wilson will reform, repent, while in prison— does he possess the ability to change; will prison change a man like Wilson?” challenged Pendalton, each question followed by an annoying pause. Flannigan slurped his whiskey and crunched ice, overwhelmed with a rising desire to smash a table over Pendalton’s head. Simpson interjected: “Probably not, but that mongrel shouldn’t be out on the streets, he’ll do it again! Mark my words mate, he killed poor old George Robinson and he’ll do it again sometime soon.” Pendalton sipped his expensive, cultured and traditional port. His facial expression remained light, yet he spoke quietly this time, while twisting the base of his glass to and fro. The remaining port swayed like the surface of a great sea, and Pendalton was looking deep into it, the most serious expression Flannigan had seen from the swaggering barrister. “There are dark things and dangerous people in this world that, in the end, Detective Flannigan, will take care of monsters like Wilson,” Pendalton said quietly. Flannigan rebutted. “And, in the meantime, what happens?” His voice was raised, clearly agitated. “We wait till he does someone else over? Maybe, another old man like George Robinson, or maybe, next time an old lady?” 18
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Flannigan had spoken a little too loud and a sudden hush came over the bar for a time. “Sorry,” Flannigan mumbled, his tone more subdued. The mention of George Robinson’s name hit Pendalton hard. His eyes changed. His mouth narrowed, and a red flush briefly shimmered across his neck. The barrister spoke softly, yet his eyes had hardened. “Have a little faith old bean, have a little faith.” As he stood up to leave he offered his hand to Simpson first, then Flannigan. They shook, and he left—briefly stopping to chat to Cole, who said nothing, seemingly pissed off someone had interrupted his sampling of cigar and beer. Flannigan grinned. Cole was no fan of Pendalton either. “I hate that fucking prick, Cole reckons he’s ‘a jumped up try hard pommy Rupert,’ that’s what he called him anyway. He’d know—apparently he worked with the Brits back in his army days,” Flannigan remarked, watching the exchange between Pendalton and Cole. Flannigan signalled the barman, licking his lips. “Whiskey again thanks mate—make it a triple and better get a beer for my dark silent-type mate out there.” Flannigan motioned with his head. Simpson glanced his way. “He’s not much one for socialising, is he boss?” “Who—Cole? He’s alright mate, just not as horny as you and I. Married man mate!” 2 The next day, the defence wrapped up its case with a startling delivery from Pendalton. McKenzie was watching the jury intently throughout. So was Flannigan. 19
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When the foreman delivered ‘not guilty’, neither was surprised. McKenzie looked at the floor. He couldn’t face the jury. Couldn’t face Flannigan. He had failed and a killer would be set free. Bloody hell, reflected Flannigan. He shifted his stare to Pendalton packing his files and apparently aloof, focused on something else. You cold snobby bastard. Unable to contain himself, he followed Pendalton into the corridor and bellowed. “Happy? Are you happy now, Pendalton, a killer is on the loose?” Pendalton stopped. Turned, and then walked back toward Flannigan. He was marching. Back ramrod straight, head high, eyes blazing. “Maybe Wilson is a killer. But not according to the jury my dear Detective. Not according to the jury!” “And if the jury were wrong, what then? A psychopathic killer is loose!” Pendalton smiled, once more cool and controlled. “Then a killer is loose, and that needs to be dealt with Detective.” Pendalton maintained an intense stare at Detective Sergeant Flannigan. There was something menacing about his eyes. They drilled through Flannigan into a different dimension, and the usually tough detective averted his gaze. “Good afternoon Mr. Simpson, good day Detectives Flannigan, Cole.” Flannigan and Simpson watched the lawyer turn and leave, then after a time Simpson spoke. “Is it just me, or is that guy the most pompous arse you have ever met?” “Nah, it’s not just you. I think the guy is a tosser, so do most of the lads at the station. Cole almost strangled him once, didn’t you mate—how about a beer?” 20
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Cole grinned. “Not for me boss, taking the missus out. Both of you behave, and Simpson, make sure he doesn’t take you to Showgirls. You’ll blow a month’s worth of wages,” said Cole as he left his two colleagues, stubbing out the remains of his cigar. 2 Simpson and Flannigan proceeded to have a bad night. They dragged McKenzie along to cheer him up. Drunk and horny, they partied on the town and the next day, paid the price. Paracetamol at times like this is more important than air! Simpson thought, as he vomited into his flatmate’s pot plant. Then as he rifled through the night’s receipts, he threw up again. Showgirls, as Cole put it, was worth almost a month’s pay. When Flannigan sobered up and surfaced from his hellish hang over, he sat silently staring at The Herald. There was an article about the trial, and the media were having a glorious time ripping apart the Police and the Crown over their handling of the case. The headlines read: “Murder accused walks free,” and “Crown loses-Murder-accused wins.” Flannigan’s favourite was, “Top dog lawyer thrashes Crown pants.” —Who the fuck thinks such one-liners up? He angrily ate his bacon and eggs. The hangover persisted for the rest of the day so Flannigan did his best to hide away in the obscure parts of the Police CIB office. His colleagues could tell he was hung over. He was as grumpy as hell and stunk like some sort of creature that had mated with a brewery and an ashtray. Time ticked by too slowly for Flannigan this day, he just wanted 21
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to crawl under a rock somewhere and die. After forcing down a meat pie and coke, he was jolted from his dozy state when Simpson knocked at his door with Cole standing behind, as serious as ever. “Sarg, we’ve got a job on, uniforms on scene now. One dead, definitely homicide!” Flannigan cursed to the universe. There goes my sleep! “All right, all right, on my way—CSI guys there?” “Just set up, a bit messy they say. Body still fresh but dead a few hours they estimate.” “Right, sounds riveting.” Fuck. That’s all I need, a fast-paced job! Flannigan let Simpson drive, he was sure he was still over the limit. Cole sat quietly in the back. “Good night with the Mrs, Cole? We had a blinder mate.” “I know—I can smell it boss, and thanks. Yes, that last OP had me away from home for weeks, first quality time in a while,” replied Cole. “How’s the head, boss?” queried Simpson as he sped through red lights and congestion. Loving every moment. “Like a fucking atomic bomb went off in there and the bloody thing’s still going off, you?” “Right as rain me, had a good chuck and I’m sorted. Cole just smiled. He regarded both men with keen interest. He was no angel by his own admission but took his job seriously. As if everything mattered, as it indeed does, and everything hung on such a delicate balance. Cole pondered why one would push that balance by being essentially half-cut, hung over or anything less than 100%. It violated his code, his DNA and at times pissed him off. Oh man—is this my future? They arrived at the job, met by the CSI’s. All of them looked like giant sperms in their white overalls and hats, even the women. 22
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“Has anyone identified the body yet?” Flannigan queried from the police yellow taped cordon. He left Simpson and Cole to inspect the body. Wasn’t sure he could keep his meat pie down. The senior uniformed officer approached him. “No ID on him, we’ll run prints when he’s at the morgue.” “Ahhhr boss, I can ID him,” called out Cole. “Fuckin what?” snapped Flannigan, walking to where Cole was kneeling next to their victim. “Bloody hell, you can’t be serious!” “Got that right,” said Cole. Both Flannigan and Simpson looked at each other, then down again at their victim. A double take. Perhaps they were still drunk, but there was no doubt. Lying on the floor, with two neatly placed bullet holes in his forehead, was a recently accused and released murderer, David Leonard Wilson. Age twenty-six, now recently deceased. All three detectives stared at each other and then grinned. They were the only ones in the car park building that found the death amusing. 2 The following week, family and friends gathered for the unveiling of George Robinson’s headstone in a quiet ceremony. There hadn’t been many at his funeral, fewer here, and even fewer at the house afterwards. Flannigan, Simpson and Cole arrived early. Neighbours, a friend from the RSA and a few old stoic soldiers with solemn faces wearing shining medals were already there. A type of power shrouded them. It showed in bright, vibrant eyes blazing of fire, passion and ice. Flannigan sat alone by the big fireplace in George Robinson’s modest house. The lounge filled with photos and framed newspaper clippings that captured interest. There were family photos. Young pioneering faces from New Zealand’s subtle start. After a time, Simpson joined Flannigan, whiskey in hand. 23
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“Thought you didn’t drink anymore?” Flannigan said quietly while scanning the frames. It seemed wrong to speak any louder than a loud whisper. “I don’t,” slurred Simpson, staring at the historical tapestry. “But, apparently the old boy home brewed this, bloody nice too.” The young detective raised his glass in salute. “It would be rude to turn it down. Cole’s enjoying chatting to the old vets.” “He would. How’s he working out?” “Well, for a guy that’s been on the job for only a few years, he’s a better D than I am.” “What do you want, a friggen hug? You’re OK Simpson. Remember Cole has come from another world.” “Well where ever he’s from, I’m glad he’s on our side.” “Did you hear about that job that went bad? Couple of techos shot?” Flannigan nodded. “Well you didn’t hear the full story mate, apparently when all the shit was going down and they were waving a bloody shot gun in his face, he took the friggen gun off one of them then blew the other sod away! I was there afterwards mate, the guy was calmer than a bloody monk —just sat there smoked his cigar while the IPCA drilled him. One cool cat, boss. Flannigan nodded and sipped his whiskey, looked over at Cole who seemed at home amongst old friends, also enjoying the home brewed whiskey. Good man to have your back during a storm, thought Flannigan, before returning to Simpson’s chat. “Farrckin weird about Wilson wouldn’t you say?” Flannigan stated quietly. “Double tap to the forehead apparently. Bang, bang. Justice delivered. The CSI boys reckon it was a professional hit.” “Is that him?” Flannigan pointed to the photos with his whiskey glass. 24
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“Wilson?” “No—you drunk fool. Is that the old boy George Robinson?” A croaky voice, with Scottish accent, answered from behind. “Aye son, that’s old George Robinson. Robbie we called him, bloody great mate I’ll tell ya.” Flannigan peered at the old photo. There was a young soldier tall and proud. A gorgeous woman on his arm. He was wearing service dress and beret. An unmistakable sandy coloured beret, embossed with a small symbol Flannigan recognised. A dagger flanked with wings with motto ‘Who Dares Wins’. The beret of the SAS. More old soldiers entered, along with Cole. Sipping Robbie’s home brew and offered worn worked hands and genuine beaming smiles. One had a copy of last week’s paper. Flannigan could see Wilson’s photo on it. He frowned and turned away. “Don’t worry mate, he got what was coming.” Others joined the conversation. “Prison would have been a holiday for scum like him. No. He was better left free where Karma would take care of him.” “And it did!” chuckled the old soldiers. “My oath mate.” Flannigan tuned out and studied more pictures. One drew his attention. A young Robbie, holding a baby. “Who’s that? I didn’t think George had a son,” Flannigan queried. The croaky Scottish accent answered. “Ahhhr, you’re a sharp one Flannigan. That’s my son. Old Robbie was my best man. Best friend through war and he was my son’s godfather. His—what do you call it here, arrr that’s right —Matua.” Flannigan nodded. With this information, he was able to follow pictures of young George Robinson and godson through history. Young Robbie in uniform at the boy’s tenth birthday. Another 25
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photo, the young teen boy at his school ball. The next photo a decade later. This time he was out of uniform, his godson was in uniform. A shiny new Army Officer, tall and proud complete with ceremonial sword standing in front of a British Flag and the colours of the Royal Parachute Infantry Regiment. Another framed picture next to this one, this time the shiny new officer a little older with wiser eyes and complete with SAS beret standing before a monument. “Me and Marge never wanted him to join up, but we couldn’t stop him. Wanted to follow the old man’s footsteps I guess.” The young officer was familiar to Flannigan. As if he’d seen him before, but could not quite place where. Flannigan scanned more photos. So did Simpson. He had scoffed several of old man Robbie’s brew and his face flushed. “Bloody hell boss.” “What is it?” Simpson, his face suddenly pallid, pointed to a picture of a University graduate wearing robes of law, but remained silent. “Marge was so proud when he left the Army. He had to. A nasty parachute accident during Desert Storm with the SAS. We were so proud when he retrained.” Flannigan was staring at the photo. Certain he knew the young man. It was puzzling. The old man continued. Cole laughed in the background, like he was in the know. Part of ‘the club’, and he was. Flannigan looked at him. Despite his giddy head, he envied Cole. Cole looked like he belonged. Flannigan felt like an intruder. “A shame, he was a crack shot with a pistol. Could hit a tennis ball at fifty metres, that’s not a lie!” Some of the old warriors laughed at his comment. Simpson smiled and turned looking at the old croaky Scottish voice. “You must be proud—Mr?” 26
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“I’m sorry, should have introduced myself. Pendalton, Jack Pendalton.” Jack Pendalton? Bloody hell, Flannigan suppressed a grin and shared a look with Cole. You knew—didn’t you? 2 The next day, the team were looking over security camera footage from a bar where Wilson used his EFTPOS card just moments before the estimated time of death. They were also looking at footage from the car park where Wilson met his premature end. Flannigan suppressed another grin. Hope you are enjoying your hot seat in Hell, Wilson. “Boss, have a look here.” Simpson had found something. It was Wilson staggering to his car having just left one of the dodgiest bars in Glenn Innes. He was well cut, barely able to stand. “Well, we know he left there alive—anyone follow him?” Flannigan asked. “No, doesn’t appear to be anyone.” Flannigan was looking at car park footage with Cole. Cole’s face was impassive, as if he knew what was about to transpire and was happy about it. “Anything on yours?” asked Simpson. Flannigan ignored him, focused on something else. Looking at his screen, he could make out the shape of a man entering through the exit barrier arms. Tall and lean, he walked with purpose. Dressed in a long black cloak he also had a hat on, tipped forward as if to hide his facial features. As he watched the tall man’s swaggering gait, Flannigan suppressed a rising sense of angst. He recognised the man. 27
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Simpson joined them. They watched the footage, mesmerised as they both observed the striking swaggering man walk up to Wilson. Wilson must have asked him for a light because the tall man reached into his jean pocket and pulled forth a lighter. Hands were cupped, the cigarette lit. Then the tall man stepped back, reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a pistol mounted with what looked like a silencer. There were two flashes and Wilson dropped. Dead, probably before he hit the ground. Flannigan could imagine the sound. Dulled by the silencer, the shots would have been as if a cardboard box had dropped on wet concrete. ‘Thwack—Thwack’. The man bent down to collect his expelled shell cases. As he did, the Detectives could see the side of his face. They looked at each other. There was a long pause. Not sure what to do. Simpson swallowed hard. Flannigan cleared his throat, and then spoke. “There’s nothing on this tape either!” Simpson and Cole said nothing, although Cole had smiled. Ever so slightly, but just nodded as their boss DI Sally Meredith poked her head through the door. “Is there anything on CCTV?” “Ahhhr—nothing useful here boss.” Meredith nodded. “Well it looks like justice has been served!” “Yes ma’am, justice works in mysterious ways,” said Cole with a poker face. When the DI disappeared, Flannigan pushed the delete button, erasing the CCTV footage forever. He spoke just one word. “Justice.” “Justice.” Cole replied. Simpson nodded. 28
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2 Cole couldn’t help but grin reflecting on the day during his trip home. Good bloody job, he thought as he swung into his driveway. Locked the car, and then did what he always did first when he arrived home. “Can you rub my head daddy?” “Of course boy, how was your day?” Cole finished tucking in his son Sam then sat on the edge of the bed and started stroking his forehead. Ever since a baby, to get him settled, Cole had sat there—for hours sometimes. Rubbing his hands gently over his son’s forehead and through his hair while Sam settled for sleep. “Shhh relax now, everything’s OK. Drift off to the land of dreams, relax—good boy.” It was a ritual, and Cole loved every moment of it despite knowing Sam was capable of falling asleep without him. Cole made time every night, hours sometimes, alone with Sam. Sometimes they talked about rugby, other times whatever was on his mind. It was their time and Cole wished he could have more of it. After settling Sam, Cole found Natasha on the couch watching TV. “Now there is the best thing I’ve seen all day,” he said kissing her. Natasha looked up. Smiled, stretched and yawned. “I missed you today.” “Me too,” Cole plonked himself next to her and wrapped his arm around. She was a small woman and Cole’s massive arm drew her close with ease. She kissed him. A long and soothing sensual kiss, as if separated from him for weeks. She ran her hand across Cole’s two-day growth and giggled. “Time for a shave, I think.” He let out a satisfied sigh before replying and plucking out a few greys. 29
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“I know, found some more grey hair this morning, anymore and I’ll look like bloody George Clooney.” “I like it, makes you look—” “Old?” “—sexy, very sexy, especially when it’s spiked up like that. I like it.” Cole kissed her back then reached up and plucked a strand from Natasha’s long dark and exotic hair. “Look, a grey!” Natasha laughed. “No way you meanie, women from my part of the world don’t go grey!” “Meanie eh? I’ll show you mean!” Cole started tickling her playfully and they wrestled each other to the floor, allowing her to land on top. “Ha! I got you!” “I surrender!” For several long minutes, Natasha lay on top and held Cole tight. Cole savoured every moment. Her perfume. The sweet almond scent of shampoo and her soft skin. “I love you angel,” he said as he scooped her up and went to bed. Cole kissed her. He was home. At peace. At least for a few hours. Until came the nightmares. 2 Dawn rose slowly the day after. The sun seemed to drag its lazy arse across a disturbed sky, like it had for weeks past. The type that would deliver four seasons in one day. The type of day that pissed people off. Flannigan was checking his Trade Me account. Well, that’s what he told Simpson. Actually, he was surfing Red-Tube on his iPad and enjoying it. 30
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“Anything good?” queried Simpson from the door. “Oh yeah, very wet and wild. What’s happening?” Closing down Red-Tube, Flannigan stashed his iPad. Damn it, I was fucking enjoying that! “Just got off the phone with motorway support, seems they have found some body parts in an abandoned car.” Fuck, here we go again! “Body parts, that’s all they said?” Yep, I was right, bloody hell! “Yup,” Simpson was texting. It annoyed the shit out of Flannigan. Took him five minutes to text a few sentences, but Simpson seemed to be able to write a fucking novel in less than thirty seconds. “What parts, for fuck’s sake?” As if it matters Flannigan, just move your lazy arse and get going. He had moments like these. His mind argued with itself. He could have entire conversations in his mind and be entertained all day. Closing his eyes, he imagined the two lesbians he just watched on Red-Tube going hard at it like bunnies. Sighed, rubbed his nose, farted and scratched his nuts as he stood. Simpson grinned like the cat that got the crème. “Man’s head. In a box.” “Just a head? You’re kidding me.” What the fuck? Simpson raised his eyebrows. “That’s what they said.” Flannigan ran his hands through his hair. Then over the two-day’s growth, complete with speckles of grey. “Oh man this job just gets weirder every day, what do they want us to do with it?” Flannigan picked up a paper dart he’d made first thing this morning. The computers were down so he had sod all to do. He bored easily. “Well it’s probably a homicide!” 31
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Do ya think? “No shit Sherlock, unless the guy cut his own bloody head off!” He threw the dart at the younger detective. Imagine that, trying to cut your own head off. How would you do that exactly? “Doubt it, there’s no body,” Simpson replied shaking his head. “Are you sure they said just a head, no other parts?” Flannigan tilted his head. “Just the head boss, in a box, apparently in a flash car.” He gulped the last of a shitty cold coffee. “OK, where is it?” “I told you, in a car.” “I know that fucking Einstein, where ‘bouts in Auckland?” “Oh.” Simpson looked at the ground. “Mangere Bridge.” “Alright, let’s go, you drive.” Flannigan still found driving with Simpson a hoot. The young cop hadn’t grown jaded at the thrill of lights and sirens and Flannigan was sure he was playing re runs of Third Watch or Magnum PI in his head. He took his job so damn seriously. Dressed as if he was on a TV show. Walked and talked it up and spent hours on his paper work. As they weaved traffic, siren blazing, Flannigan closed his eyes again and visualised his two new dream girls from Red-Tube. Every so often, he sneaked a look over at Simpson. He was focused. A dead set frown; face slightly flushed as adrenalin raced through his veins. Flannigan smiled and thought, oh man; I’m too old for this shit! It took them twenty minutes to arrive on the Mangere Bridge motorway off ramp. The brakes smelt. Highway Patrol had closed the ramp and locked the area down, causing major mayhem to traffic along the motorway. Flannigan approached one of the sergeants he knew. 32
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“Gidday Bazza!” Bazza was a bear of a man. Over six feet, four inches with biceps like Kauri trees. He had a deep baritone voice that a Welsh choir would love. “Mate how are ya?” in his low tones. “Divorced, poor and tired.” Flannigan ran his hand over his growth again. “Nothing’s changed then—this case is a bit weird, step this way you old wanker, I’ll show you.” Flannigan’s old mate showed him the car. It was a late model Porsche. Brand new. “Only one hundred and fifty kilometres on the clock. Look, the tyres don’t even have dirt on them.” Bazza ran his hand smoothly over the bonnet. Not touching it, he was too good to compromise evidence, let out a long slow whistle and imagined a naked woman. “Sexy brother.” Flannigan scoffed. “Hey Bazza, Viagra works for me mate, you’re a sick man if you reckon this is sexy.” Bazza grinned. “Mate this car is better looking than your ex-wife.” Flannigan nodded. “Yep, you’re right on that one, I rent these days—fuck! Even you could get laid where I visit mate.” Simpson was mesmerised by the car. Staring intently at every detail. He was a sports car nut. Watched Top Gear like it was a religion, knew all sorts of facts and figures about power and fuel consumption, stuff that made Flannigan dizzy. “Where’s the head Bazza you fat prick?” he asked while looking at the car as if it was pole dancing. “Back seat, in a cake box. By the way Flannigan just remember, I am twice the man you are!” “Fuck off Bazza. You’re three of me—maybe four!” “Leather?” asked Simpson. 33
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“Think so, fucked now. Some blood soaked through the box!” “Chocolate, Strawberry or Banana flavour?” Flannigan toyed. “Neither—Asian.” Flannigan looked in the box. There wasn’t much of a smell. In fact, the strongest odour was the young man’s after-shave. Simpson peered into the box as well. All three men were peeping as if staring down a pit. If the Asian head could, he would say. ‘What the fuck are you three gawking at?’ “Brut 33?” asked Flannigan. “No. CK one,” replied Simpson. “Fuck off both of you,” he drew in air through his nostrils like a wine taster. “That is Old Spice.” “What the fuck is that?” Simpson asked. “Flannigan your boy is a bit green isn’t he?—Son, Old Spice is a babe magnet.” Bazza challenged. “Even shit attracts female flies Bazza.” “He looks surprised,” Simpson, said peering into the box. Bazza looked at him in disbelief. “You’d be fucking surprised as well if your head was just lopped off!” Simpson spoke. “They say consciousness remains for up to twenty seconds. I wonder what went through his mind.” “Awwh, wot da fuck was dat,” chimed Flannigan. “Pass me some glue!” The three men started to grin and laugh. “Catch meeeeeee!” Bazza joked. “I’m—freeee!” “Hey, anyone got some panadol. I’ve a fucking huge headache,” Flannigan shot back. The laughing got louder. Simpson, the youngest of the three, then said: “Can I update my Facebook status?” Bazza shot back with a sharp reply. 34
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“Yeah—hang on, I need to tweet this, you won’t believe the view from here!” All three men roared with laughter. Then all three cops stifled their sniggering a little more before cracking on with their jobs. The CSI team all frowned. Bazza spoke after a few more giggles then referred to his notebook. “The car’s registered to a Chinese businessman who is currently in China according to Immigration. No family here. They are all in Hong Kong apparently.” Simpson was still peering in the box. “The CSI guys can run the computer data for us. How long’s the car been here?” A brand new Porsche, in Mangere, oh man. Flannigan was also looking at the Asian in the box. “Fucking ugly bastard isn’t he. I think his mum must have been part bat. Look at those frickin ears!” Flannigan looked up from the box before continuing. “A car like this Bazza, not long before it was lifted I would have thought—how long would a Porsche last abandoned in Mangere, Bazza?” “The traffic centre has footage of the car being parked here at 0345hrs this morning.” He continued, while he referred to his notes. Bazza was a great cop, he was well onto his game and Flannigan often tried to get him out of uniform and become an investigator. No joy. Bazza loved the simple life and his liver. “A single male, about one eighty centimetres, seen leaving the car alone and then walked back down the on ramp. The footage is being couriered to you Detective Cole right now.” All three men scratched notes, stepped aside for the CSI team. They were searching the ground for any clues like footprints or debris left by the shadowy figure that walked down the on ramp. “Can’t believe you never heard of Old Spice young Simpson,” 35
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teased Flannigan, as they scanned the ground walking side by side. “Can’t believe you never smelt or heard of CK-One!” Simpson threw back. Fair enough! A flatbed truck arrived to collect the car several hours later. The forensics team would process it at the lab. The Morgue technicians collected the head while both detectives returned to CIB to plan their next move. They had very little to go on and the media had heard about the grisly find. Radio news was dubbing it the ‘head in the box case,’ and ‘repeaters’ were gagging for comments. Flannigan loathed the media but had to admit in this case, they were going to need them to help ID the head. Simpson spoke. “Well, somewhere in Auckland is a body without a head,” He continued after picking his nose. “Think it will turn up?” “Probably, the last one was found floating in a suitcase in the harbour. This has Asian Triad gangs written all over it. We should chat to the Asian Crime Unit.” Flannigan looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, right now I think a beer is in order don’t you.” “If you insist boss, then of course a beer is in order.” “I do young Simpson. I do—The Gloucester?” Bloody hell. Simpson had vague drunken and scary memories of his last night out with Flannigan the previous evening. The forty five year old was a hard bastard, thought Simpson. He smoked, drank and ate nothing but crap food, yet was the picture of pure health. He must have gorse root genes. Andrea Sanchez. The most beautiful Peruvian bar woman welcomed Flannigan as they fought their way to the bar through a boisterous crowd. Simpson watched the Warriors NRL team getting their arses kicked on the big screen. The place was packed for the 36
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game. On the bar, two pints of perfectly chilled Speights already poured, begging consumption, were waiting. “Ahhhr, now that is service young Simpson!” “How you doing man, missed you past few days.” Flannigan could listen to her accent all day. Andrea had a beaming smile with the world’s most perfect teeth. Her rich silky black hair sat over her shoulders. She was a petite woman, barely five feet tall but perfectly proportioned. Young and stunning. Her massive heart and smile lightened the darkest moods. More than once, she had woken Flannigan from a drunken sleep on the couch. Always kind. Always friendly. Flannigan bought the next five rounds before the two detectives stumbled out of the bar. “Where are you off to boss?” “My car, of course,” Flannigan slurred. “Keys please, boss.” “What?” “Give me your keys, boss!” Flannigan knew better than to argue. Simpson, always the geeky square, made sure he didn’t drive under the influence. “You, Simpson, are a geek!” “Yip—see ya tomorrow boss!” 2 Despite the isolation. Hushed tones prevailed. “Has it has been taken care of?” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was a deep quiet voice. The caller strained to hear every word. “Yes, he won’t make that mistake again.” There was the usual annoying pause before he continued. 37
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“Good, very good, we are getting too close, can’t afford loose lips. Not now. Tell your people to sort their front porch out.” “On that front, do we have a date yet?” “When you need to know I will tell you. Just make sure the preparation continues as is.” The voice raised slightly in pitch but not volume, as if the question annoyed and the speaker was reigning in a sense of anger. “I understand.” The line went dead so the caller checked the screen to check the connection before cursing. “Wanker.” 2 Both Detectives met the Pathologist in the bowels of Auckland City Hospital. Both were gowned up and wearing gloves and a mask. “You look like a friggen tele-tubby dressed in that,” Flannigan mocked the junior officer. Simpson said nothing. Hated the morgue. It was the chemical smell that got to him, reminded him of a meat works. Pathologist Dave McMurray smiled at both men then gave his pre-amble. “Cause of death is—well bloody obvious. His head lopped off when he was still very much alive by a single blow from behind from a very sharp implement. Adrenal levels normal. I reckon he never saw it coming. He even looks surprised!” Simpson and Flannigan looked at each other and suppressed grins. “Like a sword?” Flannigan suggested. “Or a large axe,” the Pathologist replied. “Whatever it was it was very sharp, it cut through the vertebra bones at the level of C4, that’s the cervical spine. The blow came from behind and cut right through the sternoclenoid and trapezius muscles, see here—those are big neck muscles, not easy to cut I can 38
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tell you, well not in one go anyway, the single blow also dissected the carotid arteries and Jugular veins in one swipe. Death would have been instantaneous. ” Flannigan gazed down at the head. “Is there anything else useful? Like his name and address?” “Well apart from being damn ugly? His dental work is good, probably done in Hong Kong. Still has wisdom teeth and he has a small tattoo on his neck.” Oh? The pathologist pulled the young man’s medium length hair aside to reveal a Chinese style tattoo. Cut surgically in half by whatever had lobbed his head off. Only the top half of the tattoo survived. It was a small red dragon wrapped around some sort of sword. Flannigan thought he had never seen the tattoo before but something was familiar about it. Where have I seen you before? Flannigan ran his hands over his growth. Still hadn’t trimmed it so he was looking a little scruffy today. Letting yourself go a little bit aren’t you Flannigan, come on mate pull your socks up—fuck off who cares anyway! “You recognise this?” he asked Simpson. “No, but I’ll start looking for it on the web tonight: see if I can get a result by morning.” “Right oh, I think we need a settler after this, young Simpson.” “Not tonight boss, my liver needs a holiday.” “Soft cock—drink a cup of cement and harden up.” “OK—just one. The Fiddler this time. That other place is full of tossers.” Flannigan stripped his gown off and was glad for fresh air as he checked his wallet. Might be enough for Showgirls, he thought as the two detectives weaved their way out of the city morgue. Made a beeline to The Fiddler Irish bar. 39
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Top end of Victoria St, the steepest hill in the city and the street with the greatest concentration of homeless, pawn shops and massage parlours downtown. 2 The next day, both detectives headed to CIB to meet with one of the Asian crime specialists. Cole joined them, and briefed them on the way. “Found the previous owner of that Porsche. Exotic car dealer in Newmarket. Should have more on who they sold it to by lunch boss.” Flannigan nodded. “You OK boss? You look like shit,” Cole ventured, looking at his pale boss. “—here, get this down your neck, you smell like an empty bottle of rum.” “Actually it was whiskey mate, but thanks.” Flannigan chewed the mint, conscious of the loud crunch. Simpson had been up all night looking for Tattoo matches and trawling global databases after several whiskeys with his boss. One drink my fucking arse, cursed Simpson. He looked no better than Flannigan. Unlike the sergeant, he hadn’t chalked up enough hang over frequent flyer miles to be immune. Two vomits later, tired and complete with a thumping head, he was excited, as if he had news to share at show and tell. They were standing outside an office in a corridor half way between light and dim. Fluorescent tubes flickered and retrofitted plumbing rattled every time someone took a dump and flushed upstairs. “Lovely, well done—now word of warning you two, especially you young Simpson, you are about to meet the world’s most aggressive cougar. Be afraid, very afraid—let’s go.” Her name was Melissa Yang. Detective Sergeant Melissa Yang. Mel for short and Flannigan got a hard-on every time she visited. 40
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Short skirts, very short, were her style, complete with heels that accentuated her tanned long muscular legs. She had huge almond shaped eyes and lips that you just wanted to nibble on all night. Simpson must have impressed Melissa Yang, because the two of them couldn’t keep their eyes off each other throughout the meeting. She had checked out Cole as well, as a cougar sizes up prey, but must have recognised a man like Cole was not easy. He couldn’t give a rat’s arse about her low cut blouse, tight ass or seductive facial gestures. Simpson on the other hand was cock struck. Get a room for fuck’s sake! Thought Flannigan. “This head in a box case has Asian crime written all over it!” he added. Melissa sat motionless but Simpson could tell Flannigan’s statement pissed her off. “Why, the victim happens to be Asian? Could be ISIS.” “Come on Mel, how many jobs have we seen now with bodies showing up in strange places? Packed into suitcases, some even shredded in wood chipping machines. All of them with family or money links to Asian crime groups and the Contac NT or the meth trade.” Melissa wasn’t impressed. “So where is the Asian gang link in this case, apart from the obviously Asian head?” Flannigan paused. “Are you serious, this head was found in a brand new Porsche 9-11. In Mangere for fuck’s sake. The car has traces of all sorts of class A and B drugs and at least five sets of DNA. You reckon this is just—a lovers’ tiff?” Simpson coughed. “Err—boss, it’s actually not a 9-11 Porsche, it’s—” Flannigan cut him off. “I don’t bloody care if it was Noah’s fucking Ark with Russell Crowe at the helm. It doesn’t belong in Mangere Bridge and this guy didn’t wake up two days ago, a bit depressed and decide to remove his own head!” 41
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“What else do you have?” Melissa Yang asked. “Simpson here is working on the tattoo, what do you have so far?” Simpson fired up his iPad. “I’ve found a description and other examples of the tattoo, and I’ve got the Singapore Interpol confirming for me.” Flannigan spoke. “Go on.” “The tattoo belongs to a crime group that operates out of Hong Kong and South China. They are elusive; operate a bit like terrorist cells rather than the traditional family networks of the Italian Mafias and other Asian gangs.” Melissa regarded Simpson with cool eyes and Flannigan noticed a hint of a smile cross her face. Simpson continued. “Sex slave trade and drugs is their thing. They peddle girls on the international market. This is the first time we’ve any evidence of them here in New Zealand.” He referred to some files, distracted by a pop up advert. ‘Your Red-Tube membership needs renewal’. “What the fuck is Red-Tube boss?” Simpson queried. “Ahhhr—it’s a data base, I’ll show you later.” “I am aware of this group,” Yang acknowledged, smiling at Flannigan. “But not here in New Zealand, this is worrying.” “The real question still remains though,” muttered Flannigan in a commanding voice despite the low tone, “who the fuck is the head in the cake box?” “Well, if this is a gang tattoo then he is one of the gangsters. He must have betrayed the gang. Paid the price with his head. ” Melissa crossed her legs. Simpson could not help but look. “Really, sound like a nice bunch,” he said, drooling. “Yup,” said Mel. “These gangs don’t play softly. You screw up or betray the code. You pay. Pay with your head.” Flannigan spoke after he scratched his nuts and farted again. 42
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“So—we have an Asian gang of nutters tooled up to give the world’s closest shave, running loose somewhere in Auckland.” Fucking great, he lamented. Simpson was still transfixed over Melissa Yang. The mixture of fatigue and horny thoughts left him standing before her like a lovestruck teen. Yang spoke, licked her lips provocatively and played with her hair. A well-rehearsed seductive act. “We’ll take this case on, work with you guys to ID the kid, but I’ll recommend to Detective Superintendent Welsh that this become a project for us.” Flannigan nodded. No problems here, you are welcome to this case! Melissa Yang stood, then reached into her extremely tight skirt pocket and pulled forth a business card. She jotted a number on the back and passed it to Simpson. “Well done on identifying this gang. Feel free to call me any time tonight on progress. This is my personal cell—oh by the way we will release a photo of the young man tonight on all the major networks and local Chinese TV stations, someone might recognise him.” Simpson blushed as Melissa Yang left the CIB office. She walked with purpose and her tiny well-rounded arse drew Flannigan’s, Simpson’s and every other red-blooded CIB male’s attention. “She’s hot!” said Simpson. “You’re in my boy, ring her tonight —beware though, she is a wild bitch. I’d be surprised if you can walk in a straight line after she rides you, mate!” 2 Later that night Simpson was trawling the CIB databases for faces and tattoos anything to help ID the young Asian gangster missing his head. His thoughts drifted to Melissa Yang. 43
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Oh, man, what a hottie! The more he thought about her the more he found it difficult to remain on task and, as if by some paranormal link, his cell phone rang. He answered it after trying to figure out the number. “Hello,” he spoke quietly. No real reason but it was late. 1.30 AM. It just seemed the thing to do. “I thought you were going to call me,” said a playful Melissa Yang. “I was—later.” “It’s one thirty in the morning. How long does a woman have to wait? I’m in bed. I’m on Red-Tube.” Simpson swallowed hard. “Are you cosy?” What the fuck is Red-Tube? “No, something’s missing—a man. I need you in here and I’ll be all cosy.” Bloody-hell. Simpson was now instantly awake. “Come to me!” Melissa Yang pleaded. I feel like some fun tonight.” Simpson reached for a pen. “So do I. What’s your address?” Thirty minutes later, he was in Melissa Yang’s bed. She was on top, riding him hard. He had never experienced a woman like this. She had orgasm after orgasm and gushed a sweet, warm, voluptuous scent that drove him insane. It was warm, smooth and he enjoyed every moment. Her breasts were perfect. Not huge and not too small. If you enjoyed this preview of The Sunstrike Protocol, Just perfect. Her nipples were so responsive to his lips and gentle discover what happens next by caressing hands. She was loud and enjoyed hervisiting wild sex. Bellowing, moaning and screaming throughout. The wild passionate sounds, along with her silky smooth juices, served to drive him to the bigwww.billydoylebooks.com gest, most groin-bursting orgasm he had ever experienced. His load wasIfhuge it flooded her atpreview exactlyof thethe same moment came. you and would like a sneak second bookshe in the They both layathere forofseveral long minutes. Each them gasping trilogy, post review The Sunstrike Protocol onofAmazon and and holding other close. theynewsletter started over. At first, it was email us theeach link, or sign upThen for our on our website. 44