Morgan looked up and shook his head with a smile. Rodgers couldn't help himself. He was a soldier through and through, and a consummate professional of the old school. Built like a middleweight prizefighter, he had close-cropped greying hair and a wry smile that gave the impression he knew something about you that you didn't. No matter how many times Morgan had invited the former Sergeant-Major to call him Alex, Tom Rodgers remained stoic in his resolve to maintain military protocol. "You officer, me enlisted swine," he would say with quasi-defiance. "It was Sir when we were in the Regiment back home and it's Sir now. It's just the way I'm wired."
And so, when Morgan joined INTREPID and discovered his old friend was INTREPID's Close Quarter Combat Chief Instructor, it had become the way of things. When it came to shooting and unarmed combat - despite Morgan's acknowledged standing as one of INTREPID's best shots, and despite the fact that they were the only two on the range - Rodgers naturally fell into his other old Regimental custom and assumed the role of master, The God of All Things; and Morgan, comfortable with the familiarity of it all, accepted the subordinate position of apprentice.
They had been shooting for an hour in the purpose-designed indoor range, buried deep below the streets of London. The state-of-the-art range sat at the eastern end of a long-abandoned section of London's Victorian sewer network. Built in the 1860s as a consequence of the infamous Great Stink of London in 1858, the area they stood in had been intended as a junction and overflow adjunct of engineer Joseph Bazalgette's modern sewer system. However - as Rodgers reminded his charges - it had, thankfully, never been commissioned.
Of course, that salient point was lost on the agents, all of whom customarily referred to INTREPID's half mile of pristine sewer as The Pit, and, with a less than charitable reference to those pitiable 19'h Century souls whose job it was to keep the sewers clear, Rodgers was tagged The Mudlark, although no one would ever dare consider calling him that to his face, not even jokingly or even within 100 yards of him for that matter. When news of the scurrilous moniker had inevitably filtered down to The Pit, Rodgers had embraced the irreverence of it and hung a picture of a mudlark over the entrance to the range. With the assistance of his French wife, Sophie, he'd added the phrase 'une fois charognard, toujours charognard' above, which loosely translated as 'Once a mudlark, always a mudlark'.
The Pit had become a cluster of large rooms, host to those activities undertaken by INTREPID agents requiring secrecy. The availability and suitability of the old sewer had been one of the deciding factors in General Davenport's decision to take the office building five floors above them. Training sessions were, according to Davenport's edict, a routine occurrence for those agents not deployed on ops. And Sergeant-Major Rodgers saw to it that all field agents attended their sessions, particularly the unarmed combat sessions. The agents joked that they weren't sure what was worse about the unarmed combat sessions: the wrath of General Davenport if they failed to attend, or the hiding they would invariably cop from Rodgers when they did. At least, a few rounds on the mats meant they could stave off the paperwork that awaited them upstairs, but mostly it meant that they could cross swords in some friendly - albeit dangerous - competition.
"Right, last serial. A single string of six and then we'll bin it." "Okay, Tom. But with stoppages. I need the practice."
Rodgers smiled. "Okay. You know, it won't make any difference." Both prepared a magazine with six live rounds and one dummy round,
placing the dummy randomly amongst the six live. They exchanged the magazines, so they were unaware when the dummy round would appear, cause a stoppage and force them to clear it.
"Keep a steady rhythm. Evenly spaced shots to the head and chest. Reassess the target between each shot. The shot clock is set for 4.25 seconds," Rodgers announced.
"Yes, Master," replied Morgan.
Morgan in shirt and tie and Rodgers in a Royal Australian Regiment t-shirt and navy blue overalls, stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing targets depicting armed offenders seven metres back from the firing line.
"By the way, Sophie keeps asking me to invite you around for dinner some time."
"Love to, as long as she doesn't try to poison me with seafood again," replied Morgan.
"Mussels are her signature dish! Anyway, that was years ago," Rodgers scoffed. "How were we to know you'd get crook?"
Without warning, the shot clock uttered its shrill warning. Both men drew the SIG Sauer P226 9mm automatics from their concealed holsters. Rodgers was faster on the draw, but Morgan was smooth, both firing a series of shots in a fluid rhythmic action. Suddenly, two bright strobe lights flashed the range with a blinding white light, and two deafening explosions echoed from the range's digital sound system. These programmed mechanical actions were designed to distract them in the same way flash bang grenades would during an actual assault. At Rodgers insistence, the range contained all manner of such devices, designed to evoke an adrenal response from participants so they would become inoculated to such effects in readiness for combat situations.
From the cry of the shot clock, the sustained crash of a dozen consecutive shots hammered the walls. With smoking barrels trained dead ahead, both men stood facing the targets as the shot clock sounded the end of the timed period. They individually cleared their weapons, then inspected each other's pistol for added safety, before re-holstering.
"Not bad, Sir. Not bad at all," Rodgers said as he examined Morgan's target. "Three to the head and three to the chest. All in the zone. Although I think you dropped your third shot.
It
cut the line. Any lower and he would have only ended up with a shaving cut!" The bullet hole to which Rodgers was referring, was slightly below the terrorist's left eye, but well within the allowed six inch square.
"Well, you threw in the stoppage on my third shot!" Morgan smiled. He eyed Rodgers' target, with its three bullet holes grouped neatly in the forehead and two almost superimposed in the centre of the chest where the heart of the target would be. A sixth hole appeared above and slightly left of the heart. "Good shooting. Great session, Tom. Thanks."
"Well, you needed the practice and I know the General's keen to get you back in the field. What'd you think of the flash-bang sim? Thought I'd keep you on your toes."
"Yeah, it worked." Morgan felt that Rodgers had something else to say. "Excellent. Can't beat the real thing, but the boss won't let me throw
real grenades down here."
The phone on the wall behind them rang loudly. "Rodgers," he answered. "No worries." He turned to Morgan. "Speak of the devil. Boss wants you."
"I'd better get moving, then."
"Sir, one more thing," Rodgers captured Morgan's gaze. "I know what happened to your mate, Collins, and I can tell by the way you're shooting exactly what's going through your mind."
Morgan remained silent.
"Catch this bastard. Kill him if you can. But do it with a clear head.
Don't get yourself killed because you've got your head full of revenge."
CHAPTER 42
Cape Town, South Africa
Lundt looked upon his target with such heated intensity that Turner should have felt it scorch the flesh of his exposed back.
Feet away, Lundt's hand closed tightly around the haft of a US Marine Corps K-Bar fighting knife. The blade, razor sharp, sat flush inside a well worn leather sheath clipped to his belt. He could barely contain the urge to stride across the plush white carpet and slit the smug bastard's throat in full view of the whores.
His gaze fell upon the girls. He eased his grip on the K-Bar and indulged for a few moments. They were stunning, one blonde, one brunette, barely into their twenties. Poured into tiny outfits two sizes too small, they were playing up to Turner's pathetic role play. They must be well compensated, Lundt thought. As he watched, Turner got rough, forcing them to respond. He tore at their hair and at their skintight lingerie, clawing at their perfect bodies. Their full breasts heaved beneath bursting satin and lace, as Turner hungrily buried his sweaty, fat face into the youthful valleys of flesh.
Secreted behind a long, heavy oak bar, Lundt allowed Turner to continue uninterrupted. The presence of the two girls had not been expected; although it had kept Turner distracted. But now, judging by the growing intensity of Turner's wheezing, there was no time like the present to pull the plug.
"I can't take any more of this shit," Lundt hissed to himself.
He picked up a bottle of Chivas Regal from the shelf at his side and hurled it hard against the slate floor at the far end of the bar. There was a sustained crash. Shards of broken glass landed in angry, threatening prisms amidst lustrous pools of wasted spirit.
"What the bloody hell?" squealed Turner, pushing the girls away in naked panic. The girls screeched in unison and huddled together protectively against the far wall. Shaking, Turner moved tentatively towards the sound to investigate. "Who's there?" He reached the dimly lit corner where the bar jutted into the room, and one bare foot fell heavily upon a large wedge of broken glass, ripping a long gash in his soft flesh. Blood erupted.
"Oh, Christ!" he cried, lunging sideways to take weight on his other leg, stumbling against the bar. He grabbed the aggrieved foot, and cursing, tried without success to pull the jutting shard from the wound. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Blood was everywhere. The pain was excruciating. Turner winced as he tried to inspect the wound; the piece of glass just visible in the poor light. His glasses were back on the table.
There came a barely audible chuckle from the darkness at the opposite end of the bar. Squinting into the gloom, Turner's beady eyes fell upon the single deadly eye of a .40 calibre Glock 20 levelled directly at his face. Naked and vulnerable, Turner straightened his flabby frame, his pained face sagging into a mask of humiliated surrender. The intruder remained seated on the floor behind the bar, shielded from the view of the girls. He leaned forward just enough for a blade of light to slice his features into Turner's straining focus.
Turner turned grey.
"Say goodnight to the bookends, Turner. You and I need to talk." Victor Lundt gestured with the gun for Turner to get on with it, and moved quietly into a position where he could observe them all without being seen. Turner hesitated for a moment, frozen by the shock of lundt's unexpected appearance. With blood gushing from his foot, pain stabbing at him with every step, he shuffled clumsily to the girls. He looked pathetic, thought Lundt, like some kid who's been told to stop playing and come inside, knowing he was about to be scolded. He staggered, his big white arse hanging out for all to see. Lundt relished each humiliating moment.
"You have to go," said Turner to the girls with a croaking whisper, not even looking at them.
"What's going on? We were just getting started," said the blonde in a squeaky but well-heeled Afrikaans accent. "Is someone there?"
"We usually stay longer. We better get paid the full amount!" said the brunette in the same tone of voice. Although, from the looks on their faces, Lundt doubted they were interested in staying at all.
"Just go!" Turner said impatiently, his voice high-pitched. "Your money's on the table. Take it and get out!"
In a flurry of lingerie, exposed flesh and long limbs, the two girls gathered their earnings and clothes. They fled in obvious relief, leaving Turner naked in the centre of the room. He didn't know which way to look, when, waiting a few moments to be sure that the girls had left the house, Lundt emerged from hiding.
"Get some clothes on, Porky," said Lundt. "You're making me sick." "To hell with you," Turner spat the words as he fumbled around, pulling
on trousers and a shirt. He winced as the glass burrowed deeper into his foot. "I must see to this; must put something on it."
He started towards the bathroom. Lundt stepped in front of him, screwing a silencer onto the barrel of the Glock. When he levelled the gun, it was pointing straight at Turner's crotch.
"Wrap a sock around it; you're not going to bleed to death. Not yet, anyway. Sit down!"
Turner balked at the command, then, with gritted teeth, slumped back into the nearest chair, beaten. Lundt took up a chair opposite him with his back to the wall, keeping the whole room in sight. The gun never shifted from its fixed aim. A strengthening breeze rattled against the windows.
Lundt lazily lit himself a cigarette.
Turner's dark eyes remained transfixed, s1zmg up the man whom he barely knew, but who had figured so prominently in his life of late. Turner feared and detested the man. He was abrupt, brash and arrogant - a loose cannon, prone to violence without provocation. At their first meeting, Turner felt an immediate reluctance in his gut to proceed with the collaboration. He should have taken heed. Back then, Victor Lundt had presented an opportunity too good to be true. He had the connections and the guns. He was a means to an end, nothing more. But the prospect of discovery had nagged Turner from the outset. He had gladly washed his hands of Lundt after Malfajiri. He thought it was all done - the coup had happened, the government in ruins. And Turner had managed to ease out, having made his money with no one the wiser, except for Lundt and Cornell. Of course, they were outsiders. Not from the company.
But now Lundt had re-entered his life and Turner was back to square one.
"So," said Lundt, breaking the silence and blowing a cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth. "University prostitutes with huge fake tits! Now, what would the board of directors at Alga Creek say about that?"
"What do you want, Lundt? Money? There's some in the safe. Take it all and leave me alone. I'm done with it. Done with you!"