Honorable Assassin (16 page)

Terry kept a cell phone with him at all
times but Ginger still refused to have anything to do with them so
the only options open were to drive to Molong or to write a letter.
Terry opted to write Ginger a letter which was delivered a couple
of days later. The following day, the cell phone rang and Ginger
Kingston was the caller. They had a short conversation about the
situation, without any specifics. Terry pleaded with Ginger to get
a phone but Ginger refused. The following day the phone rang again.
This time Ginger was calling from Terry’s room in Orange. He called
to say he had laid in supplies and was merely awaiting the
specifics of the operation.

Five men were in the mini-van. It was not
uncomfortable; there was air conditioning and the tinted windows
kept the glare and inquiring eyes out. The trip north was boring
until the four passengers started talking and telling tales of
heroism and derring-do. Terry was sure that most of them were lies
and he fabricated some of his own, being careful not to name names
or provide any sort of location or time frame.

There was some trouble on the Pacific Coast
Highway at the bridge over the Karuah Estuary. Apparently a man had
gone missing and his boat had been found empty so there was quite a
search and rescue operation going on. The mini-van was not stopped
for long and it was not searched, but it did make the drivers
nervous for a short while.

The munitions had been offloaded from a ship
at Port Macquerie somewhat over 300 kilometers north of Sydney.
What the drivers did not know was that they were expected to
transfer the crates from the intermodal truck trailer to the four
smaller trucks they would be driving. This caused a bit of friction
and a fight almost broke out.

Terry grabbed one of the other drivers, the
one least upset by the situation and made a pact with him. Together
they loaded the first two trucks with half of what was in the
trailer and headed out. There was no doubt in Terry’s mind that the
remaining guns and ammo would be loaded somehow.

Once Ginger got the call, he headed out from
Orange. The only good way to the Pacific coast Highway from there
was to get to the outskirts of Sydney and head north to Route 15
and east. It was a 350 kilometer trip and took almost four hours.
Terry got the call when his uncle was on Adelaide Street in
Irrawang, north of Newcastle. Terry and his associate had already
passed Irrawang and he did not know the location of the other two
trucks. All he knew was they had “Fresh Fish” printed on the sides
and the picture of a dancing fish.

Ginger set up a watch on the overpass of
Mount Hall Road. He had field glasses, a camera, several cigars and
a thermos of coffee. His van was out of sight. He did evoke some
comments standing there and the local constables noted his presence
but did not question him, as he was not causing any trouble. He
only had to wait for an hour before the first of the trucks passed
under the bridge. He did not wait for the next one, just quickly
packed his gear and headed for the van. He could not have caught
the first one but he waited just off the entrance ramp for the
second one. It passed his location five minutes later.

“What do you mean torpedoed?” asked Henry
Cuthbert, trying his best to control his voice.

“The last truck didn’t show up and the
driver didn’t answer so we went looking for it. You’ll see it on
the morning news. They evacuated two square miles around it and we
couldn’t get anywhere near. It shut down both sides of the bloody
SN Freeway. Nothing was moving between Asquith and Brooklyn. I got
the news on the CB radio. Somebody took a rocket and torpedoed the
last truck. The fire hit the bullets in the back and all hell broke
loose. Jimmy was driving. I suppose he’s dead.” Victor had lost all
pretense of calm and was shaking in fear. He had been promoted
prematurely after Bruno was shot and had not developed the nerves
needed for this sort of position. He made an adequate thug but he
was no manager. Henry was charged with the management
operations.

“Fuck, who knew about the operation that
could have done this. Are you sure there was a body? I mean, are
you sure Jimmy’s dead?”

“I can’t be sure of anything. I couldn’t get
anywhere near the fire. They didn’t even let the fire department
near the fire. From what I understand they just let it burn. I told
you, they shut down the freeway. The truckers said there were
bullets flying everywhere. What a mess.”

“Shit. The other trucks are safe?”

“Yeah. Bonner brought the first one in and
then Tommy. Jimmy and Joe were arguing about loading theirs so they
were an hour late on the road. Joe got here but Jimmy was 10
minutes behind him, like you said to. He was last in line.”

“Good God, this is going to be a mess.”
Henry picked up the telephone. “Ralph, the three trucks that came
in today, I want that stuff transferred to a semi. Lock it up. I
want those trucks washed and fueled and ready to go. I want the
semi out of there and in a truck stop until further notice. Get a
driver to stay with the load. Label it “Hazardous Material” and
give the driver layover pay from the time he hits the stop. I want
the bill of lading to say he’s carrying bleach and I want that
truck locked up tight. No, don’t worry about it. Send it to
Melbourne, give it week, no two weeks to get there but I want it to
stay right outside of town. And tell the driver if he leaves it
alone I’ll feed him his youngest son. Now get it done.”

“You forgot the run they were on. What
happens when the coppers come around asking why the bloody truck
was full of guns instead of fish?”

“Those trucks haul fish every day. That is
what they do. If one of our drivers decides to try something
outside our purview, we are only responsible for the liability
incurred, not for his bloody actions. We knew nothing about any
guns.”

“Of course not, Henry. I know nothing about
it.”

“Now go away, I have some damage control to
implement. Go down to the Randy Penguin and get a drink, if they’re
still open. I’ll call you there.”

Henry picked the phone back up and dialed
the number for Abel Troy. The phone was busy. He could not have
known the reason. Abel Troy was at that moment getting the news
“Compliments of the Irishman.”

The Sydney area held well over three million
people in the year 2000. By the end of June there was also a huge
influx of foreign interest, due to the Olympics. There were so many
new faces, it completely disrupted the underworld information
system. The tavern owners were ecstatic since their business
increased impressively. The demand for drugs, particularly
marijuana and cocaine, went through the roof. Several shipments of
cocaine from Peru had been arranged months earlier and arrived at
Brisbane in the beginning of July.

Terry got wind of the big shipment through
keeping his mouth shut and his ears open. He was not scheduled to
meet the delivery.

Bonner had gotten the honor of hauling this
one down. He was set to drive up the coast in a deadhead semi and
swap the empty trailer out for one full of blankets, Indian
artifacts, uncut jewels and $3,000,000 worth of pure cocaine.
Bonner trusted Terry to some extent. They had done a lot of
drinking together. Bonner mentioned offhandedly that he was
scheduled to go to Brisbane. There was no discussion of what the
load was or of the fact that Bonner was not a real truck driver.
Yes, he had a Commercial Drivers License, but he did not drive
tractor-trailers often. Terry decided he needed to get a CDL as
well, though he never did. It was not that he could not drive a
tractor, he simply never got around to the formal training.

When Bonner headed north, Terry had the
specs on the tractor. He also got a look at the two men who were
with Bonner. He did not recognize either of them but they looked
very dangerous. This did not bother Terry. If he had his way, these
men would never get a chance to be dangerous. They had not seen him
but he had not been able to get the tracker on the tractor,
either.

It is difficult to follow a professional
truck driver in anything but another truck and impossible to do so
unseen. The drivers in the cabs of the big rigs that so many
commuters love to hate are charged with the task of not killing
anyone. When there is nothing but truckers on the road this is not
a difficult proposition. It is a different matter when the roads
are clogged with hundreds of cars, each driver intent on his own
agenda and destination. A lemming run of humanity flowing around
the trucks like stones in a river, but the stones are moving too.
Truck drivers’ eyes are in their mirrors constantly. They need to
be. Each full-sized tractor and trailer combination has at least
six blind spots where the hapless pedestrian commuter, self
important and aggravated, can hide. If the driver does not keep
watching his mirrors, he does not see the smaller vehicles
approach. He may not know they are there. That is a formula for
disaster. On top of the fact that they are always looking behind
themselves, any large hill will slow a loaded truck down and any
automobile that does not pass a truck that is creeping up the hill,
in a low gear, is immediately suspect.

This was the first operation Terry had
attempted without Ginger. He had no time on this one and cursed his
uncle’s refusal to have a telephone installed. He also cursed his
own lack of foresight in not keeping an RPG launcher on hand.

Sydney to Brisbane takes a full day and full
day back, on a good day of hard running. Bonner would not be
pulling back through Newcastle until late the following day, at the
earliest. Terry took his time and found his spot. There were
thousands of spots to choose from but Terry wanted one close enough
to the road that he could get right back on without having to waste
time. Just south of Haxham and north of Minmi, there were a number
of dirt roads used by people from Newcastle to run their ATVs
about. The east side of the road was off limits since it was a
farmers’ cooperative, but the west side was free and there were
several stands of trees to choose from.

Terry hid his Land Rover as best he could
behind the tree line and took up a position inside the trees. He
broke off some fresh branches and gathered some dead ones to make
himself a bower under the bole of a fallen gum tree. Then he lay
down in the back of his vehicle and smoked for a while. Then he
took a nap.

The sun had not quite set when Terry’s
target drove into view. He had calculated the time and mileage
carefully but had almost missed it. If the sun had set before the
truck reached him, his preparations would have been in vain.

Diesel engines run on heat and pressure so
they need massive radiators. When the three .22 caliber bullets
punctured the truck’s radiator, a huge cloud of steam and coolant
enveloped the cab. Bonner jammed on the brakes and pulled to the
side of the road.

Terry grinned and swapped the smaller rifle
for his Mauser. The grin disappeared when he saw the car behind the
truck pull over as well. Initially he thought it was some
well-meaning travelers stopping to help, but he soon realized that
it was an escort. Two men got out of the car with automatic
weapons. Terry’s grin returned as he adjusted the distance on his
scope.

Three men got out of the cab of the truck,
one of them pulling the cowl forward to expose the engine. The two
men Terry had marked the day before moved to the back of the truck
to join their escort.

“Four shells, four shots,” Terry said, as he
squeezed the trigger the first time. “One,” he said as the first
man collapsed. “Two,” indicated the second man’s demise. There was
no immediate three as the remaining two gunmen ducked behind the
idling car.

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree. Merry,
merry king of the bush is he.” Terry sang softly as he waited. His
enemies had no targets and wasted no bullets firing blindly. They
had seen the direction the shots had come from but they could not
see Terry. Both men were holding automatics and they had enough
range to reach him but they did not take a shot without a
target.

One of the men scampered around the
road-ward side of the truck before his assailant could get off a
shot but when the last man tried to he was cut down. Time was of
the essence now; Terry could not afford to let this standoff become
protracted. He swapped his short magazine but he had no shot, now.
The truck could have moved for a short while but not for long. The
car was idling in expectation. Terry shot one of its tires, which
exploded with a bang, but he still had no live target.

There was no more time left to wait. Terry
slid out of his cover and headed for the Rover. The light was
failing quickly. He started the engine and drove down the tree line
until he was confident he had passed the truck. He pulled his twin
.38 revolvers as he slid through the woods. He slipped within sight
of the truck but could not see the two remaining men. He hazarded
that they may be hiding in the cab. That suited his purposes well.
He holstered his guns and pulled a pair of fragmentation grenades
off his fishing vest. After tossing them, Terry made sure there was
a tree between the truck and himself. The grenades bounced under
the cab and exploded. Terry could hear the bark of his tree
shredding from the shrapnel. He could not risk exposing himself so
he wrapped a rag around his face and pulled a fishing cap adorned
with flies over his head.

“Never leave a witness,” he muttered as he
yanked open the passenger door. Inside the cab were the ruined
remains of Bonner and the remaining gunman. “Sorry, mate,” he said
and shot each of them once in what had been their heads. Then he
moved to the back of the truck and shot each of the three men lying
there, in the head. He left that gun at the scene.