ya.’
Paul gripped Mac’s hand really tight, like he was trying to feel life.
‘Get these cunts, willya?’ he whispered.
Then he died.
Mac slumped. Sniffed a bit. It had been a long, long seven days.
Fitzy gave Mac a thumb-shake. Wrapped his left hand over that.
‘He’s gone, McQueen. But we can keep going.’
Mac nodded.
‘And for what it’s worth, I don’t sweep too good neither.’
They nodded. Mac kept it tight.
‘Mate, what was down that one?’ asked Mac.
‘Another door. Try your way?’
They got to the corner, crept around it. The hallway had no door they could see, it just doglegged in the distance and had several passages off it.
They kept walking, Fitzy’s M4 shouldered the whole time.
From the distance, sounds of gunfi re thudded and echoed around the complex. It was hard to tell where it was coming from or how many people were involved, but it lasted for a solid forty seconds.
Fitzy and Mac sped up. A sudden commotion sounded ahead as people spilled into the hallway, no doubt urged on by the Green Berets.
Fitzy peeled off two three-shot bursts, dropped one of the men.
Then nothing. Out of load.
Mac picked up the fi ring, hitting one in the leg. The bloke staggered and a third man turned and fi red. It went high, took out a light and rained concrete dust on Fitzy and Mac.
Fitzy had reloaded. The shooters took off and Mac started after them, squinting through dust, keeping his gun on the guy he’d shot in the leg. Saw him pulling out a handgun. Mac put a three-shot burst into him and the guy dropped.
Mac kept walking. Looking behind him he saw Fitzy was catching up. He waved the American through and Fitzy took point. They paused at doorways, looked in. Mac checked behind them. Looking for shooters. They’d given up on the VX search for the time being. The plan now was to clear the tunnel of tangos and then let the Twentieth come through. The fi rst job was to stop these shooters getting out of the place with the bomb.
They followed the shooters up to a larger room and paused. It felt different.
There was a desk and comms gear on the side, some black gear bags, a green canvas bag, a sofa and some chairs. Mac had a sensation up his spine: they were in the command lair.
Mac sensed movement, saw a man on the other side of the room.
Peter Garrison smiled straight at Mac and raised his SIG. Mac raised his M4. Garrison shot fi rst, missed. Mac got off a shot but Garrison had already twisted back into the recess he’d come out of.
Mac launched himself into the offi ce, heard Fitzy yell, No! Then Mac’s legs were sailing out into midair, his body level with the ground, and as he free-fell his head smashed on the steel ramp that had dropped down beneath him.
Last thought: Not great at point either.
He tried to stop it coming but for the third time in as many minutes, Mac vomited into the sack. It hit the cloth right in front of his face and dribbled down to his chest and round to his ear. Vomiting was a normal part of recovery after he’d been knocked cold.
He felt like crap and had no idea how long he’d been out for. He struggled to piece it together. As best as he could get it, he’d run over an old-fashioned spring-loaded bear trap. The legend of the Yamashita tunnels was big on bear traps and sliding walls: all that shit. But Mac might have actually stepped on one.
Now he was on what felt like a quad bike trailer travelling at about thirty miles an hour. He was lying on his side, his wrists lashed in a St Andrews Cross on his chest. When they went over a bump his head banged on steel and his eyeballs ached. The back of his brain felt bruised.
Mac tried to get his mind into gear. Listened for the voices: Tagalog.
Tested his brain for drugs: could count, could rattle off ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Tried to sense direction: west? Same direction as the main tunnel. He didn’t know.
He’d know soon enough.
Mac woke up to hands pushing him upright, dry vomit clinging to the right side of his face. Someone whipped the sack off his head. He blinked, tried to look around, felt sea air on his face. A Filipino was in front of him, holding a Ka-bar. Lowering it, he cut Mac free.
Blood surged into Mac’s hands. It hurt and he rubbed his wrists, looked about. He was sitting on a steel trailer hitched to a Honda quad bike. They were on a spur and down beneath them, to what Mac thought was the north, waves washed into a small bay. It was night, there was an almost-full moon and the thromp of helos sounded from a few miles away.
His hand went up involuntarily to the back of his head. Sore as.
‘Hit yourself real good, bro.’ The voice was Filipino with an American accent.
Standing right there, not three feet away, was Abu Sabaya.
They eyeballed one another and then Sabaya smiled, put his hand out. ‘Aldam.’
Mac took it. ‘Mac.’
Sabaya laughed, yelling, ‘I told you they called him Mac.’
A white man in a polo shirt and chinos spoke from the seat of a quad bike. Peter Garrison. ‘McQueen’s what the Agency calls him.
Thought we’d stick with the program.’
Sabaya was in his trademark black T-shirt, Levis and runners. His black sunnies were pushed up on top of his head. In the moonlight Mac saw what Paul meant by the southern Filipinos looking more Polynesian than Asian.
Mac looked from Garrison to Sabaya. ‘This when I die?’
Garrison lit a smoke, pointed at Sabaya, like it was his call.
‘Small chat before we get to all that drama, hey McQueen?’ He sniggered, sucked on the smoke. ‘All Aussies this persistent?’
‘All Yanks this greedy?’ asked Mac.
Garrison laughed, shook his head. ‘Shit, McQueen. You go down there? To Kaohsiung’s warehouse?’
Mac nodded.
‘Don’t think they had enough of the stuff?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Weren’t they paying you anyway, to stage the Golden Serpent thing?’
Garrison laughed, slapped his leg. Looked at Sabaya. ‘Didn’t I tell you AT? Huh? I told you this guy was pure Tintin, didn’t I? Hundred per cent boy scout.’
‘You honestly thought the General Staff was going to wear that?
Write it off to spillage?’ asked Mac.
Garrison grimaced, changed the subject. ‘Hey, McQueen, you get my present? That fucking dog? Little Snowy? Decided not to shoot it.
Just for you.’
Mac nodded. ‘Found the dog.’
Garrison giggled, sobered up. ‘No, I was happy with the dough.
Fifty million US was fair. Chinese have always treated me okay. Good payers.’
‘So?’
Garrison pointed at Sabaya. ‘So our God-botherer here took exception to certain investments the PLA General Staff is committed to. Went all religious on me.’
Sabaya looked into the American, the way Sonny Makatoa could look into a man. ‘Sometimes the only way to control demand is to control the supply. That’s economics.’
Garrison laughed. ‘Yeah, but economists don’t heist the Chinese generals’ gold stash just to stop a casino being built. Shit, messing with a Chinaman’s gold – that’s an unhealthy way to live, bro.’
‘Macau isn’t a casino. It’s an entire zone. It’s going to be fi ve times the size of Las Vegas.’
