The Worm King (39 page)

Despite the simple elegance of the plan,
Forsyth didn’t like it. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but—

‘What’s first then?’

‘We’ll check the Dick-house, then go over
the road.’ Winston grunted agreement and turned towards Pedros. Francesco and
co would be outside in thirty minutes or thereabouts and it’d be good to get
back here before then.

‘Brownie thinks this stinks, you know that?’
said Winston quietly over his shoulder.

‘What does?’

‘The whole scheme, to arrest Snow. He thinks
it stinks.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno. He just does.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ He sounded surprised to be asked. ‘I
can’t see how it can go wrong, to be honest. More’in twenty of us and just him,
or him and one more? My guess is he’ll try and scarper as soon as he sees we’re
pulling a shifty, and we’ll lose him.’

‘Maybe . . . ’

At the edge of Pedro’s property Winston stopped
briefly. A low spindly hedge ran along the border but it was so dead and
collapsed even an axe-wielding dwarf could step across with graceful ease.

Pedro tottered to the door after twenty
seconds knocking. Forsyth gave him a bar of chocolate (nut & raisin, kiddie’s
size) and informed him Francesco and his friends would be along shortly. They
left him a happy man, crossing the road, calling out: ‘Hello there!’ No reply. They
eventually found the two guards of the fuel truck in the tearoom attached to
the workshop, peacefully drinking camomile tea in the dark. Another bar of
chocolate (peppermint crunch, kiddie’s size) then back to the safe-house.

Nobody else encountered along the way; all
appeared hunky-dory. He couldn’t see where it could go wrong? Old Brownie will
be overdoing the risk. That’s what happens with age—you see death get closer,
and you fear it. Yes, this should work, provided Snow actually turned up of
course.

It wasn’t difficult to make a beeline
straight for the safe house, with at least a dozen chinks of light peeping
through the supposedly boarded-up windows. Winston turned off his torch. As
they approached the front door opened and Francesco, then his assistants, emerged.

He’s right. This stinks.

It was a one-way ambush, pure and simple. They
were in an indefensible position with no secure fallback if things got ugly. This
“safe-house” certainly wouldn’t do it. He tried to remember who’d suggested
that name and recalled it might’ve been that cricket player from Tamworth. This
is what happens before a scrap, everything gets all jumbled up and you never
know who to rely on or believe.

Winston and Forsyth went back inside. The
remaining assembly didn’t seem much cheered up by Lord Brown’s prayer. More
like startled squirrels, dazzled under a spotlight.

A car in the distance. ‘That’ll be him,’ said
Winston. He knelt beside Forsyth, behind a partly-collapsed wall on one corner
of the burnt-out warehouse. From here, the two could see anyone trying to sneak
through the warehouse (provided they obligingly carried a light) and also had
an excellent view of the road in front of Pedros and most of the truck depot,
apart from the transportable office where Wiremu and his men were hiding
because that was tucked further back from the road. As an added precaution he’d
broken three dozen empty bottles around the floor of the warehouse—everywhere except
one zigzag path running diagonally to the back, and both were sure they could follow
this in the dark by feel, after practising a few times without the torch.

Francesco’s men, including Zelda, were
stationed in Pedros while those not taking any part: Jerry, Ken, Lord Brown, Āmiria,
Tim and half a dozen others, were safely ensconced on the bus.

‘Bloody thing!’

‘What is it?’ asked Winston.

‘Can’t get the light to work on this damn
watch. Finally! There you go.’ He read the hands with growing unease. ‘He’s not
just
on
time: he’s spot on to the second. Bad sign.’

‘Why?’

Probably nothing, so Forsyth didn’t bother
replying. A suspicious man might’ve said you only arrive precisely on zero hour
if you’re coordinating with someone. Who’re you coordinating with Dickie? Would
he make that effort just for Councilor Francesco? Then again, why wouldn’t he.

Headlights appeared. The profile of a swept-back
car swung into view, slowing sharply as it saw the houses, obviously searching
for numbers. It passed within thirty meters of where they hid before pulling up
in front of Pedros. A green Falcon. Snow drove with a male and two young
females in the back seat, the man placed between the girls. The front passenger
seat was empty. The girls wore woollen ski hats with identical blonde ringlets poking
out the sides. So far, so good.

Snow climbed from the vehicle, leaving it
running and headlights on. You could pick the smarmy bastard a mile off. Francesco
was already out on the road, one of his offsiders behind, walking towards Snow.
The man in the back seat leant across the twin on that side, pushing her down brutally,
then shoved his arm through the window and pointed a gun at Francesco. It was
Bob, no doubt about it, shouting some garbled warning. The pistol looked of a
large, peculiar type Forsyth didn’t initially recognize. Francesco and his
companion stopped on the dot.

So Snow wanted to get off on an unnecessarily
aggressive footing. Another bad sign. Or maybe that’s just Snow, and his
winning ways. Francesco and Dick were having words but from this distance Forsyth
couldn’t hear specifics.

‘What are they saying?’ asked Winston.

He didn’t answer.

Francesco bent over, trying to look into the
rear of the car but Bob waved him away with the pistol and Dick began gesturing
at Pedros, then the depot over the road. He’ll be asking where his fuel truck
is. Francesco’s companion gamely unveiled his shotgun, pointing it at Bob and
suddenly they had a full-blown Mexican standoff. Francesco held up his hands,
shouting an urgent instruction. Bob lowered his pistol. A shaft of light
appeared on the road and Forsyth turned to see the workshop door opening,
presumably so Snow could view the truck. Francesco approached the car again, raising
a whistle to his lips which was the signal for the other men to flood from
Pedros and the depot office, when he stopped, hesitating. Bob raised the pistol.
Francesco took a pace backwards, put the whistle to his mouth, and blew. He put
enough puff behind it that you probably would’ve heard it in Canberra.

‘Shit!’ said Winston. Behind the wall both cringed,
having no doubt Francesco would be shot. It took a brave man to do that when
some nutcase has an oversized pistol aimed directly at your chest.

Instead, Bob pointed at the sky, and fired.

A flare!

Another
very
bad sign. His arm whipped
back into the car, which Forsyth assumed was to reload the pistol. Yep. Bob
leant out and this time, no hesitation: he fired directly at Francesco. Despite
the councilor’s bulk he managed to nip to one side, so his companion took the round
full in the face. Knees buckled instantly; the top half of his body snapped
back; the front of his head exploded in a burst of luminescence. The flare
must’ve punched through his teeth and gone off in his throat.

‘No!’ gasped Winston.

‘Sssshhh!
Listen!’
At the sound of the whistle, men began spilling from Pedros and the depot
office. But Snow was already back at the wheel, revving the engine, and a
second later he’s screeching off down the road and away. A glimmer of hope
emerged that he might continue on, and be gone forever. Not to be. After no more
than a hundred meters he spun the wheel sharply and squealed to a halt, facing the
depot. What  . . . ?

Torchlights appeared from the depot office then
two Māoris came into view on the edge of the road. They heckled Snow, egging
him to return. It was pretty obvious running directly at his headlights from
that distance would’ve been suicide so they wisely chose not to advance. Francesco’s
men were also outside, loosely assembled in front of Pedros around the dying
man. Nobody had thought to turn off the light in Pedros so all were silhouetted
beautifully, although the worst thing was the noise, the shouting and everyone making
a hell of a racket because he really needed to listen out for—

Winston beat him to it. ‘Can you hear that? It’s
another car!’ He jumped up and started to climb over the wall but Forsyth pulled
him down.

‘No! Stay here.’ Winston continued to
squirm. ‘Quiet! I’m not sure which way it’s coming from.’ No headlights yet,
but the sound suggested a decent-sized vehicle; close too. Maybe they were
coming from their rear!? Could’ve worked their way overland, and be coming
around the back of the warehouse . . . 

What on earth!—

The truck ground to a halt on the road directly
in front of the warehouse where Forsyth and Winston hid. It’d been travelling
fast, with headlights off the whole time.

A second truck from the opposite direction,
this one with its headlights on, came tearing straight past Snow and stopped fifty
meters short of the depot. Francesco’s men began retreating into Pedros. Men
spilled from the rear of the truck nearest Snow. They wore headlamps, and each
carried a club of some sort with a knobbly T-shape at the end. Sledgehammers! What?
When he looked back at the first truck, men were spilling from that too, but
darker, shadowy figures only visible because of the light from Pedros. One passed
directly in front of Pedro’s window and the terrible realization of who they were
hit Forsyth like a train: the cyclops profile of night vision goggles; steyrs
with bayonets fixed; helmets and webbing . . . Army!

A hideous feeling of despair churned in the
pit of his stomach. He’d been double-crossed something awful and this was all
turning to custard at a rapid rate of knots.

Wait on . . . sledgehammers,
and ten-dollar headlamps? That didn’t sound like army!? He refocused on this first
group and saw no webbing or helmets and incredibly several were hooting and
jeering like you’d do at a Sunday footy match. They converged in the middle of
the road for a brief exchange then spread out, most making for the truck depot,
some heading directly towards the warehouse and a couple disappeared in the
opposite direction, possibly to check the vacant lot on the other side of the
depot. At least two—no, three—had unsheathed knives shoved into their belts
which is actually very dangerous to the wearer and certainly not de rigueur in
the regular forces.

‘Shit!’ whispered Winston. ‘What’ll we do?’ He
rose again and once more Forsyth pulled him down.

‘Keep an eye out behind us.’ Winston’s shoulders
shook as he nodded. Didn’t want them sneaking up the rear, although chances are
anyone would come in through the front, at the other end of the warehouse. That
was where the main door had been and a considerably wider opening existed: an obvious
entry point, and why he’d positioned them thirty meters away with a view
of
that entry point.

He edged his head back up over the wall,
scanning the unfolding dispersal. The opening moves are critical because this is
the only time you’ll always get to see the full layout of the field. When the
enemy have fully moved into position, prior to attack, you may not be able to
see them at all. If they’re any good, you won’t be able to see
any
of
them. The movement had already ceased around the soldiers truck, so they must all
be out. They’ve spread like cancerous ghosts: creeping over the terrain and
leaching into every dark cranny and nook. Then two soldiers
did
appear;
on the other side of the road, moving stealthily up the path towards Pedro’s
door and only obvious because of the light still shining from Pedro’s window.

They were coming in on two fronts made up of
different groups, and only one of these carried guns. The primary and the outflanker.
And no firing? A moment later two shotgun blasts shattered the air, immediately
followed by the returning savage burst of a steyr. Pedro’s light disappeared. Another
squeeze from the steyr; someone screamed. He couldn’t see where the firing originated
but they’ll have flash suppressors on. Two of the men with sledgehammers
sauntered towards the entrance of the warehouse, like coalminers off to a biff.

The panorama of light and sound slowed to a
dead crawl and the pounding in his chest faded. He became acutely aware of
every infinitesimal sensation. The acrid odor of burnt timber and the
gunpowdery musk of flares; the gritty feel of the face-soot he’d rubbed on to
block out pasty skin; an eddy of breeze over the top of the wall and flashing
beams, shouting, trampling feet and breaking glass. A far-off door slammed in the
direction of the safe-house. He pulled the scarf down away from his mouth and the
cold air cut through his dry, cracked lips. He gave them a lick, savoring the wetness
of tongue. Beside him Winston’s jagged, raspy breathing came clear as a bell on
a crystal night.

Finally, he saw it: what they were doing. The
soldiers were working the other side of the road, going through the houses,
while the men with headlamps will’ve been instructed to clear this side. There’d
been no more firing, and that was because they’ll have orders not to shot
unless absolutely imperative because of the fuel. That’s why Snow’s given half
the poor bastards only sledgehammers, while the soldiers are clearly trying to
rely on cold steel, going in with bayonets on like that.