Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent by Mark Abernethy

forces, the Aussie-trained Kopassus. However it worked, Mac was feeling fear.
    Mac moved to Minky fi rst. He didn’t need prompting. ‘I sorry, Mr Mac. So sorry, please.’
    Sorry? They always were.
    ‘Who’s this, Mink?’ asked Mac, waving the Heckler at the goon.
    Minky shook his head.
    Mac shot him in the bladder. Knelt on his chest so he couldn’t scream.
    Minky’s face went purple.
    ‘Who’s this, Mink?’ Mac pointed the gun at the other side of the bladder, intimating a second shot. Minky convulsed, groaned deep and vomited on Mac’s safari suit pants.
    The goon started moving. Mac stood, looked down on him. The goon wouldn’t meet his eye.
    ‘This a Garrison job?’
    The goon looked at him, surprised.
    ‘Where’s Garrison?’
    Now the goon went back to his studied nonchalance. He tried to shake his head but the jaw situation made him wince.
    ‘Where’s the girl?’ This time Mac raised the Heckler, pointed it at the goon.
    Minky sobbed, puked again. Blood soaked into his dentist get-up.
    Mac didn’t want to leave without having at least one part of the puzzle. And he didn’t know where he was supposed to be looking.
    The goon looked back at the gun. Mac looked at the back door, expecting a charge-in at some point. The goon lashed out with his right leg, caught Mac on the inside of the right wrist. The Heckler tumbled, bounced and slid along the white lino fl oor.
    Mistake one: Mac’s eyes followed the gun.
    Mistake two: the goon had his hand on the Glock in Mac’s back pocket before the Heckler had stopped sliding.
    Mistake three: the goon didn’t fi re immediately.
    Mac swung an arc with his left hand, grabbed the goon’s gun hand, twisted it slightly away from pointing at his stomach. Grabbed the gun-hand elbow with his right hand and snapped the goon’s forearm across his knee. The goon was built in the arms but Mac’s adrenaline and speed broke the forearm bones as if he was about to start a camp fi re.
    The goon screamed. The cavalry would be coming.
    Mac pulled the Glock from the goon’s limp hand and hit him in the temple. Hard. The goon sagged back to the lino, blood running out of his head.
    Mac frisked him for a wallet. There was none. He scooped the Heckler, checked for load. An unnecessary yet robotic habit from the Royal Marines.
    A kick sounded at the door.
    Mac breathed fast and shallow.
    Another kick. A man yelling in Bahasa.
    He knelt beside Minky, looked at him hard. Saw the bloke’s eyes, saw a deeper fear. The penny dropped. ‘They got your wife, Mink?’
    Minky shook his head. The shock was making his teeth chatter.
    ‘Daughter?’
    Minky nodded, tears starting.
    ‘I’ll get her, Mink, but you have to tell me where.’
    Minky was on his way out. His eyeballs were rolling back.
    A shot fi red outside the door. No splinters. Minky’s back door was steel.
    Mac slapped Minky. A bladder shot usually gives you ten minutes, but Mac’s slug might have bounced into the leg’s main artery.
    ‘In Makassar? Is that where she is, Minky?’
    Another head shake.
    ‘Is she with Garrison? Tell me, Mink.’
    Minky vomited again. This time green and red. It dribbled rather than poured. A bloke about to cark it.
    Minky looked up, said, ‘Eighty.’
    Mac slapped Minky as his head lolled. ‘What’s that, Mink - you say “eighty”?’ He didn’t get it.
    Minky nodded almost imperceptibly, his face pale.
    Then he was dead.
    Collapsed like a rag.
    More gunshots. The sound of lead pinging around in the door.
    Mac stood, raced to the front door, then had another thought and went back to the Javanese goon. He pulled back the guy’s trop shirt collar. No luck. Then unzipped the bloke’s pants, pulled them down.
    ‘If we don’t tell, then it never happened, hey butch?’
    He grabbed the waistband, pulled it round. Bingo! A pink piece of paper stapled to the tailor’s label. Mac tore the dry-cleaner’s ticket off the pants, grabbed his black wheelie bag.
    He prepared for the worst