Honorable Assassin (11 page)

Terry’s grades had improved substantially by
the time he graduated, but he never aspired to a university
education. He had effectively distanced himself from the rest of
the graduating class. The farmers’ daughters were amenable to his
affections, but he could not see being with one of them for long.
Romance was not a large component of his personality. He enjoyed
sex at any opportunity but traditional love was something that
eluded him.

The one thing that drove Terry was revenge.
The question of why his parents had been killed was always there,
but it was secondary now. He had not developed a taste for killing;
it was not something he enjoyed. He just saw it as a necessity.
Everything dies in its time, he reasoned, hastening that demise is
sometimes a critical function of a small segment of society.

1997 was an eventful year, at least the end
of that year was. Terry turned 17 December 1st and it was like a
Christmas present. The proceeds of The Kingston Agency were turned
over to him as well as ownership of said subsidiary. Most
17-year-old boys would have gone mad with a sudden influx of money
such as that but Terry was not that sort. He invested much of the
money in rock solid stocks and certificates of deposit. He paid
Ginger for the bills he had incurred in restoring his vehicle and
gave him a handsome present as well. He set up a trust fund that
gave Ginger a monthly stipend. Said fund would revert to Terry when
Ginger passed away.

In 1998, after he graduated from high
school, Terry took over the operation of the insurance agency, at
least in name. The business had done well while in the hands of
those his father had entrusted and so the young man saw no reason
for changes. The staff was pleased that he had no plans for major
changes and delighted that they were allowed to keep their jobs.
Terry’s number one requirement was that the staff teach him how to
use the new computer system and search the internet. He kept a
close eye on the finances and did some research into the past
practices of the office. He had suspected that there would be some
misappropriation of funds over the years but he could find nothing
out of the ordinary. The building itself was looking a bit shabby
by that time and he made a few repairs and painted the place inside
and out by himself, at his own expense.

The computer systems were extensive, for the
time, and as he learned how to use them, they became his primary
research tool. The insurance network, which had originally been
only for the Helping Hands Corporation was expanded to enable him
to worm his way into the files of other companies as well. This was
not legal, of course, but there was so little protection against
hackers in those days that it was easy and relatively cheap. He had
a university student who was in need of money and amorously
involved with a woman that was outside of his price range. The
student was happy to install some private programs for a fee.

Terry took a room in the town of Orange. His
father’s house had been sold years before and the proceeds were
part of his “coming of age” money. That money had been handled well
over the past few years. Terry Kingston could have bought a seaside
house if he had wanted one and a Rolls Royce to park in the
driveway. He continued to drive the Holden and lived in a room with
a kitchen.

One of his expenses was a subscription to a
gym. He made sure there were a large percentage of women at this
particular gym. He was not looking for a long-term woman but his
chiseled body and inexhaustible energy commanded the interest of
many. Short-term women were always available and he took the advice
of enjoying himself while he was young.

The Troy Brothers were in their late
forties. They had been in charge of criminal operations since their
mid twenties. Their meteoric rise in clandestine operations was due
to their complete disregard for moral guidelines. In the last two
and a half decades they had directed so many operations that they
could barely remember some of the men they had caused to die. They
cared nothing for the lives they ruined.

Adam Troy lived on Unwin Street off Bayview
Avenue in the Earlwood area of Sydney. He owned the entire block of
land on the south side of Unwin St. that borders Wolli Creek. The
house was magnificent and the land itself was very valuable. The
fence around the property was patrolled by ruthless men during the
day and hungry dogs at night.

Abel Troy preferred a more central location
and was less inclined toward luxury. He owned a hotel on
Castlereagh Street in the business district. He kept the top floor
of the hotel for himself; the penthouse suite was nowhere near the
size of his brother’s estate but it made him feel safer. The
elevator no longer made it to the top floor and the two stairwells
were locked and guarded. The floor below his residence was filled
with offices staffed by employees of their own businesses. There
was one other way out. The helicopter pad on the roof housed their
favorite mode of transport.

The brothers conducted business from various
locations, many the offices of shell companies that did no actual
business but were incorporated nonetheless. Much of their business
was legitimate and they were working toward divesting themselves of
some of the less savory enterprises. The problem was that they had
eliminated any competition at their level and they were loathe to
simply set the businesses adrift.

Adam would leave his mansion in a
bulletproof limousine to meet his brother. Abel took the private
elevator from the business floor and joined his brother in the
rolling fortress when they were going to a different location. They
varied their routes and their destinations randomly to prevent
being set up. Often enough they conducted business from the upper
floor of the hotel. Only legitimate businesses operated
there.

“What’s your plan, mate?” Ginger asked. He
had been sober for a while now. He had gone on a drinking jag for a
couple of months after the “little job” he had helped Terry with,
but that had not lasted.

“I can’t truly say, Uncle. These men are not
the sort of blokes you can walk up to and shoot. I’ve done some
reconnaissance but I don’t see any easy mark. I’ve got some
contacts in Sydney now, but not anyone of influence. It’s almost
impossible to get close to them. They have their men and they’re
not looking for new recruits. I can’t just walk up and ask for a
job application.

“I thought I could shoot them from a
distance, but they are so well protected that I can’t get a vantage
point. I thought about going into the older one’s mansion in
Earlwood but the place is like a fortress.”

“It’s good to see you’re not so bold in your
youth, that you think you can do that. You’d never even get in the
house.” Ginger relit his cigar. “This one cannot be done
physically. You’d need an army of good men and many would die. You
need to get inside their minds. The real meaning of strategy is to
know what your enemy is going to do, to prepare for it when they do
it, and then to make them do it when you want them to. The best con
men in the world are those who leave their mark with a good feeling
until the payoff does not show up. The best is when they don’t know
they have been conned until it is too late to do anything about it.
If you let them know you are watching you will end up dead, so
stop. If you let them know they are under attack, they will be
prepared for it. That is not always bad, but you must know what
they are going to do and make them do it when you want them to do
it. Tell me what you know about them.”

Terry described what he had learned of their
habits and routine. One of the worst problems he faced is that when
they were not engaged in business, they did not stay together. They
acted as if they knew they were targets and wanted to make sure one
of them survived if there was an assault. They went to restaurants
occasionally, never together, and it was never predictable where
they would go. The outside of the eatery was always well guarded
while one of them was inside.

“You’re still thinking of walking up to them
and shooting them. These men cannot be taken that way. They have
good protection. The only place they are vulnerable is in their
information flow. They must be fed information that causes them to
believe something that is not true and then capitalize on that
misinformation. The only way you can do that is to hit them in the
wallet. That means you need information that only members of their
organization can give you or perhaps God himself.”

“There may be someone else… I can’t tip my
hand too soon, though. I’m going to need identification that reads
something other than Kingston. I cannot chance them remembering
they had my father killed and putting two and two together.”

“The agency is your best source for the
information. A good laminator and a small picture will fix it up.
Use a legal name, register a vehicle in that name, insure it
through a different agency of Helping Hands. This is all possible.
Within a couple of weeks we can get you an ID, but investigate the
history of the name. If you are going in, you’ll want a criminal
from the other side of the country. If you’re working with clean,
then make the man clean. Prison time is dangerous because gangsters
know men in prison. Are you getting all of this?”

“Should I use a dead man?”

“Be careful with dead men, they show up as
dead when a search is run on their names. I personally like taking
the name and enrolling it in university. Doing that brings all
manner of applications from credit card companies. Then you can
work up a history, a portfolio so to speak. Enrolling in
university, in Sydney, would give you a proper history and reason
for being there. Never use credit for anything you don’t want
people to know you have. Your history can include books but not
bullets. You see?”

“Gosh, Uncle, why did you teach me none of
this before?”

“I don’t want you doing this thing. In my
opinion the action in Melbourne was the end of it, but if you are
set on doing it then I will provide you with everything I can to
help.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider everything you say
carefully, but I think I will be killing these men one way or
another.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I thought I’d stop in the diner in town.
Would you like to come?”

“No. I have work that needs doing. Say, I’ve
had some trouble with foxes since you left. At first they were just
taking rabbits, but they started in on the chickens last week.
Would you like to take a stab at them?”

“I can do that. It’s been a while.”

“Stay the night. I’ve got some interesting
things to show you.”

“Interesting? In what way?”

“First, I picked those up a couple days
back.” Ginger indicated a crate in the corner of the kitchen.
Inside was a couple dozen sticks of dynamite. “We’ll be popping
some stumps tomorrow. There are a few things about dynamite I’d
like to show you. I also got one of these.”

“Blimey. A night scope.”

“That should make it easier to take a fox,
eh?”

“Easier to take a lot of things.”

The night scope was ungainly but it had a
terrific range. It was clearly not designed for close work. Terry
got one of the foxes that night; he took another in the morning
light along with four rabbits. He took the tails from the foxes,
cleaned and skinned the rabbits and slept the morning away while
Ginger cooked.

“I’ll tell you, Uncle,” Terry said over a
cup of coffee. That scope was not designed to work with that little
rabbit gun. It’s much too long range for that. You should send it
back.”

“Finish your chow, mate, I got another
surprise for you.”

After breakfast, Ginger told Terry to grab a
shovel. They went into the barn and Ginger moved a tractor out. He
instructed Terry to dig under where the tractor had sat. Terry did
not question, he just dug until he hit cement. He dug around the
extent of the square block which had a large ring set into one
side.

Ginger ran out the cable on the hoist they
had used to pull the Holden’s engine. It was chained to the main
beam of the barn. He hooked the loop and drew the concrete block
back. It was hinged on one side. Underneath the block was a set of
stairs that led down to a security door. Inside the door was a dark
room that smelled, not musty as you would expect, but clean and
slightly oily. When his uncle turned on the fluorescent lights the
sight floored Terry. It was a climate-controlled, subterranean
arsenal.

Terry’s words were disjointed and slurred.
It was as though he was drunk or had taken a beating.

In the room were shotguns, pistols,
automatics and sniper rifles along with sealed boxes of ammunition.
It was not new equipment, some of it was quite old. There was a .45
caliber Thompson submachine gun like the ones used in the old
Cagney movies. There was a 7.63mm Tokarev from the 1940s. There was
a Stoner 63A Commando from 1967. There was an entire rack of M16s
and another of AK47s. There was a box of hand grenades from WWII,
rocket launchers from Israel and a wide variety of pistols. There
was also a 1986 Mauser SP66; a German made .308 sniper rifle. The
crown jewel for Terry was the .50 caliber Barrett. Someone had
written on the cover of the box “One shot, one kill, death from
afar!”

“Gawd awmighty! Where did all this come
from? When did you dig this pit? Why didn’t you tell me about it?
Do they all fire? Have you got rounds for this monster? Oh, there
we go. How on earth did I miss all this? Gawd! This is like a dream
come true. When did you get this?”

Ginger stood there with a face as
expressionless as the concrete slab. He exhaled a cloud of smoke
and the silent system sucked it up.

“Uncle, say something.”

He could maintain the stone visage no longer
and smiled broadly. “Mate, many of these weapons were used by your
father and myself in the early years. The more recent ones were
shipped to me. That big killer came from the Gulf War, actually, I
think it was the Iran-Iraq war. It was bound for Iran and got
diverted here. We dug this thing out and poured the concrete before
you were born. We sealed it tight and installed the air and
electric systems ourselves. I never wanted to show it to you.” His
smile disappeared. “If you hadn’t been so determined, I never would
have. You got yourself set on hunting the biggest game in the
country and I told you I was going to give you all the support I
could. I still don’t like it, but I can’t let you go off and get
yourself killed.”