"So… what were they after?"
"You don't know?"
"I didn't have time to ask."
"They were after a shipment of timber."
Wood? This was about a shipment of wood?
"I'm a little tired and they gave me something in this inhaler; did you just say wood?"
"Timber, but yes. I've been after these guys for a while now. These people were part of an international crime syndicate dealing in illegal timber."
"You're kidding, right?"
"The truck you stopped contained African Blackwood and Gaboon Ebony from Madagascar. The Blackwood alone is worth twenty five thousand dollars a cubic metre, the container was half-filled with it. The rest was the ebony and that fetches three thousand. All up that container held three hundred thousand dollars worth of extremely rare timber."
It might be valuable stuff, but still, wood! Six men had risked their lives and had been willing to kill for a few hundred thousand dollars worth of wood! Then again, it made as much sense for people to die over a shipment of wood as the war I lost my leg in. I guess if criminals can make a buck exploiting something, they will. I guess timber is no different from drugs, weapons or slaves to the criminal mind.
The man held out a business card as the paramedics started to make moves to take me to the hospital, "Steve, I could use a man like you on my team. You ever been to Madagascar?"
BIO:
Tyson Adams started writing after an unfortunate accident with an imagination and a pencil at a young age. Not being allowed to carry out black-ops operations, he instead writes thrilling stories. In his spare time he can be found pretending to be a guitar virtuoso in his lounge room.
Tyson has a couple of science degrees, is married with a son and fur-kid and is a vocal proponent of renewable energies and quality whiskey. For more you can visit his website tysonadams.com, follow him on Twitter and Facebook, or see what he's reading on Goodreads.
BLACK TUESDAY By Alex Shaw
Heavy clouds hid the moon and made the night’s darkness absolute. Approaching, night vision goggles on and dressed in black Nomex assault coveralls, the assassins were invisible to the human eye. Here in the countryside there were no streetlights or headlights of passing traffic to give them away. The farmhouse had once belonged to an IRA enforcer by the name of Devlin who rumour had it had brutally tortured captured men from the hated British SAS in the very same kitchen where he ate and did the dishes. Now after almost a decade of disrepair the house was in use again. It had been rented to the American. The boyos, as their commander referred to the pair of assassins, had very explicit orders: take out the Yank as an example to all. This was their territory, the American could piss off.
Burke and Lowe had watched the house for a week to learn their target’s pattern. So far he had been a creature of habit. He didn’t leave the house until evening when he would go for a run. All the lights however would go off by two a.m. and then he would not be seen moving inside the house until late afternoon the next day. Dickers, local look-outs, had been stationed further out to monitor his movement. On his runs he never strayed from his route, which was a ten-mile circuit through the fields. They had identified one choke point in O’Bryan’s woods for a hit but had decided that the house was best. It was obvious to the PIRA cell that the American was there to prepare the house for the arrival of a team. The place was meant to look deserted hence no car in the driveway and no moving around during the day. In the chaos surrounding the Good Friday Agreement, when the IRA and the Provos had allegedly agreed to ‘give up the armed struggle’ old ‘black’ agreements between the CIA and the paramilitaries had been torn up. And now the cheeky sods had started to move in directly as if they owned the place. The new-PIRA cell that Burke was a part of could not accept this.
Burke held up his fist and Lowe stopped dead. They were about to leave the cover provided by the high hedgerows lining each side of the graveled road and go cross-country for their final approach to target. Both men were tough and had been taught by the best available at a training camp in northern Libya. As such they did not hesitate to get down in the mud and crap, and cutting a wriggle gap in the foliage, squeezed their way through into the potato field. With their noses in the mud, and wearing their NVGs the field looked like a green alien world. Its furrowed earth like some heavily cratered landscape. At one time there had been a shortage of potatoes, millions of Irish starved whilst others were forced to emigrate but now every man and his dog had fields full of thousands of the fuckers. Burke had been forced by his grandmother to peel potatoes every Sunday, usually as a penance and he resented them.
Still in silence, still close to the sticky earth the boyos closed the gap to their target. They moved now at a crouch as a light breeze picked up. Rain was promised before dawn but they would be away by then. Lowe was going to go home and bang his neighbour’s wife; she loved it especially when her husband was away on his sales rounds. Both of the men had a Heckler & Koch MP5SD in their gloved hands, the same that the SAS has used and the irony was not lost on them. Their assault plan was simple: approach the target, let the yank have it and then skedaddle. An unassuming old Land Rover Defender was parked up half a mile away at the entrance to another field. Once the target had been neutralised there would be no need for stealth so they would jog back to the road, using the driveway and then march happily to the Defender. They would be driving away in less than five minutes.
Burke went prone, Lowe copied and both men now crawled the last few feet towards a low wall that divided the hard-standing farmyard from the field. Their pulses started to soar and both men dripped sweat. It wasn’t fear that had excited them, just excitement. This was going to be their first kill for over two years and both had a bloodlust to satisfy. The two men exchanged glances, reading each other’s eyes, the only part of their faces visible behind their black three-hole Balaclava’s.
The layout of the house had been memorised even though both men in fact had been inside on numerous occasions over the years. This was their home turf and it was time for the American to ‘leave’. They waited for several minutes by the wall, listening to the night and tuning into their environment. If anything now moved inside or outside the house they would kill it.
It was time. Forming a two man stick, American style, Lowe had his left hand on Burke’s shoulder as they moved to the back door. Their rubber-soled boots should have made the slightest of sounds on the concrete but Lowe’s boot had collected a small stone in its tread. The tapping of the flint striking the floor to him sounded like a hammer on an empty steel drum. At the door Lowe went left and Burke went right, both ducking below window ledges. Again they paused and listened before Burke nodded and turned the handle. If it was locked they would use a key appropriated from the letting agent and hope that a bolt or chain hadn’t been fitted. The door was unlocked. Carefully and stealthily Burke pushed the old, burgundy painted, wooden door inwards. Lowe was back at his shoulder now, but both hands were on his HK. They crossed the threshold and swung their weapons in arcs. Clear. The kitchen was empty. Switching their NVGs to IR Torch mode they would be able to see their way around inside the house as though it were day. They waited once more for any hint of noise before advancing into the hallway, which dissected the farmhouse. Doors led off to the lounge and dining room before the passage opened up into the entrance hall, front door and the stairs. Burke was sentry as Lowe quickly, but quietly opened the under-stairs cupboard and turned off the electricity. Gaining in confidence they crept into the lounge and each man taking a different arc confirmed that it was clear. They did the same for the dining room before moving into the entrance hall. Taking the steps in slow strides, two at a time and sticking to the sides to avoid the telltale sounds of complaint from the floorboards they had their HKs angled upwards. This was potentially the most dangerous time. On the landing there were three bedrooms and one bathroom to clear. Their Intel placed the target in the master bedroom at the end of the landing, but to get there they had to pass the other bedrooms. Burke moved tactically along the corridor; Lowe tapped his shoulder as they drew level with a bedroom door. Burke shook his head, they were going to the master bedroom first: this was where they had witnessed the American close the curtains and later extinguish a reading light. The door was ajar and Burke smiled as he heard the soft and rhythmic breathing of a sleeper. The target was dead to the world and soon would be forever. Burke entered the room; if it had not been for the IR torch beam he would have seen nothing. The room was in complete darkness with heavy curtains at the windows. The only ambient light was a faint glow that came from the face of a wristwatch, which lay on the bedside table. In the bed, on the side nearest the window was a human sized lump, and it was still breathing without a care in the world. Lowe stepped to the left of Burke. The boyos counted to three before firing controlled bursts into the target. They kept firing with their suppressed HKs until their magazines emptied and cordite fumes clawed at their throats. The rounds had ripped the American to pieces. Lifting their balaclavas, Burke and Lowe shared a smile of satisfaction. It felt fucking great to kill.