Gallen blushed. ‘Told you what?’
‘Yvonne McKenzie was sweet on you, is what.’
‘She got it wrong,’ said Gallen, wondering where that coffee was.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Roy, dentures lighting up his face. ‘Women don’t make mistakes with all that.’
CHAPTER 10
Gallen stood in the forecourt of the Logan Super 8 Motel, watched a 767 landing in the grey morning light as he waited for Winter. It was the first day of his employment by Oasis Energy and while he was happy with the corporate MasterCard he’d been mailed, he didn’t like his name jumping up wherever Mulligan or Aaron felt like tracking it. Still, it eased a cash-flow problem in the short term and he was feeling more relaxed than he had at any time since resigning his commission.
‘Time for breakfast?’ said Winter, approaching with his small backpack.
‘Coffee and biscuit, at least.’ Gallen headed across the car park.
They discussed how they were going to structure the bodyguard and decided that, regardless of the chain of command, they’d rotate the personal aspect so as to keep things professional. Didn’t want anyone making friends with the client — that created mistakes.
Gallen glanced at his G-Shock: time to meet McCann’s flight from LA.
As they stood, his cell rang.
‘Yep,’ said Gallen, noting Bren Dale’s name on the screen.
‘Boss, it’s me,’ came Dale’s voice, not happy.
‘Yeah, Bren?’
‘I can’t make it. Sorry, boss.’
‘What?’ said Gallen, turning from Winter. ‘Can’t make it this morning?’
‘No, boss,’ said Dale. ‘Can’t make the gig.’
‘Not at all? Shit, Bren. The gig’s built around you.’
There was a sound of someone hyperventilating. ‘I’m sorry, man. Find someone else, okay? Sorry.’
The line went dead and Gallen stared at the phone.
‘What’s up?’ said Winter, zipping his pack.
‘Bren’s out.’ Gallen could barely believe it.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gallen.
Winter got to his feet, slung his bag over one shoulder. ‘Cold feet?’
‘Not last I checked,’ said Gallen.
‘Lady got to him?’ said Winter.
‘Could be.’ Gallen dropped change on the table.
Waiting for a cab in the forecourt, he mulled on it. He hadn’t just lost his 2IC. He’d started a gig with a bad omen.
Gallen spotted Donny McCann as the crowds spewed out of the domestic arrivals gate of Denver International. McCann was in jeans and a polo shirt under a ski jacket; he had a lean middleweight’s body and a set of aviator shades.
‘Hey, boss,’ said McCann, stopping in front of Gallen and Winter.
‘Donny,’ said Gallen, shaking his hand. ‘This is Kenny Winter, former Canadian Assaulters, served in ISAF.’
McCann shook Winter’s hand, gave the slow nod of a veteran recognising another’s credentials.
They drank coffee in one of the airport’s cafes as they waited for Aaron to arrive from LA with the gear.
‘Slight change,’ said Gallen, once the middle-aged Anglo male at the adjacent table had moved on. ‘Bren can’t make it.’
‘Why not?’ said McCann. ‘That’s not like Bren, pull out when he say he in.’
‘I know,’ said Gallen. ‘Phoned me an hour ago. Said he can’t make it, now all I can get is voicemail when I call back.’
McCann looked around the cafe and the concourse, scanning the crowds. ‘So now we’re three?’
‘Till we get a replacement, yeah.’ Gallen cleared his throat. ‘But for now, Kenny’s my second.’
McCann and Winter eyed one another for several seconds, Gallen hoping nothing would start. Donny McCann was the smaller man but he’d grown up in Compton Beach and Gallen had never seen him take shit from anyone; Winter was the hulking farm boy and — if Mulligan was correct — a NATO assassin.
‘You okay with that, Kenny?’ said McCann evenly, not taking his eyes off the Canadian.
‘I do what the boss says,’ said Winter, not even a bob from his larynx. ‘I’m okay with that.’
Gallen was about to leap in when McCann broke with a big smile. ‘Shit, boss. You hear that? Damn good answer, if he gonna work for you.’
Gallen leaned back. ‘It’s a perfect answer, Donny.’
McCann shrugged, extended a hand to Winter. ‘Let’s take the money and not the bullets, okay?’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Winter, his broken incisor showing as he grinned.
The Oasis jet was late but Gallen and his crew were airborne shortly before two pm, heading north for Calgary.
Leaving McCann and Winter in leather seats facing one another at the front of the cabin, Gallen moved down the plane to where Aaron was seated in conversation with a blond man with a military haircut. Gallen had him at late twenties, perhaps thirty.
‘Gerry, have a seat,’ said Aaron, pointing at the seats across the aisle. ‘Need a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ said Gallen, sitting. ‘I work dry.’
‘Good,’ said Aaron, raising his whisky glass so the ice clicked. ‘Meet Mike. Ex-Aussie Navy.’
‘G’day,’ said the man, leaning over and delivering a dry shake from a large forearm. ‘Mike Ford.’
Gallen took the handshake, realised the Aussie was putting nothing into it. ‘Gerry Gallen.’
‘Know how I was looking for combat divers two weeks ago?’ said Aaron. ‘Found a crew of Aussies working salvage out of Honolulu. Sent two out to Thailand and offered Mike a job.’
Gallen nodded politely.
‘So, Gerry — three of you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallen. ‘Last-minute drop-out from my sergeant.’
Aaron slugged at the amber fluid. ‘Mulligan wants four.’
Gallen tried to keep it light. He knew the theory behind a bodyguard of four: you could rotate teams of two and always have a strong presence. ‘We’ll be four soon. I need a couple days.’
‘Gig started this morning, at oh-nine-hundred, Gerry. I don’t need soon. I need four guys now.’
Returning to the front of the plane, Gallen felt the adrenaline rising. Not just the same old uncertainties and threats from the field, but the trickle-down of bullshit that people in Gallen’s position had to accept, whether they were being micro-managed by some spook from the Pentagon or taking shit from a corporate senior manager.
‘All okay?’ asked McCann, dealing a game of gin rummy with Winter as Gallen scrolled his cell for a name. ‘They cool ‘bout Bren?’
‘Yeah, they’re fine,’ said Gallen, mentally playing with scenarios. They were meeting Harry Durville tomorrow morning at nine, and Gallen had until then to recruit his fourth man.
CHAPTER 11
The Oasis headquarters was in Calgary’s downtown but the minivan dropped Gallen and his crew at the oil company’s compound, over the river from the city and a few blocks north of the Calgary Zoo.
The compound had a trucking and gas storage component but also demountable quarters and a mess hall, arranged on little ‘streets’ with hedges and trees that blocked them from the distribution operation. It wasn’t the Marriott, but as far as transit bases for North America’s oil and gas workers went it was clean, and the minivan driver promised that the showers ran hot.
‘Got that manifest?’ said Gallen as the minivan motored away, leaving them outside their barracks.
‘Yep, boss.’ Winter showed the bill from the PX buy-up in Longbeach.
‘Stow that gear and tick everything off, okay?’
‘Got it, boss.’ Winter turned to the pile of black holdalls on the step of the barracks.
‘And, Kenny — check for tampering, right?’