Only Eagles Fly Read online

  ONLY

  EAGLES

  FLY

  Graham Guy

  Also By

  GRAHAM GUY

  Eleven Days

  Savage Skies

  ONLY

  EAGLES

  FLY

  Graham Guy

  DoctorZed

  Publishing

  www.doctorzed.com

  Copyright © 2001 by Graham Guy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First published 2001.

  Second Publication 2014 by DoctorZed Publishing

  DoctorZed Publishing books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  DoctorZed Publishing

  IDAHO

  10 Vista Ave

  Skye, South Australia 5072

  www.doctorzed.com

  61-(0)8 8431-4965

  ISBN: 978-0-9942084-2-2 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-0-9942084-3-9 (e)

  A CIP number for this book is available at the National Library of Australia.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and dialogues are creations of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any individuals, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Cover image © Kevron2001 | Dreamstime.com - Man Walking At Sunset Photo

  Cover design: Scott Zarcinas

  Printed in Australia

  DoctorZed Publishing rev. date: 01/12/2014

  Special thanks to:

  Mr Bill Peacock QAM

  Mr Geoff Brown, Jeppesen Australasia

  Mr Rob Paradis, Adelaide Gun Shop

  Mr Paul Salamon, Fullbore Queen’s Medallist 2000

  Mr David Covino, Payneham Home Furnishings

  “Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.”

  Thomas Jefferson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Prologue

  The eagle was high on the wing as the gunman nestled his body into the undergrowth, pulling the stock of the .50-calibre sniper’s rifle hard into his shoulder. In full camouflage he was near-impossible to spot, even from a distance of only a few metres. The cover he’d chosen in a disused landing strip just north of the Durack River, north-west of Kununurra in Western Australia, shielded the direct sunlight, but it was still hot.

  Got to expect it in this part of the world, he thought.

  He began to wonder what twenty million dollars would smell like, how much room it would actually take up in a small plane. He cocked his ear to the sky, straining to hear. Nothing. He checked his watch.

  Shouldn’t be long now, he told himself. Twenty mill. Bloody hell! Twenty million bucks. That’s gotta be twenty overnight bags. Jam-packed. Even if it’s in thousand-dollar bills. Maybe there’ll be gold bars.

  He wanted to pee, such was the rush of blood at the thought of such a massive haul. He pretended for a moment he was thrusting his face into a mountain of brand new thousand-dollar bills, and allowed himself the tiniest smile of gratification. This was the moment he’d waited for all his life. And it could all so easily have been lost if it wasn’t for a passing comment in a casual conversation.

  “They reckon they can grab twenty mill,” the woman had said.

  “How the hell would you launder twenty million bucks in this town?”

  The gunman put his eye up to the Leupold Sniper scope which he’d pre-zeroed at twelve hundred and fifty metres three days earlier—the distance from where he lay prone to where he’d calculated the twin-engined aircraft with its passengers and their on-board booty would come to a standstill. He glanced again at the settings on the Leupold. It was an 8.5 x 25 variable slotted onto the top of the Barrett .50 calibre. He felt comfortable with his choice of weapon, after learning such combinations were used by snipers during the Gulf War. A squeeze on the trigger would send a 500-grain spitzer soft-point towards its target at close on 3000 feet per second, striking with an almost inconceivable destructive force. Again he cast his eyes to the sky. The eagle had disappeared from view. He strained his ears for the slightest sound. Still nothing.

  He checked his watch. The urgency to pee was becoming intense, but he knew that the feeling would quickly pass at the slightest sound of an approaching aircraft. Determined to keep his cool, the gunman sucked in some deep breaths. He dragged up the tip of his neckerchief to wipe his brow, wiped his palms on his sleeves, and braced himself. It wouldn’t be long now. Nothing to do now but wait.

  He unclicked and rechecked the magazine of the Barrett. Seven rounds. One up the spout. Six should do it. As he homed the magazine the sound of the click took his mind back to just a few days earlier.

  * * *

  In the dead of night he made a silent exit from his rented flat in the Sydney suburb of Ryde. He lifted the garage door and climbed in behind the wheel of his vehicle. As he did so, the passenger door was reefed open and a lone figure brandishing a handgun leapt into the front passenger seat.

  Fear turned his gut as he heard the sound of the hammer being drawn back on what he thought was a .38 snub-nose. There was just enough light for him to see his attacker was wearing a balaclava.

  “I’ve been watching you, arsehole. Watching you for bloody months in fact. Why don’t we take a little drive and uncover a few of those stolen dollars you’ve got hidden away in some god-forsaken place?”

  He never spoke. As he reached down to turn on the ignition, he hooked his little finger into a key-ring attached to the lower part of the steering column and gave it a sudden jerk. Two distinct, but muffled, shots rang out and his attacker slumped lifeless into a crumpled heap in the passenger seat.

  He quickly switched on the interior light of his vehicle. Blood was streaming from a wound in his attacker’s neck and another in his chest, the result of two bullets delivered by a pair of pen-guns rigged into the airconditioning vents. Small they might be, but these beauties were deadly at around two metres. He cursed at the mess.

  With a fingertip he lifted the balaclava. He shook his head slightly. “Dunno who the fuck you are, bastard, but right now, I gotta get the hell out of here,” he muttered.

  He hit the start button and roared away from the garage. He quickly gazed around. He was reasonably confident he hadn’t been seen by anyone and that his attacker had been acting solo. As his mind raced with what to do with the body, he checked his watch. He had set up a meeting and right now he didn’t need this distraction. He had to make the meeting on time and time was running out.

  Making a snap decision, he wheeled in off the main road to a dimly lit side street. There was no traffic coming from either way. A solitary street light off in the distance. No late night joggers.

>   “Perfect,” he mumbled.

  He spotted a driveway to a vacant lot, pulled in and cut his headlights. He leaned over, opened the passenger door and pushed the body of his attacker from the vehicle.

  As he roared away, he again cursed at the hideous mess inside his vehicle. He pressed down harder on the accelerator, turning his wrist to check his watch. “Jesus, I can’t be late for this bastard.”

  He strained his eyes to look ahead. Soon the side street he was searching for came into view. Slowly he made his approach. Up ahead he could make out a dark-coloured sedan parked in the street.

  That’s got to be him.

  He switched off his headlights and idled very slowly to within about twenty metres of the stationary vehicle. Cautiously, the gunman climbed from his car.

  From the shadows of a head-high brush fence came a voice barely above a whisper. “You bring the money?”

  “Ten grand, right?”

  Quicker than a heartbeat, the man the gunman had arranged to meet was standing a metre in front of him.

  “Don’t fuck with me, arsehole!”

  Instantly, he felt the barrel of a handgun pressed against his neck from behind. Then came the terrifying click of the hammer being drawn back. The gunman froze.

  Twice in one night to hear that fucking sound is twice too often.

  “You’re dead, arsehole.”

  “Jesus, you bastards, I’m only jokin’.”

  “You want to joke, join the fucking circus. Twenty-five G’s, right?”

  “Tell this imbecile to lose the gun and I’ll give it to you.”

  The man in front nodded. The gun barrel fell away. But the gunman could still feel his presence close behind.

  He began to reach inside his jacket for the money when he paused. “You got the artillery and those two gee-whiz mobile phones?”

  The man in front turned on his heel and went to the boot of his car. When he returned he was holding onto a Barrett .50 calibre centrefire rifle and two mobiles.

  The gunman’s face lit up. “Holy shit, what will that do to a bloke at a thousand metres?”

  The seller grinned and held up a .50-calibre round. “One of these?”

  The gunman nodded.

  “Hit a bloke in the chest with this little baby and all you’ll have left will be his fingerprints.” The seller gave him an inquiring glance. “You ever fired one?”

  The gunman shook his head.

  “Then go somewhere the hell away from civilisation and let a few go. The deal includes a hundred rounds. Go out bush and squeeze a few off. Don’t shoulder-hold it. Use the pod. And wear your ear plugs. But get a long way from anyone or anywhere because when these mothers go bang it’s like a clap of bloody thunder and you’ll frighten the shit out of anything within pissing distance.”

  The gunman was impressed. “Put it all in the boot,” he said, handing over his car keys. “When you’ve done that, you’ll get your money.”

  Without hesitation the seller quickly transferred the rifle, mobiles and all the accompanying accessories from one vehicle to the other. So hasty was the transfer, the gunman was forced into action sooner than he realised. His mind was racing. He was about to hand over $25,000 for a weapon he dearly wanted. But more than that, he still wanted to keep his money.

  “You guys want to deal?”

  Again the seller was upon him, his eyes flashing anger.

  Again the gun barrel from behind jerked into his neck.

  “Bloody Christ, you mongrels made me piss my pants. Why all the fucking theatrics?”

  “Listen, bastard, and listen good,” the seller began. “You’ve just got hold of the hottest centrefire in the business. They target shoot with these mothers over a mile in the States. Don’t even think about asking where this one came from. It’s brand fucking new. Still in the greaseproof. I don’t know what you want it for. Don’t want to know. But what I do know is that if I get sprung with this little lot, I’m in for about seven to ten.”

  “So no deals, huh?”

  “Stop the crap. You got the fucking dough?”

  Just a little closer you guys, just a little closer, the gunman urged under his breath. He took one last punt.

  “They tell me they’re worth around 12 grand in a gun shop!”

  “Fuck you,” sneered the seller. “Do you want it or don’t you?”

  The gunman felt the gunbarrel pressed even harder into his neck, but it was all over in an instant. The gunman dropped his hands to his belt indicating he was about to withdraw the cash. Instantly, he pulled hard on two keyrings. Two muffled shots rang out from two pen-guns fitted into his specially constructed leather waistband. One was aimed chest high for someone standing less than a metre behind him, and the other the same for someone standing the same distance away in front. Death was instant for the seller and his accomplice. The two bodies slumped to the ground.

  Still with his money in his pockets, the gunman leaned down, picked up the pistol which had been jammed into his neck and plucked his car keys from the street. “Fucking amateurs,” he sneered.

  He stepped over the bodies, got into his car and sped off into the night.

  * * *

  The gunman again glanced at the sky. The eagle had returned, only this time it looked to be higher up. His memory shot back to school days when a teacher had said, “Other birds may take to the wing, but remember, only eagles fly.”

  See what you mean, he thought, watching the bird on the thermals.

  Still, there was no wind to speak of. He’d figured the twin-engined aeroplane would land to the right of where he’d positioned himself. If the opposite were true, then it was only a quick body turn and a rapid re-alignment to fix the Leupold’s cross-hairs to the other end. He reached down to his trouser leg pocket and withdrew his water bottle. He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and spat the last lot out.

  “Doesn’t stay cold for long in this bloody weather does it?” he grumbled. Suddenly, he thrust his ear to the sky. “What the hell’s that?” A few seconds later, it became clear the sound was a vehicle approaching, but from a long way off. He looked around. Nothing. Again he unclicked the magazine.

  Seven rounds. One up the spout. “Six should do it.” Again he smiled reassuredly to himself. He was trying to smell the money. “Cool it man, we’re not there yet. Just bloody cool it!”

  The approaching vehicle was obviously the passport out of there for those on board the aircraft. It was getting closer.

  Now the gunman’s heartbeat was beginning to echo in his eardrums. He wriggled his body further into the undergrowth. Then something caught his eye. Way over to his left, a flock of birds burst into the air above a cluster of trees as though they’d been spooked. He studied them for a moment then raised his binoculars.

  “Looks like it’s getting a little crowded out here.” Anger cut into his tone. “Jesus bloody Christ, how did those bastards know where to find me?”

  Panic tore into his gut. Everything he’d planned was about to go down the toilet. He had to do something and do it now. But there was no time. The plane was due, by his reckoning in 15 minutes. He raised his binoculars again. There were two men.

  Probably about a thousand metres to his left. Although a long way off, he knew immediately who one of them was. And this was certainly one man he didn’t want breathing down his neck.

  “They bloody followed me! How come I didn’t spot that? They bloody followed me all the way from Sydney. Christ! I don’t believe it!”

  He decided to act. He looked again at the two men. “I reckon they’ll stay put. They not only want me, but I reckon they’d be pretty bloody interested in the aeroplane—and its passengers.” The approaching motor vehicle came into view.

  It was as he suspected. It was the greeter vehicle and it made its way to the right-hand end of the airstrip. The gunman decided to gamble.

  “Those mongrels didn’t walk here. I wonder if I can find their car?” He slunk away from his position. “Gonna have to be d
amn quick about it.” He ran back to where he had parked his own vehicle and covered it with a camouflage car-cover.

  He reckoned the vehicle belonging to the other two wouldn’t be far away. He was right. About fifty metres away, he saw another vehicle, the sort used by the army, a troop carrier. It was also covered by a camouflage cover. The gunman, in a crouched position, moved swiftly towards it. He scampered under the cover, pulled his Puma Bowie knife from its sheath, and pierced the walls of all four tyres. The spare on the rear door was next.

  He peered in through the window. A mobile phone was on the front seat. Bolted to the dashboard was a high-powered radio. The gunman smashed the window with the handle of the Bowie knife and opened a door. He thrust the knife blade into the heart of the mobile phone, then reached down and reefed all the wiring from the high-powered radio. Not satisfied that he’d done enough, he used an available jack handle to smash the steering wheel and then popped the bonnet, reefed out the distributor leads and ran the knife blade through the battery leads. As he was about to leave he noticed tyre tracks leading from the rear of the vehicle.

  “So the bastards aren’t on foot. Looks like one of those four-wheel motor bikes.” Two light-weight loading ramps lay nearby. “Thought so,” he murmured. He checked his watch. “Jesus, eight minutes!”

  By the time he found himself back behind the stock of the Barrett .50 calibre, the gunman figured he had about three minutes to catch his breath before the plane came into view.

  He was wrong. It was more like two. He had just finished drinking what remained of the water in his canteen when he heard the distant drone of a twin-engined aeroplane. He swung his binoculars round to check that his pursuers hadn’t moved position. They hadn’t. He then focussed on the driver of the greeter vehicle. He was standing by the driver’s-side door.

  “Bloody hell, is that bastard edgy? Don’t worry, baby, it’ll all be over pretty soon and I promise you won’t feel a thing,” the gunman grinned. The sound of the engines was becoming louder. But the sound wasn’t coming in from any great height. “More like ground level.”