Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

Sawtell took another blast on the radio. This time it sounded like POLRI. ‘Captain John Sawtell. US Army. We got one down, offi cer.

Need an ambulance down here. The fugitives are driving a blue BMW, 5-series…’ said Sawtell.

Sawtell never seemed to get tired, thought Mac. He operated like a machine and it was pretty obvious why the US Army had tagged him for leadership. Mac liked that he never identifi ed himself as being Special Forces. You could always tell the genuine article in the US military because they’d tell you they drove a truck, shovelled chow.

The cordite smell wasn’t getting any better. Mac wondered if Garrison was using experimental rounds. It wasn’t like any kind of fi rearm discharge he’d ever smelled.

Behind him, Sawtell signed off.

‘Smell that? That cordite?’ asked Mac.

Sawtell chuckled. ‘Shitty loads. Not yours, are they? That pea-shooter powder?’

Paul laughed too.

Mac walked forwards, sniffi ng. Something wasn’t right. One of the few things he could remember from his trips to Aberdeen Proving Grounds was to do with the smell of bitter almonds and freshly mown green grass. He couldn’t remember what they corresponded to, but they were listed as the two biggest giveaways that there was some biochem nasty lurking around the shop.

He walked along the containers: forty-footers, white and red mostly. The smell got worse. It was like he could taste it. His Hi-Tecs squeaked on shiny concrete, echoing around the sub-level. Sweat trickled down his back. It wasn’t bitter almond, it wasn’t mown grass.

It was putrid and sweet. It was human and chemical.

Most of what Mac knew about containers, he knew from Jenny Toohey. And the vivid memory he had of the work she did was the telltale sign that there was a container of slaves in the vicinity. Jenny once told him, It’s a smell you never forget. I smell it in my nightmares.

Mac froze to the spot, gulped, stomach churning. Couldn’t deny what he was smelling.

Shit and bleach.

Sensing something was wrong, Sawtell joined Mac. Paul rose from his sitting position, awkward but silent, checked for load in the SIG.

Sawtell pulled the slide back on his Beretta, the noise fi lling the sub-level space.

Mac shook his head.

They crept forward silently, Mac’s breathing ragged.

The smell got stronger.

They moved down a corridor between pods of containers, the dark intensifying the atmosphere.

Mac stopped, his ears rushing with his breathing and pulse.

He tried to remember Jenny’s conversations about a particular case: holes hidden high up in the box, right under the top beam; holes in the fl oor of the container. He’d found her work fairly distasteful, always tried to change the subject.

Sawtell’s eyes were wide now, troubled by the smell. ‘You sure this is okay, McQueen?’

Mac nodded, gulped. Wished he had a neckerchief.

‘Don’t smell okay,’ said Sawtell.

They turned into another avenue created by containers where it was darker and tighter. The smell was so intense that the three men could taste it in their mouths.

‘Holy shit!’ muttered Paul, then retched.

They stopped beside a red forty-foot container with white ID markings but no shipping company logo. Mac tried to control his breathing, put the back of his hand to his mouth not knowing whether to retch or cry.

Sawtell and Mac looked at each other. Neither wanted to be the fi rst to puke.

‘ Fuck! ‘ complained Paul, wiping dribble from the side of his mouth.

Sawtell squinted at Mac. ‘That the smell of… of people?’ he said.

Mac unholstered the Heckler out of its rig, his legs shaking and sweat running down his face from under his cap. His feet swam in his Hi-Tecs as he stepped forward and tapped on the steel side with the Heckler.

Nothing.

They looked at each other, their breathing crashing like Bondi surf.

Mac was about to go to another container. Then they heard what sounded like a squawk.

They waited a few seconds. Then came some murmurs. Muffl ed.

Indistinct.

Sawtell grabbed Mac’s bicep.

Then screams, cries.

‘Hello,’ Mac shouted, tapping on the steel side again.

Voices were now obvious. Young voices.

Sawtell almost wrenched Mac’s arm off, his face aghast. ‘That’s -

That’s… That’s kids. Fucking children!’

Mac tapped the side again. Shouted, ‘You okay?’

The noise rose to the sound of a playground of yelling kids from a block away.

Sawtell ran down the side of the box, bare-chested, panicked, sweat pouring down his back. He took the corner around the container so fast he had to grip on the pillar to stay upright. Mac was behind him. Sawtell stopped, fumbled with a huge padlock on the locking handles of the door and then shook at it like a madman, gripping on it so hard it looked like his fi ngers could knit into the padlock hook.

Sounds from inside the box got louder.

Mac yelled, ‘It’s okay – we’re getting there.’

Then he stepped back, pulled out his Nokia and dialled Jenny, who was having lunch with her crew. Mac gave her the address, asked,

‘Could you give us a hand?’

Sawtell keyed the radio, yelled for someone to get the angle grinder from the helo and bring it.

The sounds of screaming and pleading from the container were now joined by a drumming sound – scores of tiny hands banging on a steel box.

Sawtell was losing it. He stood back, levelled his Beretta at the locks on the door until Mac stepped in, stopped him. Not such a good idea.

Sawtell looked at Mac, shaking his head slowly like This is not happening. ‘Kids! What the fuck is a bunch of kids doing in a fucking container?!’ he shouted, slapping on the container door with a big open hand.

Little hands banged back from the inside. Tiny voices screaming Maa, Maa, Maa.

Sawtell was crying as he zeroed in on Mac. ‘Well?’

‘Mate, they’re… um.’

‘ Yes? ‘ yelled Sawtell.

‘They’re, probably, you know, sex slaves. I can’t be sure…’

‘ What? ‘

‘They’re probably being shipped to, you know…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Umm, paedophile brothels, private clients – or owners, whatever they’re called.’

The din of children got worse. Crying, pleading.

The smell and sound warped the air.

Sawtell seemed to look straight through him and for a split second Mac thought he was going to have his head torn off.

Suddenly shouting echoed in the sub-level.

‘Over here, guys,’ yelled Mac.

The Green Berets arrived with a big green canvas gear bag and pinch bars.

Sawtell pointed at the container. ‘Open it. Now!’ he ordered, beyond fury.

The two forced-entry guys set up their stuff. One ran to fi nd power, the other guy set up the angle grinder.

The medic team arrived too, got to work on Paul.

Sawtell stood over Jansen, the angle-grinder guy, whispering like a maniac. ‘This is going to be the fastest forced entry you ever pull, Jansen. You hear me? They’ll give you a goddamned gold medal for this.’

Jansen nodded, put on his protective visor and gloves then busied himself with the machine, ensuring that nothing could go wrong.

The other guy reappeared with orange cable for Jansen’s angle grinder, and then picked up the pinch bar.

The children still banged and yelled.

Jansen powered up and stepped over to the door bolts. Sparks poured like an orange waterfall as he went to work.

The two doors had big handles which folded inwards where the doors met. When the handles were folded down, they locked in place security bars that extended from the top to the bottom of each door. Each door had two vertical locking bars and there was a massive German padlock securing the handles over one another in the centre of the doors. Jansen had to chop out the centre sections of the security bars; the German lock would be hardened steel and would take too long.