Terror in the Ranks

By R Munro

A family’s been wiped out.
This was no accident.
Superintendent Aaron of the Australian Federal Police knows the whole scene is far more complicated than just some deranged serial killer. Terrorism has arrived on Australian shores, and it’s the monster within.
A religious coup in Indonesia and a spate of attacks across Australia somehow seem connected as Aaron uncover a widespread and deeply-rooted conspiracy stabbing at the very heart of a nation and its values.
Hampered by corrupt agents within senior ranks, Aaron finds at stake is a terrible secret the government would only ever bring out in time of national peril. As essential support structures are infiltrated and sabotaged by shadowy co-conspirators, it’s a race against the odds to prevent Australia’s dread secret escaping and creating terror on the world stage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R Munro
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370477289

R Munro

A self-described Sydney-based sentient pocketful of stardust, Rob prefers to celebrate the universe with his creativity, be it painting, sculpting, drawing, casting metal, writing, or pretty much anything else involving making stuff. He has deep passions for art, history, chocolate, beautiful things, peace, love, cats, chocolate, great literature and chocolate. Rob was born just in time for Woodstock but too young to get there and appreciate it, dammit. Rob is part-Scottish, part-German, mostly Australian, all mad and therefore an artist and writer with delusions of success. A voracious devourer of books from a young age, Rob started writing stories around age ten. Growing up more physically than mentally, he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English before starting his own small business, writing in his spare time. Now in the thick end of his forties, ill health has forced retirement from professional life, leaving him to work on his art and writing, which he would dearly love to do for a living. He sells his art on Etsy and Bluethumb, and his writings on Amazon and Smashwords and Barnes & Noble and frankly anywhere else online. He has dreams of being one of those rare creatures who can make a living from what they create, chiefly because health reasons keep him largely housebound and away from digging ditches, marshalling supermarket trolleys, cleaning up litter or other stellar career choices. Until he sells anything, he starves a lot. Rob is scared of grasshoppers, door-knockers, spelling errors, horror movies, molten metal, fundamentalists and having to leave the house. Rob is not scared of spiders, snakes, things that go bump in the night, intelligent people or embarrassingly enormous wads of cash being handed to him.

Book preview

TERROR IN THE RANKS

R. MUNRO

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright © 2016 R Munro

All rights reserved.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by the author.

Stock image copyright Pixattitude / Dreamstime.com

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

FUCK THIS SHIT. I’M just not interested.

As soon as I’ve switched off the latest news report about this stupid bloody Indonesian coup, the kid barges in.

Ready? he squeaks after seeing the look on my face, goddamn raincoat, buzz cut and bull neck straight out of some B-grade Sam Spade detective story.

Get over yourself. I’m not ready. Shaddup, piss off and leave me alone.

Getting my shit together, I tell him truthfully enough. You’re driving, I add, since my driving days are over for a while. Got my knee banged up just that bit too much. Makes hitting the clutch too dicey. Quack says it’ll be okay in a month or ten, so I gotta let junior behind the wheel, which is a pain since he’s like some dumb shit kid on a sugar rush at a dodgem-car carnival ride, and my insurance has lapsed.

Okay. We’ll take my car, he offers. Good boy. I can’t afford any more dents in my clunker.

ID. Papers. Sal’s brief printed out. Piece. Spare clips. Wallet. Keys. Mobile. Second mobile. Need a goddamn trolley to carry all this shit, but just when you think it’s all too much trouble, a case comes up and you start to feel a bit naked, even with everything on you. A case like this. Another bunch of corpses, but there’s more. More enough for us feds to be called in. Neighbour found them. Blue’s there now but it’s up to us to get down to the details and track down the bastards who did it, and everybody’s cold with this one, especially blue.

Damn kid’s tetchy. How many has he done? Two? Three? When you get to eighteen in less than a year give me a wave. They don’t give you a medal when you reach ten, so quit with the brown-nosing.

In the car, and the kid’s driving way too fast for Sydney traffic, yapping on and on about the Indonesian coup and then something else I don’t give a damn about, but I nod and uh-huh enough for him to think I’m paying attention. Trouble is I’m really thinking too much about Sal’s brief.

Shit. The kid’s asked me a question and I wasn’t concentrating.

Just shaddup a minute. Trying to think, I tell him. At least he shuts up.

There’s more important shit than your gossip. Far more important stuff, like the fact there were two groups in the area we knew about, but Sal’s reckoning there’s someone else now, someone new. Someone hard-core. Possibly seriously pissed off, drugged up vets mixed with bikies and some sanctimonious rabble from up north who’ve come down declaring war after the latest terrorist atrocity in Europe blah blah or worried the Indonesians are suddenly going to invade blah blah. Mean bastards, led by someone nobody knows anything about. Underground guerrilla types looking to take their idea of justice into their own hands, because us law fucks are all lazy lefty bleeding-heart do-nothing bastards, apparently.

Trouble is they haven’t met me yet.

Blue and white chequered tape across a whole road is pretty serious. More serious is evacuated mums standing at the side of the road in their nighties with snot-nosed sprogs on their hips and it’s 9:20am and raining. More serious still are the media vans surrounded by all sorts of self-righteous onlookers gobbing off at cameras and microphones, as if their gap-toothed, drooling opinions mattered.

Not my worry.

Gun through, blue lifting tape for us and pointing out the white forensic vans at 134 Merrick Road.

We walk up the rain-slick asphalt, parked far enough away to keep it prudent but close enough to not get too wet. Blues everywhere, standing around looking important, heavily padded and armoured despite the show being over long before they dragged their sorry arses to this dump. Makes it look good for the press, I guess.

Nobody to greet us. Guess they’re all too busy inside.

Regular-looking, well-maintained mid-1970s suburban bungalow. Not much of a garden but the lawn’s clipped and everything’s clean and tidy. Beyond white-painted wrought iron gates and parked in front of a shut up garage is a souped-up metallic-purple Subaru WRX with chrome mags. Not a speck of dust on it, looks like it cost more than the house to deck out. A little out of character with the Toyota-and-Ford neighbourhood, but by the looks of the shifty-eyed locals getting rained on, I’m guessing the folk at this address were a little too different to qualify for being welcomed around for Saturday barbecues or the local lamington drive.

Bunny suit just inside the open front door. Then another. Even the feet are wrapped. Dammit, that means there’s a mess. I hate when there’s a mess. Hang onto your breakfast, kid.

The entryway is clear. Beyond the carved timber front door there’s an ornate arrangement of cut flowers perched on a white marble-topped, gilt-legged table. The floor’s white marble. Guessing there’s no thick pile rugs and three plaster ducks on the wall in this place. A big mirror has been shattered out of its ornate gilt frame, but the flowers in front of it are weirdly untouched. Shards of mirrored glass grind under shoes.

The perfume from the flowers can’t quite mask the sharp stench of piss. A bunny suit approaches.

Aaron. We’re in the kitchen and living room this morning. Forensic already have what we need, but if you still want a mask and suit—

Thanks, we’ll be fine, I dismiss. I know how to avoid mess, and the kid’s gotta learn some time. Doctor Kutasewicz is a pain too. Spare me the didactic oratory. I need to see for myself what’s happening, not hear about it. If you’ve got something to say, tell me whodunnit and why.

Just follow the sound of cameras and low talking.

And there they are.

Fuuuck.

There’s a mum. Two mature-aged daughters. A son in his late teens. Little daughter probably no more than ten. No sign of the father yet. Severed heads all neatly lined up on the polished timber dining table, eyes closed, slices of raw bacon sticking out of their mouths. Naked headless bodies with mutilated genitals piled on top of the white leather sofa nearby, with a large, cheaply made Australian flag tossed over the top of them. Blood everywhere. Faeces smeared across heads and bodies and all across framed photos of smiling faces on the wall leading to the kitchen. The place absolutely fucking reeks of piss and shit and blood. Somebody’s pissed all over the carpet, the walls, the bodies on the couch and pretty much everywhere else they could aim, too.

Then there’s the pathetic attempt to burn the house down, setting pages of the family’s Quran on fire in a pile on the living room floor. Nothing took the flames well enough, leaving a black smear of ash and scorch-marks on the carpet.

Maybe all the piss helped put it out.

I turn, and there on the wall are the slogans. In blood. Just like last time, and the time before.

Real fucking classy.

The kid retches, mercifully makes it outside.

Pussy.

Kitchen’s awash with blood, probably where they were killed. Bunch of clothing all piled up in one corner.

Out the back yard, there’s the father. Naked and nailed to a goddamn wooden cross hammered into the ground right next to the Hills hoist. Gutted like a pig, body smeared in faeces, genitals hacked off and shoved down his throat along with a strip of raw bacon. Press helicopters and even someone’s pet drone are buzzing around, but forensic have managed a big white plastic enclosure to guarantee sanitising this latest little offering for the viewers at home. Bunny suits on ladders are untying ropes and pulling out nails to bring the poor bastard down.

No notes. No manifesto. No signature. Just the usual sad, tired, retarded slogans drawn using fingers we have no print matches for.

Sal’s brief tells me blues have already rounded up the usuals, but everyone’s just goldfishing like the useless bastards they are. Some’ll go down for drugs or whatever else the blues can nail, keeping them out of the equation for a while. Nasty business, but we’ve gotta flush out every sewer this time. This shit’s way too fucking serious.

Wasn’t that long ago everybody was talking about peace in our time, the terrorists will never win, blah blah. Now we’ve got terrorists of our own, and they’re us. Goddamn sanctimonious nationalist fascist dickless pricks who think murdering a little girl is going to save their country, save their race, save us all from extremism, without having a fucking brain between them to recognise their extremism might be the actual problem.

When I get my hands on them, I’m going to fucking show them all races bleed the same fucking colour!

Stop it. Calm down. Keep it together.

Mobile rings. It’s Sal.

One of them just broke, crying for his mummy. Reckons we’re going to gut him, she says.

"Gut him? Sounds familiar. Maybe that one needs some special attention. There’s nothing here except what forensics might find but it’ll be a while before any of that shines a light," I tell her.

How is it?

Pretty much same as Fortescue Avenue, but this time there’s a little kid too.

Fuck. Ibri’s gonna puke, she breathes, concern pasted all over.

I know. Gotta find ’em quick and put ’em down. Get your squealer to tell us something we don’t know. A name, an address. Anything. It’s more than I’ve got right now, I say through gritted teeth as I watch a bloke who was first and foremost a loving father being lowered to the ground, tangled entrails dangling everywhere. Talk about finding a way to piss off pretty much everybody here, especially me.

Kid flashes me a wallet. It’s not from anybody in the dead family. Forensic found it just now on the kitchen floor after turning over the clothing pile. Driver’s licence? Seriously? Thank you. Wait—Toowoomba? You’re a long way from home, mate. No credit card, but there’s a Medicare card, a membership card for some RSL club and a Health Care card from Centrelink. Jobless loser.

Kid texts Sal the details.

Did they drop it when they ran? Were they that stupid?

Neighbours saw no cars or heard anything, but Linda from next door had a spare newspaper on her lawn this morning and came over to offer it until she saw the front door open and discovered the festivities within.

Ambos took her away before we arrived. Hubby Alan told blue nobody heard a thing. A family slaughtered and you didn’t hear a thing? Are you serious? Probably heard everything but is frightened as fuck, poor bastard.

Forensics reckoned it happened around midnight.

Those fucks wanted a war, and now they’re waging one for themselves. Fortescue Street was two nights ago. Duncan Avenue was three nights before that. This one, last night. Am I going to find out tonight is next? Is that the way this is going to go down?

These people weren’t warriors. They were a family who loved and laughed and celebrated freedom and joy together in a country that’s supposedly one of the safest in the world. Their crime? Actually, no crime. Nothing. Being foreign’s not a crime, and it even turned out all the kids were Australian-born after mum and dad had fled the Middle East back in the late 1970s. Being Muslim’s not a crime, even if some brainless fucktards want to make it so. Having brown skin’s not a crime, even if the same fucktards and their mates reckon it should be. None of what these people did or were was a crime, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they need to take up a discussion with the law, because that’s what we’re here for. The teen loving his car’s not a crime. The little girl’s love of her school and reading’s not a crime. The big sister’s studies to become a hairdresser are no crime. There are no drugs here. Nothing untoward. No connections with asshole terrorists locally or overseas, no history of anything of the remotest interest for the law at all. Father was a plumber, while the mum did work for Telstra. Talk about living the fucking white bread dream.

Mobile rings. It’s Sal.

Another incident’s just been called in. Market on Merrylands Road in Merrylands has been firebombed. Family living upstairs are all dead, plus there’s dead in the street and injured in adjacent buildings. Blue’s there now with fireys and ambos but there’s almost nothing left, she says sounding pretty bleak.

Goddammit.

Muslim?

You got it, she says.

It’s a war, Sal. All those pollie agitators have been screaming for it, now they’ve got these bad bastards fighting it for ’em.

The wallet Bram just texted me the details of?

Yeah, I say, taking it from the kid and hefting it.

Put it in your pocket and come back, she says quietly.

Haven’t bagged it yet, I let her know honestly enough.

Doesn’t matter. Top floor want it, comes a stern tone I haven’t heard in years, giving me pause. "Don’t argue with me, Aaron. Just grab yourself and your shadow and come back right now," she orders.

You don’t want me to head over to Merrylands?

"You heard me. Come in now, or I’ll park your arse behind a desk so fast it’ll make your head rattle," she insists. Hey whoa! Off a case? I’ve been doing this shit for twenty-eight years and nobody’s threatened me with that before. Something’s wrong, but orders are orders. I grab the kid by the arm and we head up the driveway and back to the car.

We’re speeding up the highway, and even from here I can see the smoke plume. Poor bastards. There’s a couple of hijab-wearing women running up the road, and despite being a school day, their kids are in hot pursuit. That’s it. Panic’s starting to set in.

I pull out the wallet and stare at the licence. Never seen the face and the name doesn’t mean anything to me at first, but then I remember something I heard on the news before heading out to Merrick Road. Some pollie who’s trying to pass some law about detaining and deporting all Muslims to offshore detention camps or some other draconian fascist shit. What was her name? I stare at the licence again. That’s not the pollie of course, but ... holy crap ... the uncommon surname. Tebben. The same.

Sal, what’s going on?

Why was I just yanked out of one crime scene and prevented from investigating another? I’m heading back to see top floor—does that mean I’m off the case anyway?

Top floor?

Sal?

Seriously?

Chapter Two

THE PIG WAS DEFINITELY a goner. Writhing prostrate between Bryson’s enormous black steel-capped boots, hands defensive in spite of broken fingers, terror etched across every blood-soaked molecule of his face, he knew there was no conscience in those wide pale eyes boring into him. There would be no mercy. He knew this was it. When the huge pry-bar finally punched through his sternum, his agony unleashed an almighty shriek, gurgling to silence the moment his penetrated heart collapsed under its final gasping quiver.

As if to prove some unspoken point, Raesler wrenched the bar sideways and ground open a broad gash, spilling blood and gore onto the oil-stained concrete floor. A shiver of low laughter and approving grunts followed as the surrounding black-shirted men hungrily watched the pig getting smeared.

No mercy, ’cos none is given, Raesler growled. Fire up the furnace, boys. Let’s smoke this ham! Two burly bald men gathered up the corpse and tossed it onto a metal trolley. Rat-like Winston instantly dove into the dead man’s pockets to retrieve a wallet, mobile phones, a pair of cuffs, a set of keys, a pair of sunglasses and a fancy white Montblanc fountain pen. Raesler approached, intrigued.

What ya got there, Rattie? he asked, stroking Winston’s short and pale-bleached mohawk, sending terrified shivers up the little man’s spine.

Gotta save the stuff too good to burn, he assured the enormous man.

Bring it with you, Raesler ordered, turning to the door.

As tendrils of smoke curled from a metal flue above them, dozens of black-shirted figures emerged from the industrial unit and approached their vehicles, overcast skies opening to rays of sunlight above the rain-slick streets.

Raesler climbed into the back of the black van, uncharacteristically inviting Winston to sit with him. Over two-dozen iron horses thundered out the gates in front of a convoy of cars and vans, all scattering in various directions.

Raesler stared at the passing scenery for a moment before a text message arrived on his special phone. He read it but didn’t acknowledge before he tucked the phone away. He looked to Winston, who still clasped everything in his hands.

Show me what you’ve got, Raesler ordered.

Still got the credit cards and cash, Winston assured, reluctantly handing over the thick black leather wallet. Raesler nodded, gesturing for the rest. Winston handed everything over, still too green under that piercing pale gaze to feel any shred of confidence like the others did.

Raesler snapped open the wallet and pulled out two twenties. The plastic in there would go cold once the pig was known to be dead, so Simple Simon would have to work quickly. The cop badge would go on the pile, and the ID was fresh enough to be handy for forging new ones. Swipe card for whatever station he was based. Family photo?

Hello pretty lady. Hiya girls. Daddy’s not coming home any more, so suck shit.

All useful stuff.

In fact, so useful maybe the time was right after all. It would certainly help deal with opposition to helping himself to the special package when it would finally arrive.

The van pulled into the underground garage and stopped at a battery of brushed metal doors. Raesler stepped into an open elevator. Winston scurried in by his side, the big man’s hand gently resting on top of the young man’s quivering shoulders.

After the doors opened at the fourth floor, Raesler dropped the broken-necked corpse in front of the broad curved granite reception desk.

Find whatever else is on him and then put him on ice, he muttered to the startled woman, who nodded wordlessly. He walked to a large pair of brushed copper doors that silently opened for him. Then get Stella here, he ordered before the doors closed behind him.

He stopped when he saw his chair facing the wall. It swivelled like an old-fashioned movie villain to face him.

Stella, he breathed, a playful smirk on his lips.

You been out playing with all your little boyfriends again? she purred, smiling as she stood. His smirk died.

What’ve you been doing, chicky-babe? Daddy said for you to stay in Wentworth Falls with that sand-nigger until you were called, he said approaching, suddenly smashing her face with the back of his hand so hard she was thrown off her feet. "Daddy tells you these things for a reason," he added. After a stunned moment she picked herself up off the floor, a look of murder on her bleeding face.

Don’t mess with the goods Bry, she retorted, wiping her china-white chin while staggering slightly. This was far from the first time, but it still hurt way too much.

Or what, chicky-babe? Gonna cut me? he taunted with a grin.

I’ll do worse than that, and you know it. Hummy sent me. Where’s that new kid? Winston Tebben?

Outside, Raesler said honestly enough, inclining his head.

Feds are onto him. They found his wallet at the Shirazis, she said.

I know, Raesler said coldly.

How can you know?

None of your business.

Well, what are you going to do about it?

Already dealt with it. Don’t worry, chicky-babe. Tebben senior doesn’t know what’s happened with her crotch-fruit and while she thinks we control him, she’ll do anything we say, he said, tenderly wiping away a red smear from Stella’s cheek.

Cheaper than political donations, she said with approval as she licked Raesler’s stubbled chin with the tip of her tongue, thrilling at the dangerous life.

Better believe it, he smiled, drinking in her scent for a moment before taking her in his arms and tasting her forbidden fruit.

Satisfied for the moment, he walked to his desk and typed a code into his laptop. A moment later he typed a message before hitting ‘send’.

Let’s see how long this takes, he suggested with a grin. He noted the time. Precisely twenty-eight seconds later, there was a knock at the door. Under thirty. He’s getting better, he approved.

The man who stepped into the room walked with a limp. His scraggly black beard matched his hair, and a gash across his face pointed to where his right eye had been taken. He timidly approached Raesler.

You called, he said.

The time is at hand, Jusuf! Raesler boomed. Choose your best. Fit out the transfer van Simple Simon built with the best from our friend Mister Archer. Here’s what your martyr will need to get in, he instructed, handing over the dead pig’s wallet and other personal effects. He held onto the Montblanc pen for himself. Take all this to Simple Simon first and tell him to use what he needs and make it as quick as he can before the mission. The time to tip the balance is now.

Of course, sir. Right away, Jusuf bowed and scurried away.

Chapter Three

GODDAMN HEADACHE ... gonna smash something soon. Fucking top floor drives me nuts. Bunch of fat-arsed suits who think they know everything. Reality is they know sweet fuck-all. Sal just stood there, telling me the dumb fuck in the driver’s licence is the son of some pollie who wants the law to back down from investigating crimes against Muslims, ’cos she wants ’em all to be scared enough to want to fuck off out of the country so we can be all white again.

Where do I have to go to get pinhead pollies like that deported?

So what about the open warfare out there on the streets? A family dismembered and another blown up in less than a day, at the end of a spree that’s seen nearly thirty corpses all up. Fucking hell, what a mess, and the press is already all over it like a rash, especially the gutter rags bullshitting about Muslims attacking everybody. We live in an age where the victim is more of a problem than the perpetrator. Those hack journos driven by their conniving puke-head of an owner know fuck all, and they even sound it when they make shit up to flog to all the gullible fucktards out there who pay real money on this crap to feel better about their own shitty lives.

At least Sal proved she was on my side after all. She had me worried, but it hadn’t escaped me that at no time did she actually ask me to wipe my phone’s photo album, including snaps I took of the driver’s licence and other contents of the wallet those brainless fucks in top floor made me hand over. Fuck ’em.

My sidekick has a bee in his bonnet about not investigating the bombing, but it occurred to me a while ago he’s only worried about getting scores on the board so he

Reviews for Terror in the Ranks

[Rachel Capps · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A punchy plot with a voice you want to spend time with. A great, enjoyable read.