Any Means Necessary. Shane Britten

saved a life.

      My reflection ended at the same time as my shower. Drying off, I shrugged on a hotel robe and looked over the muted TV’s news headlines. No mention of a fat greaseball self-asphyxiating or a man being killed by a girl he had beaten so badly she’d subsequently died. Thankfully, no mention either of a suited assassin who had killed two criminals in the heart of the capital, rescuing six girls and a dog.

      I gave another sigh and leaned into the low-backed lounge chair in my hotel room. A glance at the side table showed a crystal decanter full of an amber fluid, a crystal glass and a hand-written card next to the decanter: ‘Valen Tyler, with compliments, Philip.’ I couldn’t help but shake my head. Old dogs, new tricks – I had been trying to build Philip’s security awareness and attention to details like the use of our names when not required for some time now. Apparently unsuccessfully.

      I poured the liquid into the glass, the strong smell catching my nostrils and removing any trace of annoyance. A healthy sip of the liquid and the accompanying burn proved what I suspected: William Larue Weller bourbon. A silent glass-raise to Philip, forgiving his indiscretion for the cost of a rare, superb bourbon that happened to be well and truly my favourite. It was a beautiful, smooth taste that lingered on my tongue.

      I replayed the conversation with Philip in my mind, looking for things I may have missed at first. The head of ASIO’s son and the Prime Minister’s daughter embroiled in, using Philip’s words, some manner of NERE group. His serious focus was characteristic of the political scheming and manoeuvring that had shaped his career. But to what end?

      We would be very exposed, far more than ever before. There would be a good reason for it, I had no doubt. My faith in Philip and his motives had been built over almost five years of working with the old man and he had never put me in a situation I couldn’t handle or that wasn’t worth the risk. But most of our cases were selected with due consideration of how publicly exposed we would be, avoiding cases that made headlines, had extensive police involvement or were under investigation by the country’s various investigative agencies.

      I pushed aside the small seed of doubt with another sip of exquisite, expensive bourbon. I glanced at the case on the other end of the lounge. Not yet. If I opened it, sleep would vanish as surely as the remainder of the bottle.

      I stretched, standing up with a tired groan befitting someone 20 years my senior, twisting a bit to see how much damage had been done to my side and back. Bruises, but nothing that wouldn’t soon heal. I played with the air-conditioning dial until a satisfying 16 degrees Celsius and full fan was displayed, my preferred sleeping temperature. I checked the double safety lock on the door, grabbing the wedge that served as a door stop and jamming it under the inside of the door to prevent it from being opened. I normally slept with a pistol next to the bed but I hadn’t taken it on the job, so as I climbed into bed, I put the taser on the bedside table and crawled between the sheets.

      CHAPTER 4

      It was still dark when I woke, or more accurately, it was dark again. I felt rested and a bit sore, deep bruises starting to settle into muscle pain. A glance at the alarm clock beside the bed showed 4am.

      I pulled on some workout clothes that were in the room when I arrived. Philip made a habit of thinking through my requirements and I rarely found myself in a place without a change of clothes or toiletries. I looked over the bruises as I dressed. They had already started to lighten and yellow. I gave a few stretches and a lot of groans before setting off on a light jog through the leafy suburbs of inner south Canberra. My playlist would be sure to annoy Philip; a heavy metal offering of Five Finger Death Punch, Avenged Sevenfold and Megadeth. The rhythm was perfect to keep stiff, reluctant legs moving, ignoring the dull throb of dog -bite wounds. The streets were quiet, Canberra not yet willing to wake up and face another day.

      I laughed just a little as I ran, reflecting on the quiet streets, citizens going about their ordinary lives unaware of the violent end to a sex slavery house that had existed alongside them for some months. George Orwell said it better than I ever could have: People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

      It was almost 6am by the time I had returned to the hotel and finished a long routine of stretching out sore and resistant muscles on the grassed area in front of reception. While it helped me recover from the run, it also gave the kitchen time to prepare my breakfast order while I waited: eggs, black coffee, muesli and juice. I carried it up to my room, smiling at the reminder from the reception and restaurant both that they would happily deliver it up to me. How would I explain to them that knocks on hotel room doors made me nervous?

      Back in my room, I settled down on the couch with my breakfast, reaching for the Tumi case Philip had given me. That single motion put Myers, his client and the girls out of my mind and I moved on, drawing on my unique ability to categorise a job, file it away and only reflect on it once for operational lessons.

      The case had a number of folders in it, filled with detailed briefs on our ‘targets’, though I was hesitant to refer to them that way given our targets normally ended up dead. There was a folder for Edward and another for Jessica, the Prime Minister’s daughter. I reached for the file on the former.

      Edward was an enterprising young man, undaunted by his father’s vast shadow. He had graduated with Honours from Sydney University with a Bachelor of International Relations and spent considerable time on a range of charity and non-governmental organisation boards. From everything I could see, he was an intelligent, charming and well-liked young man with a bent for charity missions. He was regularly in the media representing various causes that mostly included humanitarian and disaster relief. His record seemed impeccably clean.

      Naturally, I was suspicious.

      Edward’s list of travels was impressive – Cambodia, Thailand, Mongolia, China, Lebanon, Sudan and Ethiopia. Various media shots were included; Edward was a good-looking, tall and lean young man. There wasn’t much about the last few years, probably due to his father’s appointment as head of the nation’s security service.

      There were medical details – fit, healthy and no known issues – and tax records. He earned a significant amount for his various enterprises, more than most would assume from someone who worked primarily with charities. Various write-offs meant he paid next to no tax.

      If I hadn’t disliked him already, I sure did now.

      By all accounts he had devoted his life to a range of charity causes, was well-travelled and intelligent. There didn’t seem to be any underlying health reason to explain a drastic shift of opinion or focus. It was entirely incongruous with someone who would join a right-wing extremist group.

      His girlfriend, Jessica, was a similar story, at least superficially. A graduate of the Australian National University with a dual Bachelor of Law and Bachelor of Business, she worked as a junior lawyer for a small, prestigious law firm in Sydney. Her flawless record was a façade though; in the file was a quashed criminal record for drink-driving and another for drunk and disorderly conduct. The last entry was an abysmal performance review from the law firm recommending the termination of her employment, overruled by a handwritten note on the paper by one of the partners and details of the subsequent termination of the manager who had written the performance review. Was it her father’s direct interference or even the potential for it that had given her a layer of protection?

      There were no references to racism, group membership, or anything else so far that might indicate why Philip had assigned me the case. I leaned back, annoyed. Studious boy and party girl, gone off the rails as part of a group with politics that would be embarrassing to their fathers. Who cares? Jessica might have possessed a somewhat rebellious or random character that could see her prone to all sorts of embarrassing moves, but Edward sounded almost the diametric opposite of someone who would be drawn to a racist group. Could it be an abduction – a kidnapping as part of a broader political play by the right-wing group?

      Digging further into the file, I found phone records with detailed lists of who the pair had called, when and the cell tower that their cell phones were connected to when the calls were made. Both records had the last calls made