Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent by Mark Abernethy Page A

changed into a plain black shirt. All the lads wore baseball caps Mac had bought from the Pertamina. It was beyond him why the American military retained those ridiculous hairstyles that set them apart wherever they went in the world. No way was he going to have kids racing out onto the streets of Palopo pointing at the Yanks like the 101st had just landed at the wharf.
    Mac took the front passenger seat but there was a tension in the air. The lads mumbled, weren’t relaxed. It built for ten minutes then Mac turned to the back seat, looked Spikey in the eye. ‘Okay, play the fucking thing. But if I hear the word “nigger” or “ho”, it’s coming off. Right?’
    The lads whooped. Spikey high-fi ved Hard-on. Limo put his hand back like he was carrying a fi sh platter. The lads gave him skin and a CD appeared from somewhere; gold-coloured, black texta on it.
    ‘Enjoy it while you can, guys,’ said Sawtell. ‘Won’t get played on my watch.’
    Mac turned back to the windscreen and heard Hard-on say, ‘That’s my Pizza Man!’ Mac laughed quietly. They were kids. Fucking kids!
    Winding his seat back, he pulled his black Adidas cap down over his face to grab some Zs as the R&B ramped up.

CHAPTER 8
    There was only one dry-cleaner in Palopo and it was the Sunda Laundry. They drove past it once and came back for another sweep.
    Mac saw cases of Bintang in a stack at the entrance of a roadhouse.
    They stopped, bought a case.
    After fi nding a rundown Dutch Colonial guesthouse near the southern approaches to the small fi shing town, they hunkered down for the evening and ordered in food.
    Mac went through a long tale with the guesthouse owner about not sourcing the meal from a place that would make his friends sick.
    Though Mac had grown used to the food in South-East Asia, the Americans ate steaks from Texas and corn from Iowa, all fl own into Camp Enduring Freedom in Zam. The last thing Mac needed was an extended case of the trots from these elite special forces. It didn’t mean the owner would listen to a single word. Indonesians nodded and smiled at every request. Whether they did anything about it depended on if they could. Or wanted to.
    Mac realised there were a few kids around the place. Kids were expensive and demanding in any part of the world, so he tipped the bloke large. Gave him the wink and a slap on the bicep. He seemed to get that Mac wanted some privacy from the bloke and his family.
    The owner’s teenage son delivered the food. Mac looked him in the eye. Couldn’t see fear. Asked him his name.
    Kid said, ‘Bani.’ Quite tall, good-looking, athletic and cocky in that globally fi fteen-year-old way. He wore a white singlet and Mac clocked a crucifi x through the fabric. Mac walked with Bani down to where the Patrol was parked. The boy was still at school, learning English and science, playing soccer. He wanted to stay in school but by the way he shrugged and looked around him Mac could tell that education wasn’t part of his future.
    Mac dragged the Bintangs out of the boot, hauled them up to the room. They ate and drank. The food tasted good, clean.
    Forty-fi ve minutes later, when they’d all kept it down, Mac knew for sure. Hunger satisfi ed, they sat around, dished out guns and loads from the Cordura bags. Sawtell let Mac have his own Beretta M9, but not before he made Mac spill on how and why he was without a gun.
    Mac told the lads most of the truth but stopped short of the Minky details. He didn’t want to admit that he’d panicked and shot the intel source - the only intel source.
    Sawtell eyed him. Flexed through his wide neck. ‘Just so you know
    - that piece ain’t goin’ nowhere near no garbage can. Reading me?’
    ‘Crystal,’ said Mac.
    They fi red up their mobiles and programmed each other’s numbers into their address books.
    At nine-thirty pm local, Mac slipped out into the night to have a butcher’s. It had been a year since he was last in Palopo. For a small town with