Programmed To Kill
Programmed To Kill
The cyclist was caught completely by surprise. The van had suddenly veered to its left knocking him to the ground. It had been a deliberate act by the van driver. As he struggled to entangle himself from the bike, the cyclist was set upon by three men who had jumped out of the van the moment it had stopped, immediately after hitting him. A fourth man opened the vehicles side door and the other three bundled the somewhat dazed cyclist and his damaged bike, into the van. The whole incident was over in seconds and as there was no passers bye at the time, went completely unnoticed.
Once in the van, the protesting cyclist was flung onto a seat and ordered to stay put or be shot. Two of his assailants had Glock hand guns pointing directly at him. The cyclist, still a little dazed, the consequence of his head having struck the van's front bumper bar during the collision, complied, all be it under protest. The third man hadn't bothered drawing his hand gun from the holster that was visible and positioned under his left arm.
"What the hell is going on, who are your guys?" asked the bewildered cyclist.
"You stirred up the wrong guy mate" was the answer from one of the three.
"What guy? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Just shut up or we'll do it here and now" was the abrupt reply.
"Do what?" "Pull the fucking trigger, now shut up."
The cyclist assessed the situation. One thing was certain, mistaken identity as was most certainly the case, or not, he knew he was in deep shit. These guys weren't going to listen to anything he had to say. They were heading out towards West Head, a secluded area of rather dense bushland, where he was going to be shot and his body dumped. It would probably be weeks before a bushwalker stumbled across it. He estimated that they would reach their destination within the next fifteen or twenty minutes so there was precious little time to waste.
The driver wouldn't be a problem so long as the vehicle was moving. Of real concern were the two men with pistols in their hands. The men themselves, though all big and well-muscled, obviously gym junkies in their younger days, weren't the issue, it was the two guns, safeties off, that could prove tricky.
The van was configured so that two seats were positioned near the rear, one facing the front and the other the passenger's side thus creating an L shape. On the seat facing the driver's rear, sat the two men with weapons drawn. The third man sat directly behind the driver on the seat facing the left hand side of the vehicle with the cyclist beside him and close to the other two men.
As The vehicle made a left hand turn off the main road and headed down a dirt service track into the bush proper the cyclist decided it was time to act. Without the slightest warning, he grabbed the man sitting to his right and with a degree of strength that completely belied his appearance and so caught all in the vehicle by surprise, flung him at the man with the gun positioned immediately to his left. The man on the left responded by discharging two shots in quick succession killing, not the cyclist but the man whom the cyclist had so surprisingly wrenched from his seat. With the dead man now lying across the man to his left, the cyclist retrieved the revolver from the holster under the dead man's left arm and shot the man to his right. He then shot the man immediately to his left who was still struggling to free himself from the man he had just shot. The driver, who had stopped the vehicle during the commotion and was in the process of drawing his weapon, was the next to go. The whole incident took less than a minute and in its aftermath the cyclist was aware of an eerie quiet that seemed to descend on the scene.
The vehicle had progressed about five hundred meters down the bush track, a service road which probably wasn't used more than once a week, and then only by rangers when they neede