The Kiwi Target

car in a less charged atmosphere.
    Before she unlocked it, she turned to him. "It was nice of you to ask me,” she said.
    He understood immediately—it was their last moment of privacy before going back to the Mountaineer. Taking his cue, he held her for a moment, then kissed her warmly and fully. “Again?” he asked.
    “If you’d like.”
    To answer that, he kissed her once more and then let her go.

CHAPTER 18

    Working out of New Plymouth on the North Island, Constable Fred Fisher was on solitary patrol in the early hours of the evening. As he rolled at a steady, moderate pace in his marked police unit, he was glowing with a powerful inner happiness; he had just been notified of his selection for sergeant. That very good news had recognized the fact that he was deeply dedicated to his job. He had wanted police work to be his career, and now the first big step up the ladder had come.
    He knew he was not a brilliant man, but he had a reputation for keeping his head in an emergency, and his physical courage was beyond any question. Those were two solid reasons why he had been chosen for promotion.
    Within the past few hours, information had been received about some possibly bent strangers who had been seen south of Te Kuiti on the North Island. Vague as the report was, Fisher considered it important enough to investigate.
    Because he regularly patrolled the road he was on, he knew all of the pubs along its length and the licensees who operated them. Pubs were a continuing source of human contact that from time to time developed information of police interest. Therefore Constable Fisher always made brief stops at each one along his route.
    At the fifth place he visited he was aware almost at once of two men in the bar who could be of concern to him. He thought that one of the men definitely resembled a photograph that he had carefully studied at the station.
    As he always did, he walked through the premises, taking his time and exchanging a word here and there. Not even by an extra glance did he betray any interest in the two men he had spotted as he had come in. When he had finished, he spoke briefly with the landlord and learned that the two men were Australians. They were supposed to be fishermen, but a certain hardness in their manner had been noticed. Otherwise, there was nothing. Fisher thanked him and went outside.
    As soon as he was back in his car, he picked up the microphone. After the ritual of calling Central and being recognized, he reported his suspicion. Then he continued on his patrol.
    Central was impressed enough to divert another car to meet him. If the constable in the back-up car arrived in time, the two officers would then go into the pub together and check the suspects out. If Fisher’s suspicions were confirmed, then both of the men were to be brought in for questioning.
    As Fisher heard all that on his radio, he was prepared to follow orders, despite the fact that the suspects were both big brawny men. If the party were to get rough, other patrons in the pub would probably be only too happy to give the police a hand. New Zealanders were not men who shunned action.
    A mile past the pub, Fisher pulled over and prepared to wait. Because that sector of the road was sparsely traveled, especially at night, the police were thinly spread, and his back-up could not be expected too soon.
    He had been there only a minute or two when a blue Rover passed him and stopped. There was still enough light for him to see two men get out of the car. As they came closer, he was sure who they were. He quickly got out of his unit, but before he could turn back to use his radio, they were upon him.
    “We need some directions, Constable,” the nearer man said in a full Australian voice.
    “Gladly,” Fisher answered. “Where do you want to go?”
    With his last word, an iron-hard fist slammed into his abdomen, driving much of the wind out of his body. Fisher bent over and used his remaining breath to thrust his hand into his deep pocket to get hold of his small baton.
    From behind, a powerful, well-placed kick caught him squarely in the groin. Pain shot through his body like lightning, but he did not go down. He managed to draw his small wooden baton, but he got no further: the man who had moved behind him seized him under the jaw and forced his head back as far as it would go without snapping his neck. His baton was yanked from his fingers; a second later, he heard it whistling through the air just before