Dead and Kicking Read Online Free Page A

had been romance-free, which Jack impolitely attributed to a lack of desperation on the part of the unattached female members of the crew. I’ll admit my track record with women hadn’t been too impressive lately. There’d been the stunning Major Grace Goodluck, who’d claimed to work for the US Justice Department and had loved me and left me after shooting our local CIA chief full of holes. And there’d been Lieutenant Clare Kingston, a US Navy weapons specialist who’d been kidnapped almost out of my bed to arm stolen nukes for a wealthy conservationist who had a bone to pick with the Japanese about whaling.
    Then, of course, there was Julie, who’d recently come between me and a dozen submachine gun bullets fired by a psycho ex-paratrooper named Chapman Pergo on a rocky island off the Tasmanian coast. Her bulletproof vest had saved us both and I’d blasted half a magazine from Julie’s MP5K in Pergo’s direction before SASR troopers had taken him out. After an incident involving some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, I was still trying to figure out exactly where I stood with Julie.
    In the middle of the crowded terrace I found Damien, the first assistant director, with Kirsten, who was doing make-up on the film. They’d met on a shoot a long time back and were recently married and looking amazingly happy.
    ‘Here’s a belated wedding present,’ I said, handing Damien the tray of spring rolls. ‘Knock yourselves out.’
    Kirsten and Damien were chatting with Brett Tozer, one of the film’s associate producers. The old film-industry gag defines associate producers as people who are morally bankrupt enough to associate with the producer. In reality, no-one in the film business cares if anyone is morally bankrupt as long as they are liquid enough to kick in some cash. Brett’s employer, the New York PR and marketing conglomerate Markham Barkin & Fargo, had done just that, securing Brett his slot on the production. He seemed like a nice bloke, for a Yank, and we were getting along. He was wearing a suit I hadn’t seen before.
    ‘Not more new threads?’ I said, as he helped himself to a couple of the spring rolls.
    Brett nodded. Soon after arriving in Saigon I’d introduced him to a local tailor who’d run me up a couple of very nice retro safari jackets, just like the ones all the butch war correspondents had worn in the 1960s. The bloke could also whip up an excellent made-to-measure business suit in less than three days. This had come in handy for Brett after he’d discovered on-set film catering is a never-ending feast and a real temptation for people with not much to do in the actual filmmaking process – like associate producers. My tailor friend was probably well on his way to owning a couple of new houses thanks to Brett’s constantly expanding waistline.
    Just behind Brett, my mate Boxer was sitting at a table sipping a cocktail and drinking in the adoring looks of a couple of local extras. With Boxer, girls always seemed to come in pairs, which I could never figure out. Who knew that a bloke who had the build of a Greek god, chiselled good looks, blond hair, blue eyes, a dry wit, charm and the air of a bad boy plus the glamour of a job in the film industry would attract women?
    ‘Heading back to Sydney soon, Boxer?’ I asked. ‘To be with the wives and kids?’
    One of the girls gave him an angry look.
    ‘Ignore him,’ Boxer said, slipping his arms around both women. ‘He’s just a sad, jealous little man. Trust me, I only have eyes for you, babe, and for you.’
    The angry looks were redirected towards me, and Boxer grinned and winked. Bastard. I spotted Jack and VT standing at the edge of the terrace, which was a great excuse for making myself scarce.
    The Luxe Royale’s terrace fronted a brightly lit square, noisy with street vendors, pedestrians, cars, motor scooters and the odd cyclo, the Vietnamese version of the three-wheeled pedal-powered bicycle taxi. The raucous din of engines and