Shots cut through the silence of the night like a series of explosions.
She feels the weight of her weapon. Rapid flashes of gunfire light up the dark. The scent of gunpowder infuses the air.
She watches the bullets slam into his body like punches. Jerking and staggering, he collapses to the ground. Then, almost instantly the figure rises from the shadows, as relentless as a machine. He comes towards her.
This time she feels no fear, no hesitation, only cold controlled rage which takes possession of her body and guides her aim.
She fires again and again, in quick succession. This time he falls straight to the ground.
She hears a siren in the distance and it is only now that her hand finds the sticky wound on the side of her throat. Blood is everywhere; in her hair, running down her neck, all over her shirt. Nausea overwhelms her and she begins to sway as black spots cloud her eyes.
The red and blue flashing lights come into sight as she crumples slowly to the ground . . .
—
Lexie woke to ringing in her ears. Panicked and disorientated, she sat bolt upright. The alarm clock was screaming. Her eyes darted nervously around the room. She was instantly comforted by its familiarity as she waited for her thudding heartbeat to subside.
It’s just another nightmare.
Why wasn’t she used to them by now? Shouldn’t she be accustomed to the almost predictable games her subconscious played on her during the night? It was the only time her defences were down, leaving her susceptible, vulnerable and exposed. How she hated the night.
Rubbing the sting of frustration out of her eyes, Lexie slammed her hand down hard on the clock radio beside her bed; instant silence. Swinging her legs out from under the covers, onto the cool floorboards, she stood and opened the wooden venetians. The sun was just rising and the sky was clear and blue, holding the promise of yet another perfect summer’s day.
Rummaging through her bedside drawers, she found a pair of gym shorts. Going for a run was the last thing she felt like doing. Her body was tired and sluggish, but it had been days since she’d done any exercise. When she was dressed Lexie headed for the front door, picking up her keys and mobile phone she’d left charging in the kitchen. Glancing at the screen she noticed she had a message. Opening the message, her eyes widened in shock as she read the words.
‘LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS.’
Lexie gasped and threw the phone across the counter as if it was on fire. Fear surged like bile into her throat and the hair on the back of her neck shot up as goose bumps raced along her skin.
Was this a warning from Amitt Vincent? What did the message mean? At a guess Lexie would say it was a threat, or form of intimidation. Some day soon she would be required to give evidence against him at trial. Attempted murder was a heavy sentence to wear. If found guilty, Vincent would be doing a fair amount of gaol time. Had his cronies found her? Perhaps this explained her illogical fear last night? Or was someone merely playing a joke on her?
No, who would do that? She picked up the phone again, checking the number on the screen, but failed to recognise it. It was strange how you could take the caller identification off a phone to make a call, but when sending a text message the number from where it had originated was always displayed on the screen. Surely the person who had sent this would know that? Then again, maybe they didn’t care.
Automatically, Lexie dialled the numbers and listened to the phone ring out. What had she been expecting? As if anyone was going to answer it.
A shiver ran down her spine as her chest began to constrict. She had to get out of here. Shoving the unit key into the elastic waistband of her shorts, she slammed the front door behind her, flew down the one flight of stairs and ran out into the street below.
There were few cars on the road at this hour of the morning. The streets were quiet, void of most signs of human life. The only sounds were birds singing, car engines grumbling in the distance, and her footsteps pounding the hard pavement. She jogged past old terraces, semi-detached cottages and unit blocks, past the Clovelly Hotel and through the empty car park towards the beach.
Running usually cleared her mind, helped her focus, and strangely, helped her relax. But today was different – today, she was running away. Today she needed to push herself to the limit, using pain as a distraction. She quickened her pace, concentrating on the rhythm of her feet as she turned left, onto the roughly paved pathway that would take her along the coastline and onto Bronte Beach, a few coves away.
Million-dollar homes hung over the cliffs to her left. On her right the path dropped away to the ragged cliff face and water below. The surf was rough and unpredictable, with white-capped waves pounding the rocky wall. Normally, she appreciated the spectacular view, loved the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the spray of salt water on her skin, but today it was unnerving. The sea was alive, uncontrollable and roared of danger. Like everything else around her, the ocean was a force to be feared.
You’re losing it, her brain screamed.
Coming to a slight incline, Lexie pushed herself harder, propelling her body forward, faster, almost enjoying the burning in her lungs. Her heavy breathing reverberated in her ears and an involuntary shudder rippled across her skin as she allowed herself to consider the text message.
Someone was trying to scare her. And it was working.
But she refused to be intimidated. The only logical explanation for the message led back to the bikie who had almost killed her. But how would he or his men have her mobile number? She cursed herself for being so naïve. Information could be bought and events arranged from the inside of a gaol cell. Then a thought struck her from out of nowhere. What if the message had nothing to do with Amitt Vincent?
Could it somehow relate to this murder investigation? She was the only one who had heard the dying declaration, therefore she was a witness. But who could know that? Besides, they didn’t even know what Bluey’s words meant, or even who the Grub was.
Rex Donaldson knows . . .
She tried to think logically, keep an open mind, process all that had happened over the past few days. However her brain was overloaded and scrambled, her thoughts clouded and jumping from one thing to another. One thing, at least, became clear as she ran; she would not tell anyone about the text message.
If Casey Blair found out she’d received a threat or been subject to any form of intimidation, she would have a duty of care to report it to her superiors and then Lexie would be taken off the case. She might be removed from the detectives’ office and placed under witness protection. After all that had happened to her, that was the worst possible scenario. She just wanted to be treated normally, get on with her life and prove she was a promising investigator. She wanted to enjoy her career, see where it would lead, and discover how far she could go. Her life had already been screwed up enough.
No, she would not tell anyone. It would ruin everything. She just needed to be alert; watch for anything out of the ordinary, be security-conscious. When Lexie got to work she would do her own investigating. She’d request call charge records for the number and compare it to the list from the bikies’ telephone intercepts, to see if any matched.
She would find out who was behind the message and deal with it herself.
You’re dreaming, a self-doubting voice screamed in her head.
‘No, I’m not!’ she yelled out aloud, and then glanced around self-consciously to make sure no one was around. Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.
The sun was getting stronger and she felt a bead of perspiration drip down her temple. Her T-shirt, slick with sweat, clung to her back and stomach. A man stood on a cliff above her. She gasped. He looked like Rex Donaldson. She blinked and he was gone. Shit!
A group of joggers advancing towards her distracted her thoughts. Suddenly, Lexie began to feel nervous. Maybe she shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour of the morning. She heard a noise behind her, feet crunching and heavy breathing. She whipped her head around and peered over her shoulder just as a middle-aged man, covered in a film of perspiration, ran past. He gave her a crooked smile and her pulse settled a little.
Heading downhill, she glanced at Tamarama and the empty beach of pale sand. She increased her pace, feeling the need to punish herself, and damn the exhaustion that would come later on. Her mind was turning to the events of last night at last; to Josh Harrison. Her joints began to ache but she relished the pain. She deserved it. She had been an idiot to let him kiss her.
She could have easily stopped it, had meant to when he’d first leant down, but the moment his lips had brushed against hers, all her energy had been focused on keeping her knees from buckling. The kiss had been so intense, so passionate, she’d felt as if she were the only woman in the world who’d ever been kissed like that. The only woman he had ever kissed like that.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to block the memory, but it was no use. She hated him for making her feel – and for making her want him to kiss her again. The image of the girl he was with at the pub came into her mind; the little blow-up doll who had given her a warning glare. Was that his girlfriend? It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. She had too much going on to let useless romantic emotions invade her defences.
You need distance, she told her treacherous mind, pushing herself harder. Distance and detachment from him was what was required. When she saw Josh she would be the epitome of cool professionalism. She would act as though the kiss had never occurred. He would probably be grateful to forget the incident without it becoming an awkward embarrassment between them. Then they could both concentrate on the murder investigation.
From out of nowhere another man appeared in front of her. Her heart jumped, she did a sudden about-turn, and headed back in the direction she had just come from, paranoia overtaking reason.
Lexie ran as fast as her legs could carry her. All thoughts of Josh were left behind as she listened for footsteps behind her, fear fuelling her adrenaline. Her heart pounded violently against her chest but she didn’t stop until she reached her front door. Gasping for breath, she fumbled with the keys. Her hands were trembling and she kept sneaking a peek over her shoulder as if something evil was closing in on her. Finally stumbling through the door, kicking it shut with her foot, she threw herself onto the lounge and burst into tears.