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1700hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Swan Quay Tower, Perth, Western Australia |
Mackay walked forward along the plush carpet. It looked expensive and felt soft. No creaks or groans. Just silence. Just him and the opulence of a modern, multi-million-dollar high-rise. All the top-class furnishings were there: wall-mounted mirrors, armchairs, mini side tables with ornamental desk lamps, even decorative waste bins. The doors to each room throughout the corridor were wood and glass with thick stainless-steel handles, the glass tinted in syrupy amber and much too dark to see through. Halfway down the corridor was a second, cross-sectional hallway running horizontally, like an intersection at a set of lights. A junction. Mackay stopped short. He looked ahead, turned and peered left, turned and peered right. To his right, one of the doors opened inwards. Two men in suits stepped out, fifty feet away, each carrying a black case. One the size of a small carry-on suitcase, the other long and narrow. Both men looked up. Mackay had caught their attention. Maybe it was his hat. Maybe it was his silhouette against the white walls. Hard to miss a single individual standing upright down a long, dim corridor. Either way, Mackay decided to step forward and make himself known.
With fifty feet between them, it took maybe four whole seconds before Taylor recognised who it was wearing the hat. Those four seconds – counted in breaths – was practically a century in terms of what the mind can search through and narrow down. The height, the shape of the physique. Taylor had an excellent memory. Part of the fundamentals of being a detective. He’d stored every aspect of Mackay’s image into his head while watching him and the wheelchair girl enter the ICU ward at Royal Perth. From watching their engagement with the British international, to sizing them up before leaving, he knew who it was standing in the middle of the corridor.
‘Can I help you?’ Derek had asked in the hospital.
‘No, sir, I’m all good. Thank you.’
As the seconds passed, it was clear to Mackay he’d been recognised. The type of recognition that meant, I know who you are, and I know why you’re here. Which also meant his choice was made for him. In the same space of time, Mackay knew how the two detectives would react. Their body language said it all. Mackay needed to go on the offensive immediately. Controlled logical momentum. The cops would drop the bags from their hands and reach for their weapons. A Glock .22 sidearm. Standard issue. He could see it in the way they stood – braced with one foot in front of the other. It was also in their expression, which was as good as a total confession. Full of wilful intent to harm followed by intent to silence and exterminate.
Mackay had no other choice but to strike first. Unless he wanted to meet the same fate as Malvin. He owed Malvin his promise, and Mackay was a man of his word. His decision was intuitive and made with good judgement. On the plus side, Mackay wasn’t scared anymore, he was just angry. Ready to unwind the top of the bottle and relieve the pressure. Normally, under the threat of battle, he’d have some reservations. A fluttering nervousness was natural when it came to fighting, or even killing, another human being. Hand-to-hand real-life fights put people in difficult mental positions. Most find their mental state clouded. Somewhere between a rock and a hard place as they gulp back the fear. Following that, one of three things occur: fight, flight, or freeze. For some, like Mackay in his current situation, it poured out into murderous attack. He was bringing the fight to them. The hunters were now the hunted.
Mackay prepped a tackle. His heart skipped a beat. He aimed for a low scrum position and shot off. Between the time Taylor and Derek decided to drop the cases from each hand and reach for their Glocks, Mackay had already made forty feet. Their slow weapon readiness meant Mackay was within ten feet before their fingers even brushed their holsters. And Mackay was still building speed. His body a weapon in itself.
Out in the corridor, Derek stood on Taylor’s left with a two-foot gap between them. Mackay wrapped them up, hitting both at the same time. Perfectly positioned. Chin low, arms wide, forty-five degrees at the waist. On impact, Mackay’s head fitted snug right between that two-foot gap. Their hands had only just begun to swipe the lower cut of their jackets.
Mackay made contact just below their hips. His shoulders ploughing brutally high on the thigh, driving forward and upwards. He broke two femurs in one. Derek’s right leg. Taylor’s left. The upper end of both bones were torn completely away from the hip sockets. The three of them ended in a pile, flung five metres down the hallway. Mackay’s tackle launched both detectives off their feet, arcing them into mid-air before landing back on the carpet. The shock of it all was overwhelming, which meant the pain would came later. But not before Mackay got to his feet and used every ounce of his rugby skills to kick them hard against the side of their heads, rendering them unconscious. He then dragged the bodies and two black cases back inside suite number twelve and locked the door from the inside.
What Mackay didn’t realise initially, was how hard he had kicked the leaner detective in the head. Taylor was the first to take the kick which meant he probably took the heaviest blow. Unintentionally, Mackay killed the guy. Broke his neck and severed it from the spinal cord. The Italian died within seconds from a lack of oxygen to the brain. Mackay felt a little bad about it at first, but he had things to do. What he really wanted was to give the guy an opportunity for a discussion. For an I ask, you answer back and forth. That conversation was now down to Derek, who was still alive. With Taylor out, it meant he needed to be tactical in how he approached the questioning when the bigger guy woke. If Derek realised his partner was dead, his answers were likely to be untruthful out of spite.
Between leaving Cross, sprinting up the stairwell and taking out both cops, the time was just passing three minutes. On the fourth minute, Mackay locked the inside of suite twelve. On the fifth, he used a bunch of belts from a closet he’d found inside a bedroom to tie the men into chairs next to an ornately large desk. Which, Mackay noted, also had a bonsai tree set on the desk’s edge. Also a ficus. Green oval leaves, thick gnarled trunk. Pruned a little neater and closer to the branches than Swibinski’s back in Aldershot.
Although Taylor’s body was limp with dead weight, there was a certain level of compliancy in his body. It was easier to move than Derek’s, who smelled sour from sweat and took a whole extra minute to position. Mackay placed Derek in the biggest chair. An oiled mahogany piece with a leather-wrapped seat. The wooden backing and armrests helped keep his heft upright. He placed Taylor in the cheap one. A basic office swivel, which, for the size of the guy, was easy enough. He positioned them back to back and removed both their Glocks, mobile phones, and police badges. He tied Derek’s ankles first, then his wrists. Then tied his ankles to his wrists, leaving limited movement and no chance of escape. Mackay left Taylor’s ankles and wrists alone. No need to secure a dead guy. He just needed to strap him in, so it looked like he was sitting upright, and that if Derek woke and looked over, he wouldn’t see his partner still and lifeless.
All that positioning and belt-tying took another five minutes, which put Mackay at ten minutes since leaving Cross. Which also left Mackay with ten minutes before he had to get back downstairs. And for any military sergeant, let alone Cross, timing was everything.
At the thirteen-minute mark, Derek began to wake. He came to with a howl somewhere deep within his vocal range. Part groan, part yelp. The pain flowing from the broken femur displaced from the ball and socket joint. Mackay had the two police-issued Glocks, the two badges, the knobkerry, the tucker telephone, and three pillows from Van Breeman’s bedroom all laid out on the executive desk. He checked the magazines and working components of both weapons. Everything was as it should be. Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber, the inner hardware lightly oiled. As expected for veteran officers of the law. All up Mackay had thirty-two rounds at his disposal. He took one Glock from the table and held it low at his side.
Derek didn’t notice Mackay at first. Not until Mackay leaned over and tapped at his forehead with the tip of the barrel, forcing Derek to look up. Eventually, he adjusted and focused. His bleary eyes straining on Mackay’s aggressive form standing in front of him.
‘Can you hear me okay?’ said Mackay.
Derek didn’t answer. His face remained twisted in pain.
Mackay flicked Derek in the eye. Middle finger springing off the thumb.
‘Fuck! Yes. I can hear you.’
‘Two questions,’ said Mackay. ‘And be honest. Call it your last chance at redeeming yourself. Why did my brother’s family die at the winery, and which one of you killed my brother in the hospital?’
‘I’m a detective, you stupid asshole,’ started Derek. ‘You’re fucked every which way till Sunday, no matter what happens in here.’
‘Maybe. I’ll deal with that later. But I’m not in the mood for your tone, or bullshit answers. I’m on a time limit. The redhead in the wheelchair needs me back ASAP.’
Mackay placed the gun on the table and took the knobkerry.
‘I know what that telephone is,’ Mackay said, pointing to the magneto. ‘Had a lecture on it once in Afghanistan. Taliban are still using them. The Americans too, apparently. The CIA at least. But this,’ Mackay raised the club over his shoulder like a baseball bat. ‘I’ve no idea about this. Looks tribal.’
Derek watched Mackay swing the club, whipping the bulbous head inches from Derek’s face.
‘I’ll have me a guess it’s some type of African club,’ said Mackay.
Derek said nothing.
‘Looks traditional. Strange that two detectives would have this and a magneto in their possession. Strange also that neither of you have any paperwork justifying why you’re taking stuff out of another man’s apartment. And you guys obviously don’t live here. Way out of your pay grade. This Van Breeman guy though, he is everywhere in here.’
Mackay pointed at the bronze nameplate on the desk with the words Van Breeman engraved on the front. He then pointed to the pictures of Van Breeman on the walls and shelves around the room. Some of them taken in his youth, some of them more recent. In some he stood alone, and in others, he stood with either family members or other rich cronies from similar rich-cronie circles.
Six minutes left.
Mackay said, ‘Did you know this Van Breeman guy even has his name stitched into his bed sheets? And his pillowcases?’ Mackay pointed to the golden embroidery on the edge of the pillows on the desk. ‘I had a quick look around. The man’s a tool. Must be a rich-guy thing. How long have you dodgy cops been working for him?’
Nothing from Derek. The weighty cop closed his eyes and rocked forward. Not that he didn’t want to respond, he was just struggling. He couldn’t. The pain in his femur and hip was at unbearable levels. It looked like he was about to vomit.
Mackay checked his watch. Five minutes left. He took a step closer and squatted down. Nice and close.
‘I’ll rephrase my first question, pig. What bullshit scheme is going on at the winery? The second question is still the same. Which one of you killed my brother in the hospital?’
Derek bided his time. Thinking. Mackay gave him ten seconds, counting it down in his head. He then placed the knobkerry on the floor and took the Glock and three pillows from the desk.
‘There’s no scheme,’ puffed Derek. ‘It was all an accident, you dumb son of a bitch.’ Derek watched Mackay’s hand on the Glock. His finger tapping the trigger. ‘Taylor!’ Derek yelled. ‘Taylor, wake up!’
‘He’s out cold. I kicked him in the head, first. It was a good one. Who knows when he’ll come round. Maybe he won’t.’
‘There’s witnesses and statements,’ Derek spat, wreathing in his chair. ‘There was a deranged shooter. Some lone wolf with a gun. He came in and shot up the place, looking for money. They were unfortunates who got in his way. Wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.’
Derek forced air into his lungs. As best he could in his hunched form.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Mackay. ‘Let’s say there was a deranged shooter. Where is he now?’
‘We shot him.’
‘Where’s his body?’
‘In the morgue.’
‘Why were you two there so quickly after the incident? My brother, the one you guys finished off in hospital, said you and your friend here were there immediately. Like you had been there the whole time. Like you two were part of the action from the get-go. Is that right?’
‘Wrong. We were notified from prison authorities about a mentally ill man. On parole, off medication. He was a red flag in our system, seen wandering around the area. Hyped up. Carrying a gun. A known felon who’d done numerous armed robberies in the region.’
‘How does a man like that get all the way out to a country winery? During the day? Plain sight, sun shining, with a gun? Wineries aren’t just gathered in suburban streets. They’re miles away, where the soil is fertile. Where the grapes can grow uninterrupted. Where is his body?’
‘I told you, at the morgue.’
‘Which one?’
‘Perth.’
‘No news reports have stated anything of the sort.’
‘That’s why it’s called an ongoing investigation, asshole. Limited details. The media only get portions until everything is cleared.’
‘So why do you have this magneto telephone in your possession in an apartment that isn’t yours?’
Derek didn’t answer.
‘Now back to that second question. Last time. Which one of you killed my brother? I know it was one of you two. You were the last two cunts I saw when I left my brother’s hospital ward, and the first two cunts my brother saw after the shooting. I’m not the smartest guy in the world but I can put two and two together. And the coincidences in this scenario are just too big.’
Derek stayed quiet. Mackay counted to five in his head. Derek didn’t budge. Mackay rolled Taylor’s body around to face him.
‘This is you in about thirty seconds,’ said Mackay.
Derek looked at his partner. Slack jaw, unnatural angle of the neck, loose posture in the swivel.
‘He’s dead,’ said Derek. A statement. Easy to make considering his partner’s limp form.
‘I told you it was a good kick,’ said Mackay.
Mackay leaned Derek’s big mahogany chair backwards and let him fall. Flat on his back, facing the ceiling. A bullet going through the floor was better than a bullet hitting a wall or window. Less noise, less mess. Mackay took the three pillows from the executive desk, placing one pillow behind the chair under Derek’s back, and two over Derek’s chest.
‘I’ve heard the rumours about this Van Breeman guy,’ said Mackay. Seems a bit off. Right now, I have nothing to lose. Once I leave that door, I’m heading down to Margaret River to find your boss myself. So, you can answer me or not, either way, you and your mate are done. Which brings me to one last question, if you’re not answering the first two. How many men are with Van Breeman at the winery? I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.’
Derek inhaled then exhaled, long and shallow. ‘You’ve got no chance, son. You set foot down there, you’re finished.’
Mackay gave the man another ten seconds. Derek stared back. Stoic. A last resort at stubborn pride. Supreme arrogance in the face of death. He neither admitted nor denied anything. His silence confirmed it all. He was corrupt, and so was his partner. Which made Mackay feel okay about killing them.
Even though Mackay was trained to kill by the British military, he wasn’t a trained killer. There was a difference. He was never part of any elite special force, and he was no paid assassin or hitman. He knew enough about himself that he was not a killer for the thrill of it. It wasn’t who he was. Wasn’t part of his natural being. What he did have though, was a sense of justice. For an occasion just like this, where an intent to kill was required.
Mackay checked his watch. Two minutes left. He pressed the Glock into the two pillows over Derek’s chest and squeezed the trigger. Putting a single round through the fat cop’s heart. The mildest touch. Hardly there. Like a heavy thud or stomp on the ground, or a book falling from a shelf. Nothing any apartment neighbour would think twice about. And the brass casing had nothing but carpet to bounce off. The round went straight through Derek and the back of the chair – the pillow and carpet left to soak up the draining lake of blood underneath him. Fifteen left in the magazine, thirty-one widow-makers in total.
Mackay picked up the shell casing then went around the apartment. Taking his final two minutes to wipe off any prints he may have left on the door handle, chairs, tables, and inside Van Breeman’s bedroom. Another minute later he exited the stairwell on the basement floor with two black cases, two Glock .22s, two mobile phones and two police badges. He found Cross right where he left her. On guard behind the black Toyota Landcruiser.
Cross glared at Mackay, then at the suitcases and the Glock handles bulging from his pants.
‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘I’m assuming by late, you mean by one minute,’ said Mackay.
Cross double-checked her watch. ‘Late is late. How’d it go?’
‘I have their Glocks, phones and badges.’
‘Both dead?’
‘Aye. Put the guns behind your back in your chair.’
‘The excitement begins.’
Mackay put the cases with the tucker telephone and knobkerry down and gave Cross the Glocks. He grabbed the two phones, undid the backing plate, pressed out the SIM card and snapped it in two between his teeth. He went to the back of the Landcruiser and checked the exhaust pipe for size to dump the phones into. Too small. He checked two more SUVs – a Volvo then an Audi. The Audi’s exhaust was a dual, one on the left, one on the right. It was a snug fit with just enough room to jam both phones in either side of the pipes. Sooner or later the owner would catch on. Or at least their mechanic would. The change in exhaust tone would be too significant not to notice.
‘It should take a good while for someone to find them,’ said Mackay. ‘At least twenty-four hours. Probably more. Unless Van Breeman has a scheduled cleaner every day.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Exceptional. They had it coming. You should see what’s in this box-looking case. A tucker telephone.’
‘A magneto torture device?’
‘They were on their way out with it, taking it somewhere. We made contact in the hallway. And now I’m here.’
‘Are you okay?’ Cross said again.
Mackay paused and looked at her.
Cross said, ‘I just want to be sure you’re good with whatever happened up there. If you’re okay with it, then I’m okay with it.’
‘I’m okay.’
Mackay picked up the two cases. ‘We need to hail a taxi. We’ve got a plane to catch.’
1720hrs
Wednesday December 19, 2012
Frans & Hoek Winery, Margaret River, Western Australia
Van Breeman rang Taylor and Derek’s phones consecutively for a total of six times. Three rings per phone. Each time he rang there was dead air. Their numbers couldn’t be reached. He then tried Kimbala who was sitting with Bryson and Wynand waiting inside a parked van. Parked on a verge eighty meters from Lydia Ferreira’s front door. A late model grey Kia Carnival. Sliding door access, loads of space, anonymously bland in colour. Bought by Van Breeman for that exact purpose – to blend in and look ordinary.
Kimbala was put in charge, as usual. He was smarter than Bryson and less intimidating, which was very deceptive. Even at six-foot-four with his unruly beard, compared to Bryson he looked like a college principal, or a black Father Christmas. His soft, welcoming eyes could loll you into a false sense of security. But make no mistake, the man was a clear-cut sociopath.
Wynand on the other hand was completely different. Less carved out of wood or clay, he had boyish looks with long hair kept in a ponytail. Constantly slicking the fringe behind his ears. You could say he was your average Joe. Average in every way – height, weight, intelligence. Could potentially go unnoticed until the day he died.
Being dead-on knock-off hour for the regular working citizen, Kimbala’s plan was to wait out Lydia’s arrival. He first wanted to get a neighbourly sense of the street. Was it busy, quiet, or somewhere in between? Whatever the atmosphere was would dictate the modus operandi. He obviously preferred the street vibe to be clear and quiet, waiting out the most lulled point in time. And dark, which it wasn’t. But Van Breeman wanted it done before nightfall, which made for tighter parameters. A daytime snatch-and-grab was dubious at the best of times. But it could be done, as long as it was done the right way. Inside the house.
Kimbala’s phone rang with a mechanised chirp. A nominal ringtone unchanged from the box.
‘You still parked?’ Van Breeman asked.
‘Still here.’
‘Binoculars?’
‘Man’s best friend.’
‘How long have you been sitting for now?’
‘Two hours.’
‘Not much longer then. Need to limit your visibility in public.’
‘Understood. If she doesn’t show within thirty minutes we’ll leave.’
‘I can’t get hold of Taylor or Derek.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since four o’clock. I’ve been trying them both for the last ten minutes. Nothing.’
‘I’ll try them myself.’
‘If you get through, tell them to call me ASAP. I want them back here by seven.’
‘Could be a number of reasons why they haven’t replied. Police life. Family life.’
‘Irrelevant. They know the deal. If I have to call consecutively more than twice, they lose half their pay for the week. Same goes with you, and the two with you.’
‘Understood.’
Van Breeman hung up.
Kimbala tried Derek first, then Taylor. No dial tone for either. Nothing received. It immediately went to an automated voice stating the number could not be connected.
‘Boss will be pissed,’ said Kimbala.
‘They go AWOL?’ said Bryson, holding the binoculars.
‘They’re not answering for some reason,’ said Kimbala. ‘Must be a good one. You two know anything?’
Bryson and Wynand shook their heads.
From where Bryson sat in the front passenger seat, he had a good observation point on the reporter’s house. The road was completely flat and straight along the line of white-collar brick homes. He could see Lydia’s front gate, front garden, garage door, and driveway with clarity through the lens. Waiting out during a stakeout was a learned skill, as was knowing what to bring to pass the time. Which for Van Breeman’s top two associates, was usually in the form of greasy food and cheap caffeine. Aside from the microscopic elements of hair follicles, discarded fingernails, snot and skin grease, the car was littered with takeaway food wrappers and coffee cups. Wynand on the other hand was new to the game. Sitting in the back with little to do but watch and learn and occasionally observe on the binoculars. Wynand was bored. Restless and edgy like a restrained puppy. He’d messed up recently with the chloroform and the asthma attack. Given, the older kid’s death wasn’t really his fault. No one knew he would suffer a full-blown asthma attack, but still, he was part to blame for the lost kid and he desperately wanted to make up for it. Show Van Breeman he was capable. At least receive a pat on the back to validate his worth. After two hours of no action, a young guy like him with lots to prove was bound to get edgy. But then things changed. A vehicle entered the driveway.
‘Perk up, boys,’ said Bryson. ‘We’ve got a car. A white Volkswagen Golf. One female driver inside. She looks cute. Long brown hair.’
‘That’s her,’ said Wynand, leaning forward into the centre console. ‘Has to be.’
‘Relax, boy,’ said Bryson. ‘Keep your shit together.’
Wynand slipped his face covering on, then checked the stun gun in his pocket. It was long but light, like a big stapler with a pulse rate of fifty thousand volts. His job was to knock on the door, wrench it open once answered, then stun the reporter. Not that fifty thousand volts would kill her. Most of the voltage passing from the gun to the human body vanishes once it hits the skin. The end result means the victim only really takes about twelve hundred. If connection lasts for over three seconds, aside from intense pain comes loss of balance and muscle control, as well as disorientation and confusion. If Wynand did his job right, then Kimbala and Bryson would concurrently jimmy their way through the back door and grab the reporter from behind. Following that, they’d have her pass out for the long haul with a trio blend of liquid chemistry. A homemade anaesthesia kit. Telazol and ketamine in the neck. Chloroform rag over the mouth. Lastly, they’d tie her up with the zip ties and move her into the van, which was preferably parked in the driveway, or as close to the house as possible. Seven steps in total. All agreed upon prior to engagement.
‘Take it easy, Wynand,’ said Kimbala starting the van. ‘Just sit there and keep your dick in your pants. We still need to give her another five minutes. Let her get inside and get cosy. And take that fucking mask off. You can put it on before you knock on the front door. You were here when we discussed the plan, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Kimbala turned around and poked Wynand repeatedly in the chest with his finger. The digit as big as a rolling pin. ‘Getting all pumped and frantic will only make things worse,’ he said. ‘You want to fuck everything up like you did back at the winery?’
‘No.’
‘If this goes sour because of you, you’re going down. Like Snowy, but my way. Maybe I eat your heart while you watch.’
1730hrs
Wednesday December 19, 2012
Perth, Western Australia
Mackay threw the two cop badges into the hedges at the front of the tower, then followed Cross to an empty taxi zone next to a bus shelter. He set the cases down next to Cross’s chair and waited. A free taxi amongst city traffic at five-thirty in the afternoon wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. It was peak rush hour. Home time for more than half the city. The only silver lining was Cross seated in her wheelchair, which he hoped would provoke some level of sympathy amongst the cabbies. And it worked. A minor perk of being an amputee.
Within five minutes, a cab pulled up. An estate. In some parts of the world, they called it a wagon. It wasn’t a maxi-cab, but there was room in the back for the red ant’s chair and the two cases. No time to head back to the bed and breakfast and pack. They were on the run for murder now. Or at least Mackay was. A fugitive. Regardless of whether the deserving parties were corrupt, or who believed it. Their bodies would be found sooner or later, and the hunt would begin. Besides, they were on the clock. Cross’s contact was expecting them within the hour, which meant they needed to head straight to RAAF Base Pearce along the most direct route. At this point, there was still enough buffer time between them and the law, but it would only get shorter and more unyielding once the bodies were found. They needed to use the time they currently had to its full potential: find Lincoln, find the head of the snake.
Mackay and Cross sat in the back. The driver obliged in the transaction of cash for transport and set the location of the airbase into his smartphone mounted on the dash. He slotted back into the steady stream of traffic, merged across two lanes, then exited onto an endless motorway. Five built-up lanes of rolling machinery heading home for the day.
‘You took a hit for him, didn’t you,’ Mackay said. ‘A charge. You spent time in jail for him. Some kind of fuck-up during an exercise. That’s why he owes you. Why he’s doing this massive favour.’
Cross went silent. She took a breath and made a face. She looked away from the passing faces in the cars, trucks, and work-cabs and turned to Mackay.
‘We were engaged in a mine clearance drill. The SAS team were working with live fire. It was all planned and rehearsed. Orders were good. He accidentally shot one of my guys. A fire engagement gone wrong. My guy should have stayed down on his guts. Something was bothering him inside the back of his shirt, so he began taking his pack off. Went upright onto his knees and was shot in the back. High on the trapezius. Almost bled out. It wasn’t even a negligent discharge on John’s end. SAS don’t make mistakes like that, but his boss was going to throw him in the can anyway. Make an example of him. Make him sweat it out for a week in the hole and miss out on a deployment he’d been training months for. I was our section leader and had the highest rank, so in the after-action report I told the MPs I gave orders for my guy to get up and remove his pack.
‘But you never did.’
‘No. But it was the only thing that saved John. He got one night in the hole, then got deployed the next day.’
‘And you?’
‘A week.’
‘How was it?’
‘It was the long game that hurt. It ruined my career progression. Isolation at the barracks was fine. Food, clean bed, and television all provided. I just couldn’t go anywhere, and the paperwork was bollocks.’
‘That’s big time, Renee. A huge call to make. More or less the definition of owing a favour.’
Cross raised a brow and stared at Mackay.
‘What?’ said Mackay.
‘You called me Renee.’
‘I did?’
‘You did.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I don’t know yet. It’s certainly new. Only my parents ever called me Renee.’
‘Continue the story.’
‘I wanted Warrant Officer, but it wasn’t going to happen. I either told the truth and fucked two soldiers’ lives and careers, or I told a lie and screwed one. It was the lesser of the two. My guy already had to deal with rehab and six months out of action. I thought taking a charge and waiting out career progression wasn’t too bad. Sergeant was still a good rank.’
Cross stayed silent for a long moment, looking back out her window, remembering. Her eyes followed the flow of vehicles. Followed the line of palm trees and gum trees rising from red earth along the emergency lane. Vehicles exited and merged. Motorbikes cut and weaved. A train passed them parallel to the freeway. School buses full of children stared back. Some smiled and laughed, some waved, some just looked through the glass staring at nothing in particular.
‘What was in your guy’s shirt?’ said Mackay, his voice cutting through the tyre roar and faint pop music on the radio.
Cross laughed. ‘A scorpion.’
‘Here? Australia?’
‘Yes. Thing was hideous. Big as a fucking rat.’
*
At 1815hrs the front entrance to RAAF Base Pearce appeared. A wide-gated compound enough to fit logistical trucks and heavy machinery hauling tonnes of loads. The main entry point was bordered with kilometres of high-set fencing with a central booth managed by security staff working two boom gates. One for coming in, one for coming out. The taxi slowed and turned into a small visitor parking lot fifty yards away. A drop-off zone. Mackay got out first and fixed the red ant’s chair while she paid the driver with a generous tip for the extended drive. Phase two was about to begin.
As they waited on the verge for their escort, Cross stared out over the fence line at the horizon. Part nostalgic, part worried. Namely for Mackay and what he was about to do. The afternoon sun had started to dip, hinting at the sunset that was about to come.
‘In about an hour that sunset is going to hit,’ she said. ‘Hopefully you’ll get to see it from nice and high.’
‘Would be nicer seeing it with you. While sitting on the beach with a few beers.’
‘We can make it happen. You just make sure you come back in one piece.’
After a slew of nominal civilian vehicles, the boom gates opened for a G-Wagon. A Mercedes Benz off-roader. Bespoke for military operations. Once it exited, it made a hard right and headed straight for the drop-off zone. The afternoon was late and the windows were too dark to see who was inside, but it was clear to assume their contact had arrived. The G-Wagon pulled in and parked next to the verge. The driver’s side door opened. A man stepped out dressed in standard army fatigues. Khaki, brown, olive drab. Barracks dress. A corporal’s rank slide was attached to the front of his uniform. Two black stripes shaped like the letter ‘v’. He stood somewhere around the six-foot mark, similar to Mackay. Only the guy was built for power rather than speed. His shoulders were about the width of a train carriage, his face narrow and unshaven, his eyes indifferent. Basically, a chiselled, modern-day Spartan made of balsa or maple.
‘Cross. Nice to see you,’ he said.
‘Likewise,’ said Cross.
Then stalemate. Neither spoke a word more. Hot air circulated. The Spartan stared at Cross. At her chair, her stump limbs. Mackay’s eyes bounced between the red ant and the Spartan. There was no movement. No conversation. Mackay stepped forward with an outstretched hand.
‘Mackay,’ he said.
The Spartan paused, judging Mackay for all he was worth. His height, his width, leanness, facial features, body language. Mackay’s entire value as a human being sorted in half a second. Then he gripped Mackay’s hand in return. Covering each digit like a baseball mitt. Firm and welcoming, no ego, no arrogance. War-dog to war-dog.
‘Irish,’ said the Spartan. A statement, not a question. A travelled man.
‘Aye,’ said Mackay.
‘John Nuttall. Call me Nutty.’
Nutty stepped back to match eyes with Cross again. As big and intimidating as he was, he could not respond to Cross and why she was sitting in the chair in front of him. So, she helped him out.
‘You can bend down and hug me, you big cockhead,’ she said.
And he did.
Nutty dropped a knee, leaned forward, and threw his arms around her. Around her whole chair. She hugged him back. Lost friends found again. They stayed low and connected like that for ten long seconds.
‘I never knew you got hit,’ said Nutty, letting go. ‘It’s hard to see you like this.’
‘This one’s not your fault,’ said Cross. ‘You didn’t know, and I wouldn’t have told you anyway. We lost touch.’
‘I wish we didn’t.’
Cross looked away, somewhere over Nutty’s shoulder. Nutty stared at the ground. Mackay watched Nutty exhale and slump. Like a gladiator ready to give his head.
‘Some guys I know look similar. Just not any women,’ said Nutty.
‘I do okay,’ said Cross.
‘I bet you do,’ said Nutty. ‘Probably better than most women, even those who can stand with two feet. IED?’
Cross nodded.
‘When did it happen?’
‘After I left Perth. After our training stint went to shit. I eventually ended up on my third rotation in the sandbox.’
‘I’ll never forget what you did for me. I’ll probably never be able to repay that day.’
‘Maybe today’s the day.’
‘I would have done this favour even if I didn’t owe you. Taking a charge and a week in the big house is ten times the gratuity compared to me shooting your guy. You more or less gave up your career.’
‘I liked Sergeant. Less paperwork than a warrant officer, and more action. Getting out, getting dirty. Fighting the good fight. Maybe it was a good thing you shot my guy.’
‘Said nobody ever.’
Cross smiled. ‘Getting shot is no good for nobody,’ she said. ‘Unless it’s a cave-Nazi weighed down with enough steel to give them a haemorrhoid.’
Mackay smiled.
‘Let’s crack on,’ said Nutty. ‘There’s a C-17 being prepped.’ Nutty turned to Mackay. ‘And according to our conversation, you need to be on it.’
Mackay helped Cross monkey into the G-Wagon, then stowed her chair in the back next to him. Nutty got in, turned the key, and steered the vehicle back towards the boom gates. Nutty waved at the guard, the guard waved back and the gate went up.
‘There’s a few stop-offs we need to make before we get to the airfield,’ said Nutty as they drove through the base’s quiet streets. Everything was neat, clean, and tidy. The sidewalks were meticulous. Every grassed edge trimmed, every bush and hedge clipped. A detailed standard found only on military bases.
Nutty said, ‘We’ll make way to supplies first. They know I’m coming. The bayonet, knuckle dusters, and seal pup knife are in that black backpack on the floor at your feet. The pack is yours.’
‘Appreciated,’ said Mackay.
‘I’ve done what I can. There’s room in the pack for your rations, and room for those two Glocks Cross had stashed behind her arse in her chair. And when you jump, make sure you take it all with you. Make sure your pack is tied to your front.’
Cross turned and looked at Nutty with a wry smile.
‘So, it wasn’t my fat arse you noticed?’ she said.
‘I could feel the cold weight when I hugged you,’ Nutty said. ‘Not that I was intentionally reaching for your fat arse. I bet that’s a good story, having those guns on you.’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Cross.
‘Whatever gets you over the line to live another day is what I say.’
Nutty pulled into a parking bay in front of a long brick building. Plastered to the front wall in bold blue capitals, read RAAF PEARCE SUPPLIES.
‘Your tac gear and rations are in there,’ said Nutty, turning back to Mackay. ‘Your chute is on the aircraft.’
|
1830hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 RAAF Base Pearce, Western Australia |
Inside the supply store, Mackay was introduced to a clerk sitting at a desk in front of a shed full of equipment. A warehouse with shelves full of Air Force gear. Lots of blues, whites, and blacks. Fatigue uniforms, standard dress, and every accessory that went with it. The clerk was an older guy. Had probably started there not long after the prehistoric age. Narrow reading glasses pinched the bridge of his nose under a tidy wipe of thin greying hair. Age, experience, and rank had seen him get nice and comfortable as the years went by.
The clerk placed the magazine he was reading onto his desk next to a half-filled mug of coffee. He stood, put his hand out and gave his name. Andy. The hand was firm. He shook Cross’s. He didn’t shake Nutty’s.
‘Time to get on with it then,’ said Andy. His accent was British. A little Newcastle, a little country. His tone was well rounded and clear enough, though a little dusty and flat. Pitched from the back of the throat like he was speaking from his chin. He ushered the visitors around his desk, into the furthest recesses of the warehouse. Like a gateway into an entirely new world.
‘Sounds like you’re from Newcastle,’ said Mackay.
‘I am, son,’ said Andy. ‘Born and bred, until the wife got sick of the rain and fog. Been here thirty years now. Strange how people keep their home-grown accents. Like yourself. Mostly Irish, part British.’
Another travelled man.
He took Mackay to a corner section with six rows of shelves, all of which contained black-coloured materials. Some plastic, some metallic. Much of it light and easily stored on a person. Mainly accoutrements for inside webbing, satchels, pockets, and concealed compartments. Some items were thick, some were thin, some were woven and seamed.
‘This is your section apparently,’ said Andy. ‘And that broad ox standing next to you has requested that I give you, free of charge by the way, my best night operational tactical kit. And some extra goodies. A right bollocks request for starters, this is not a charity. But apparently what the broad man says, goes.’
He looked straight at Mackay. His forehead was creased but not much else was given in his expression. He was old-school British. Somewhere from the baby boomer generation, used to a class system.
‘And don’t worry,’ Andy continued. ‘I won’t throw in any of the tall man’s beard oil. Unless you really want it. It’s usually on special request, but there’s no point in looking good when you’re out field, yea?’
Mackay smiled. Nutty didn’t.
Only Mackay could tell Andy was being sarcastic. Nutty saw it different. The human cinder block stood stiff and rigid. Somewhere between high alert and simmer. The kind of body language that said cinder blocks didn’t do games or banter. The same body language that said things should be moving faster.
Andy reached low into a blue tub on the bottom shelf stacked with black chest rigs. Kevlar vests. Bullet resistant, not bulletproof. Not completely. He handed it out to Mackay. The item was moderately weighted even without a chest plate. It was fitted with Velcro and seamed with straps.
Nutty turned to Mackay. ‘Are you going to need a chest plate for this op?’
‘Better to take full protection every time,’ said Mackay. ‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Orders are that I come back in one piece.’
‘Fucking oath you’ll take a plate,’ said Cross. ‘That’s not even a question.’
‘Had to ask,’ said Nutty. ‘If it’s just a recon, sometimes the guys prefer to travel light. I get the sense it may be more.’
Nutty eyed Mackay up and down. Top to bottom. Noting the stretched material around his thighs and glutes. The bulging slab of quadriceps inside almost as visible as his face.
Andy said, ‘Of course he bloody well wants full protection. The full beans at all times. The full French letter. You get a vest, you get a plate. Anyway, who’s this Cross you spoke of giving orders? Never heard of him.’ Andy threw a wink at Renee.
Nutty rolled his eyes. ‘Her,’ he said. ‘This is her right here. A sergeant by the way.’
‘Ex-sergeant,’ said Cross.
Andy pulled a ballistic plate from a second tub and handed it to Mackay.
‘Of course, of course, I remember her story,’ Andy said. ‘Sergeant Renee Cross.’ Andy stepped over to a second shelf lined with lunchbox-sized cubes; lightweight foam cases bearing night-vision headsets. NVG.
‘British engineering unit,’ said Andy. ‘Got put in the hole after a negligent discharge blunder. Some big fuck-up that was all hush-hush. A little ways back. You took the heat from a certain special forces soldier. I wonder who that be?’
Andy winked again, this time at Mackay. ‘And some say I haven’t got a scooby doo.’
Nutty’s posture sharpened even further. His spine rose an inch, his back expanding like a canvass.
‘How the fuck do you know about that?’ said Nutty.
‘Thirty years in the military, son. It’s a wonderful world here. Like little teenagers we are, matey, the top ranks love gobbing off. Good news, bad news, it all circulates and finds its way down here. Keeps my job interesting. Keeps me livelihood prickly.’
Nutty took a long breath in, held it, released it. Didn’t reply.
‘It’s alright, son,’ continued Andy. ‘Got the utmost respect for the SAS. Any good soldier who fucks up once never fucks up again. Don’t stress, even you lot are human.’
‘Appreciate that, sir,’ said Nutty. ‘But if I may, there’s an aircraft waiting for us. We need to be on it. Like yesterday. Can we hurry this up?’
‘Alright, then, let’s hurry along, shall we. The broad man has spoken.’
Andy moved a few steps across the shelf lines and pulled a GPS tracker from a storage cupboard.
‘There’s a pocket in the front of your vest for this,’ he said. ‘Normally for thirty-round mags, but it should fit there nicely. You have a watch?’
‘Yes.’ Mackay raised his left wrist.
‘G-Shock. Like the rest of us. Standard military gubbins the world over. Good man.’
Andy continued his way around a corner where the walls merged and finished into a small corridor. The business end. A niche section where soldiers of the field were robed for battle. Where the strategic protection of a war-dog began. An arsenal of accessories camouflaged for day or night in the field. All warbled in pattern with their own special names like ‘desert sand’ and ‘foliage green’.
Andy stepped aside and ushered Mackay into the hall of shelves.
‘All my stock here is in inspection order,’ he said. ‘Don’t go rummaging around willy-nilly mucking things about. You’ve got combat trousers, belts, socks and boots on the left. Jackets, shirts and hats on the right. Camo face paint cases on the bottom. Go for gold. The mirror’s there in front of the jackets.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mackay. ‘I’ll sort myself out. I’m good for boots, though. Took care of those already.’
Nutty looked down at Mackay’s feet noting the Gore-Tex footwear. Hardened rubber sole with a protective toecap.
‘Good choice,’ Nutty said. ‘If I were to have a guess, I’d say you’re planning on moving around a bit with that kind of footwear. Like you need to stay light on your feet.’
‘I’ll hunker down for a beat, if necessary, as long as it takes. But I do need to move. There’s a kid I need to find, the last in the Connolly line.’
Mackay started with the cargo trousers until he found the optimal widths and lengths. He worked his way around, taking one size up than usual for both undershirt and overshirt to cater for his barrel chest, then checked and double-checked for fitting and adjustment. He checked off all straps, zips and buttons, pocketed a small case of camouflage paint then slung the Kevlar vest with ballistic plate over his shoulder. Good to go.
Nutty turned his attention to Andy. ‘Sir, last item, can we grab a couple of ration packs? Assuming you’ve still got them.’
‘I never run out of anything,’ said Andy. ‘It’s why they still keep me on the books.’
On the opposite end of Andy’s desk, the warehouse floor opened to a wide section of space crowded with wooden pallets. Most were laid with olive-green trunks of various sizes. Some filled with leather gloves and bungee cords, some filled with green water canteens. Two were stockpiled with cartons of beer, wine and spirits. Obviously ready for Air Force downtime. Andy navigated through a maze of six or seven pallets and came to a stop at one filled with large aluminium tins resembling rubbish bins.
‘Wet or freeze-dried?’ asked Andy.
‘Dried,’ said Mackay. ‘Lighter and easier for eating on the go. I’m not banking on taking time out to cook. I’ll just take one.’
‘Each to their own,’ said Andy, handing Mackay an oblong packet the size of a lamb roast. ‘And you’ll want a bottle of water too, I’m sure.’
‘An essential. I won’t say no.’
Andy grabbed a green canteen from the trunk next to the spirits, walked over to a nearby tap, filled it, and handed it to Mackay.
‘Appreciate your time, sir,’ said Nutty. ‘Mackay, it’s time to go.’
Nutty turned on his heels and began striding back through the pallets. Mackay offered his hand to Andy. He shook it.
‘Whatever you’re in for, keep your wits about you,’ said Andy. ‘Use what you’ve been taught, and don’t fucking die. Maybe someday you’ll be back in here with beers and a good jackanory for me.’
‘Jackanory?’ said Mackay.
‘A story,’ said Cross. ‘Cockney rhyming slang.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Andy. ‘Keep up, Irish.’
‘Is he invited?’ said Mackay, nodding at Nutty’s imposing figure marching away.
‘Certainly. The more the merrier. And if he doesn’t like me humour, he can piss off just like everybody else.
|
1830hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Van Breeman watched Lydia breathe and whimper and strain. He didn’t like her. Not since what she’d written about him eighteen months ago when Carice went missing. Lydia was fixed to a wooden stool bolted to a cement floor in the middle of the room. The hotbox. Part of the old dairy farm’s original brick cabin down the far end of the winery. Even though the sun was setting, and the afternoon was overlapping into evening, the room always retained the heat of the day. Summer or winter, the chamber was always hot and humid.
Lydia was awake with a black cloth bag over her head. She was breathing okay but was groggy and confused from the liquid combination: telazol, ketamine and chloroform. Not to mention the volts from the stun gun. And being on a stool meant she sat without armrests or a back support, and in her condition, that was hard going. Her legs were roped together in two sections: calves and thighs. Her thighs were tied to the seat of the stool and her hands were zip-tied behind her back. Because the stool’s legs were bolted into the floor, no matter how much leaning, pulling or swaying Lydia tried, she wasn’t going anywhere. She could arch backwards – to a point – but arching backwards past ninety degrees was not an ideal position to be in. It was unsupported for her spine, and she was no contortionist or gymnast. It was either upright or forward with her chest on her thighs. Shallow breathing. Sweating it out in the heat.
Lydia’s feet were immersed in a large tub filled with a mix of blood and hair. The blood was part animal, part her own. Taken with a large syringe they’d normally use on cattle. The hair was all hers. A lengthy portion taken from the back. The ponytail end. After she’d been dragged in, seated, and strapped to the stool, Kimbala held her down and lopped off a chunk. A straight cut with large gardening clippers. Steel handle, double bowed with an eight-inch blade. Shears mostly used for pruning hedges and small branches. Sometimes used for splitting bones and removing hoofs from goats and sheep.
On the floor behind her was a shrine. Set with a line of lit candles along the edge of the wall, flickering a muted light throughout the room. Above the candles displayed high on the brick wall was a large figure made of bone, leather and yarn. A relic. A fixed sculpture of a face trapped in a scream, and not entirely human. An ancient African idol representing the god of the dead. The keeper of souls. There were features of a white skull, but the teeth were hollowed out and blackened with ash, the eyes marked with crosses made of sticks. The hair sprawled upwards with twigs and puffs of fur, while the neck was a winding mass of bristly fibre made from corn husks. The idol loomed over Lydia’s body like it was preparing to inhale her. Sucking her soul into its hollow black mouth.
Van Breeman didn’t like that particular room, and never went in. Something about the dank heat and the thing on the wall. Walking around inside was like moving through a swamp. He stood outside the door with his phone to his ear as he dialled Derek one last time. The door to the room was ajar and he could see Lydia tied to the stool. That was enough. The faint air that drafted into the room, did however make Lydia feel better. It circled around her legs, over her knees and underneath her dress. With the bag over her head, she couldn’t tell who was in the room. Or what. All she could feel was the draft, and a presence. One person for sure. Maybe two.
Both Bryson and Wynand were back at the front of house manning security and completing wine orders. Or at least that was where they were supposed to be. And since Derek and Taylor hadn’t returned with the rungu club and magneto, Van Breeman had given Kimbala the go-ahead. It was now up to his main man to deliver the consequences to the journalist. Van Breeman preferred the more traditional methods with old-school African military torture, but this time he had to make an exception. He had to make do with Kimbala’s dark practice. Both men’s tactics had their strengths and weaknesses. Both reserved a time and place in Van Breeman’s moral balance. But by default, without the club and hand-cranked telephone, the penalties submitted onto the petite brunette fell back to plan B: Kimbala. Which in the long term was quite possibly the worse option. All Van Breeman really wanted was to deliver a message. Put her in her place. Maybe leave a few scars while at it.
*
Kimbala stood inside the room, just a few feet from Lydia’s sagged form in the centre. One hand was clasped around a thick clay pot. Inside it was a pestle grinder. One of those heavy pounding tools with a rounded end – like a small rolling pin used to crush herbs, spices, and drugs. His other hand held a blowtorch. Trigger operated with an adjustable flame control, fuelled with a can of butane. On the floor were two other items he’d recently used: gardening clippers and a large tranquilising needle.
Kimbala took the clay pot and scooped up a portion of hair and blood from the tub at Lydia’s feet. He took the blowtorch and heated the contents until it boiled and smoked up a consistent haze, creating a wafting stench of burnt rubber and off meat. Then he started with the chants. His voice thrummed along, rhythmic and incoherent, reciting strange verses in dialogue that could only be described as blabber. Van Breeman wanted to stay and supervise but once Kimbala began burning the hair and blood in the pestle, he had to leave. The stench was too much. The fumes too toxic for anyone not accustomed to the craft. Besides, he had things to do. Derek still wasn’t answering his phone. As he headed for the door, behind him, Kimbala closed in on Lydia. Toe to toe. Wafting the smoky fumes of hair and blood over her body. Fanning it on repeat, all while increasing his chanting volume. His thrumming tones cast from the pit of his stomach.
Before Van Breeman left, Lydia’s body shot up straight like it had been yanked vertically by an invisible force. Her head tilted back as she stretched her mouth open like a fish out of water. She drew in a breath and screamed, just once, long and piercing, then flopped back onto her chest and began moaning. Expelling a lamenting wave of pained air. The sounds unnatural for her size and gender, but eerily matching Kimbala’s rhythm. Their vocals rolled around the room like they were in a duet. One in melody, one in harmony. Van Breeman closed the door and pocketed his phone.