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2330hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Vineyard Plantation, Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Mackay wasn’t sure how long he was out before he came to. Minutes or hours could have passed. Whatever the time, it was still dark, and he was still breathing. His head, chest and collarbone hurt, but overall, he deemed himself okay. Another tick in the box for the thermoplastic. He dragged his knees up and propped himself onto his hands. Once again having to scrape clotted dirt and grass from his mouth, as well as pick out grapes, leaves and shoots from his shirt. He must’ve been flung through a section of grapevine because when he stood, he wasn’t in the same row as before. As he looked around the expanse of the property, there was no horse and there was no rider. He did, however, hear a combination of heavy laboured breathing mixed with a strange gargling snort: the horse, just a few metres away, lying on its side one row over. Back where the collision initially occurred. Where he’d played chicken with the beast, with his body. Mackay could just see the height of its rump and flank as he peered over the grapevine’s hedge.
Mackay crawled through a tight section of vines and came through the other side of the row. From where he stood, he could only see the horse. Rye. Lying still on the ground, struggling to breathe, coated in a thick layer of dust. Its front leg where Mackay made impact was bent backwards. Pulled awkwardly underneath its belly – torn from the genetic assembly of the meaty front shoulder. Its head was also angled somewhat unnaturally away from its neck. Out of alignment from what Mackay deemed normal. The beast must have rolled and flipped, smashing the ground headfirst and breaking its neck in the process.
The rider was nowhere to be seen. Not until Mackay stepped a few paces closer. The toe end of a boot came into view first as Mackay reached the horse’s tail. Just one boot, reflecting a dull sheen beneath the beast’s massive belly. Sticking out diagonally above the horse was the rider. Chest, arms and head. Most of the saddle was rotated underneath the mess. The stirrup must have caught the rider’s foot during the tumble, locking him in then wrenching the saddle underneath itself.
The man’s eyes were wide open, staring up into the night. The gargling sound wasn’t coming from the horse. On second inspection, the animal was dead. Mackay shook his head. He had killed another horse. That made it two for two, he thought.
The gargling was the man’s attempt to suck air and stay alive. His stomach and chest were being crushed by the animal’s dead weight. A dark smear coloured the man’s lips and leaked from the side of his mouth. He too was covered in dust and grass, so Mackay couldn’t really tell what he looked like. He didn’t care. To him, it was a guy who was part of the vineyard’s sick operation. Boss or not, he was down. All part of his plan. Happy days.
‘Can you hear me?’ Mackay said, peering down at the man.
Van Breeman blinked. His eyes shifted slowly towards the figure standing above him. More blood exited the side of his mouth. Instinctively, he raised his arms and grappled the ground around him, searching for something that wasn’t there. A weapon. The shotgun. Mackay watched him reach and flail and search, desperate for one final shot at victory. His last chance for a win before he was done. There was nothing there. Whatever weapon he thought he had was gone. Lost somewhere on the grounds within a twenty-yard radius. Like the Glock. There was nothing he could do.
Mackay took a step closer, standing on the dead horse’s body. On that big ribcage. Placing a further eighty kilograms of pressure down on Van Breeman’s vital organs.
‘What’s your name?’ Mackay asked, giving the man reasonable time to respond. Van Breeman either couldn’t or refused. Mackay continued the one-sided conversation.
‘My name isn’t relevant, but you and whoever you work with here killed my brother, the Irishman in hospital. He was shot somewhere on these grounds. Then someone had him finished off in hospital. The bent cops given the dirty work are both dead. Someone here also killed my brother’s wife and one of his sons. That’d be my sister-in-law and my older nephew. Funny thing, a news reporter I saw on television, the same one I found in your god-awful cabin beaten half to death said my nephew died from an apparent asthma attack. The boy wasn’t asthmatic. Now what do you make of all that?’
‘You’re Irish.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I hit you… with my horse,’ Van Breeman said, gravelly from the back of his throat. He gurgled again then choked back the blood from his mouth. Mackay could see the cogs turning slowly, unsure what to make of the man standing over him. Alive.
‘You did,’ Mackay said.
‘How…?’
‘That’s a long story, and you’re not going to be alive long enough to hear it.’
Mackay knelt down for a clearer picture of the man’s shadowed face, using what light he could to take in his features: the forehead, the cheeks, the jawline, the chin. Great bone structure all round. Everything was well proportioned and aesthetically pronounced. Cut from wealthy lineage, unlike the voodoo mass and dweeb cowboy he’d encountered earlier. Even through the layer of dirt covering his face Mackay could tell the man was clean-shaven. A disciplined trait. His hair was thick and lush and shiny in the moonlight, probably never went a day without its essential oils. His body, from what Mackay could see, was lean and athletic. Not sculpted from years in the gym, rather refined from years of working the lands. Labouring on farms and vineyards. With all angles and perspectives considered, Mackay concluded that the man, slowly suffocating beneath him, was the boss. The head of the snake. All the little pieces made sense.
‘You’re Van Breeman,’ Mackay said.
‘Yes,’ Van Breeman exhaled. ‘The boy was an accident.’
‘And that makes all the difference, does it? No point trying to justify it now. Man up. Own your fuck-ups. Show some character before you die. The other son, the one who’s back at that storage building, you left him to die. That’s unacceptable, me feiner. I’m here to bring him home. And while you die here, I’m going to go and get him, then I’m going to make a phone call. Soon after that I’ll leave. Like I was never here.’
‘We tried looking for him,’ Van Breeman said, hushed and coarse.
‘You did a sheit job of it.’
‘We would have fed him, looked after him, given him to child protection. We don’t kill kids here. Not my style. And we’re no paedophile ring.’
‘So, what then? What have you got going on in this place? I didn’t get a chance to poke around. You should save me the time. One final good deed.’
‘I almost had you,’ Van Breeman said, avoiding the question.
‘Almost? Like you almost killed me with your horse? Yet here I am, and there you are. I’ll ask again, what business have you got going on here?’
Mackay again gave the man due time to respond. Van Breeman swallowed air and blood, then started to smile. A small crack at first, then it spread wider. He started to laugh, which – under the weight – came out as a raspy hiss.
Mackay said, ‘Whatever it is has something to do with that girl tied up in that toxic room. Am I right?’
The raspy hiss continued.
‘Don’t bother then, I’ll poke around myself. Whatever else may come can come.’
‘Do what you want,’ said Van Breeman. ‘Finishing me off won’t help stop this. I’ve got people lined up for miles ready to take on my legacy. We’re like lizard tails. Cut one off, another takes its place. Those who come after me, will come after you too. Picking off everyone in your bloodline. Burning them all to the ground. My empire will thrive with or without me. Guaranteed.’
‘Good story,’ said Mackay. ‘Once again, me feiner, what are you running here?’
Van Breeman stared long and glassy at Mackay. ‘Second time you said that,’ he gurgled.
Mackay paused, then it clicked. ‘Me feiner? Means you’re a selfish cunt. Thinking only of yourself and your bags of money. Taking lives for some such reason and trying to get away with it. Last chance, what are you playing at down here? Open up and share, it’ll feel right. Might save your soul.’
Van Breeman let his lids peel up to the stars. ‘Good luck, Irish.’
Mackay nodded with acceptance. ‘Aye. Stalemate. Was genuinely hoping for a little more from you. Good luck it is then.’
Mackay got off the horse, took a step back and contemplated its position.
‘My brother, the one you ordered to be killed, he sounded similar to you right now. Choking from a big hole in his lungs. That’s either irony or coincidence, I’m not sure. Anyway, how are we going to do this? What would a right cunt like you prefer? A quick death or a slow one? You want me to leave you be or would you like it done and dusted?’
Van Breeman breathed short, small puffs in and out.
‘Someone will come for you,’ he said, the liquid over his eyes glassy. His pupils dilating like dinner plates. He was scared.
‘Like those two cops on your payroll? Let them come. I took Laurel and Hardy out inside your office. Right near your little bonsai tree.’
Van Breeman blinked, taking it in.
‘Some say bonsai trees are a symbol of harmony and balance. In your case I’d say it’s power and domination, and a control of fear.’
Mackay left the conversation open for a moment, hoping for a response. It didn’t come. Van Breeman probably expected a bullet, or maybe a knife across the throat. Mackay could have used a knife, but not a gun. One Glock was busted and ineffective, and the other was out there, lost in the dark. A knife was too easy. Instead, Mackay went with a third option. He wanted to be true to his word and bury him. Under his horse.
Mackay tucked his shoulders and arms under Rye and packed a one-man scrum. Crouch, bind, set. He pushed low into the ground and slowly began to roll the horse upwards. Lumbering the beast over Van Breeman’s chest and face. He’d been involved in some big scrimmages and heavy lifting in the gym, but a dead horse was different. He hooked his left arm around its hind legs and used as much leverage as he could to begin the rotation, taking every ounce of strength he had to move the beast onto its back. From there, gravity and momentum did the rest. The last thing he saw of Van Breeman were his eyes bulging from his skull with the horse halfway over him. Then came the cracking of his chest – the weight of the beast pressing the man deeper into the earth. With a final shove, Rye flopped over with a quiet thud. The boss was covered head to stomach. Only his legs were left exposed, one of which was still attached to the stirrup. All twisted up and mangled. Like the wicked witch of the east.
On his way back to Lincoln, Mackay found the Lanber in the dirt. Just by chance. Almost mistaking it for a crooked branch. He eased it under his arm and double-checked the barrel, confirming it was empty. Good habits. He released the two empty shells – Van Breeman’s wasted double shot – then wiped it down with his sleeve and left it on the ground. He had no use for it. He also accepted that the second Glock, the one flung from his vest while he was dragged by the horse, was gone for good. He wasn’t going to waste time searching for it either. Lincoln was priority. Second priority was the reporter in the stable. Third priority was getting out of there unnoticed.
As he approached the maintenance shed, thankfully Lincoln was still there. He’d moved away from the thin, unconscious man and sat himself at the mouth of the entrance. Under the safety of the dim yellow glow, looking out into the night. Rocking back and forth awaiting his uncle’s return. As Mackay neared, Lincoln tracked his form until he sat down in front of him. Lincoln looked into uncle’s face and touched it. He stopped rocking. He ran a finger across Mackay’s nose, down his lips and chin.
‘Bleeding,’ he said.
‘I’m okay,’ said Mackay.
Mackay opened his backpack and took out the mushed-up rations. He ripped off the plastic wrapping and removed the gutted contents covered in gooey liquid – some kind of jam. He then filtered out the best three options still decently intact: an apple fruit pocket, a tube of condensed milk and a tin of peaches.
‘I don’t have any more water for you,’ Mackay said. ‘We’ll go look for some soon, but this stuff looks alright for now. I want you to try. You need some energy back.’
Mackay opened the condensed milk and squeezed some into his own mouth first to show it was okay. He then offered it to Lincoln. His first taste brightened his expression immediately, drawing a touch of colour to his cheeks. More than what he’d had in days. The sugary sweetness almost made him smile. Mackay did the same with the rest of what was still reasonably edible, taking a little first, then giving the rest to the boy. Under the glow, Lincoln’s first meal in days was as good as a seaside banquet, or a five-star buffet.
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0100hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Mackay carried Lincoln like a koala across the vineyard to find a bathroom and some water. And hopefully an undamaged water bottle for the journey back home. Lincoln needed more fluids, a good wash down and a fresh set of clothes. The clothes were a long shot, but two out of three was better than nothing.
Mackay moved steadily up the rise towards the front of house at the top of the hill. Slow, like a shark. Circling the lay of the land in a wide radius. Sometimes doubling back, sometimes making figure eights just to be safe. As he skirted around the underground cellar, he did eventually trip a motion sensor light, but the place stayed quiet and still. Nothing happened. He took a quick peek inside, but all there was to see were lines of casks. Nothing stuck out worthy of a second look. He did the same with a bigger, more modern building halfway up the rise. The wine press facility. A wider stream of security lights lit up the grounds as he neared closer, but again there was nothing but crickets. He walked inside the open doors to another flood of trip-lighting and checked every structure and space for movement and personnel. Silent as a tomb. Nothing but four massive, stainless-steel wine presses. Two on either side of the wall. Bladder presses. Horizontal drums with drainage ducts housed in steel shafts. Built to hold huge loads of grapes. Only one old-school wooden press remained. A big antique thing set in front of what seemed to be an inbuilt extension. A gyprock wall. Painted to match the same wooden colour of the press. An afterthought erected to showcase the antique structure. It had a huge wooden basket in the middle with heavy-duty beams raised either side. The basket had thick rotating capstans, constructed to multiply the squeezing force as it pressed out the grape juice. A sturdy artefact of the times kept as a tourist attraction.
Aside from the occasional low-flying bat, there was nothing doing on the property. Lincoln clung to Mackay’s chest, asleep, all the way to the back entrance of the gallery. It was completely clear. No kangaroos. No sugar gliders. No possums. Mackay waited a whole two minutes at the rear of the building before entering. Halted with his shoulder against the far wall’s edge. Listening for any sound or movement that could potentially be hostile. Again, nothing. Just the sound of Lincoln’s warm breath against his neck. He was out cold. Nestled in. After the timer was done in his head, Mackay checked the back door, found it open, then moved into a moderate space he could only describe as some type of common room or administration room. There was a television, a desktop computer, stacks of wine cartons, a dining table, a fridge and a tea and coffee station. It also had a large flat-screen security monitor against a side wall marked with a huge brown coffee stain. Somebody must’ve been having a bad day. There were no immediate toilets or bathrooms, but there was a sink at the tea and coffee station. As well as cups. Mackay sat Lincoln down on a chair and rubbed his back, waking him gently. He then filled a cup of water and offered it.
‘Drink this, nice and slow.’
Lincoln guzzled it in seconds. He then had two more cups before rejecting a third.
‘Do you think you’d be able to walk, Lincoln? We need to find you a bathroom and clean you up a little.’
Lincoln nodded. Mackay picked Lincoln off the chair, stood him to his feet and reached out his hand. Lincoln held it. Mackay walked him through a door into the next room, twice as big as the first. The main gallery. The front of house. Against the wall next to the doorframe were a panel of light switches. Mackay flicked them on one by one, lighting up the gallery in a series of warm-white fixtures across the ceiling and walls. The first thing he noticed was that the front door was left open. Which pricked up Mackay’s sense of caution again. Waking his fight and flight senses and slowing down his movements. But the alarm was not warranted. Nothing but a steady flow of air came through. Mackay assumed, and hoped, it had been left open by one of the three he’d left spread on the winery’s grounds.
The second thing Mackay noticed was that the gallery was well presented. Regal even. High ceilings, lavish furnishings. A lot of money had been spent in making the room appealing for the tourists and connoisseurs. In front of them, a long, polished granite bench with curls of white marble reached halfway across the room, standing as the front counter. The wine-tasting bench. Behind it, a stockpile of wine bottles were neatly arranged on a criss-crossing fixture of shelves along the wall. Whites and reds filled up the spaces. Shiraz, Merlot, Chardonnay and Verdelho, as well as a Frans & Hoek signature Cabernet Sauvignon. Scattered around the other walls were large, framed artworks. Most of them photographic. Some appeared to be of the Margret River region and the local surf boroughs. Some were of the winery land itself – when it was an old dairy farm with a grain mill.
There were no toilets inside the gallery either, so Mackay needed to explore a little further. Before he walked outside, he caught sight of a bright orange drink can at the far end of the granite counter, recently consumed. A Fanta, with a small ring of water pooled underneath it. Next to the can was a mobile phone. And behind the counter was a clear glass fridge nestled against the far wall. It seemed both Fanta and phone had been left out either because someone was in a big hurry, or someone was just plain forgetful. The fridge was lined with various flavoured cool drinks. For the consuming traveller who wanted something other than wine. Something sweet without alcohol to stay hydrated in the hot climate. At the bottom of the fridge were stacks of plastic water bottles. All half a litre in volume. Mackay walked over and helped himself to two, stacking them inside his backpack. He grabbed a third, necked half, gave the rest to Lincoln, then pocketed the phone from the bench. Which was the common-sense thing to do, seeing as he was down any means of personal communication back to Cross.
Mackay took Lincoln’s hand again and walked outside. Lincoln held close, walking languidly beside him, his exhausted body still trying to recover. They moved onto a long veranda out the front, stretching equal lengths to the left and right of the gallery. Conveniently, right in front of them was a universal toilet symbol, attached to a wooden beam built into the staircase leading to the entrance. The symbol was of two black stick figures: one with a narrow torso, the other wider at the hips in a triangle. Male and female. Plain as they come. An arrow underneath the symbol pointed to a set of doors on the far left. On the far right of the veranda at the opposite end, was another door, left wide open. The timing for an ambush or a sudden rush of violence was long overdue. Over the last half hour since burying the snakehead under his horse, there’d been no noise or movement. Not a creak, odour or breath. Nothing but the flutter of warm air through distant leaves. Like the phone and can of Fanta, Mackay was certain it had been left open either because someone was in a hurry, or someone was just plain forgetful. Lincoln first, he thought.
The doors to the toilets were locked, but that wasn’t an issue. Mackay chose the female door and kicked it in. He opted for the female because of comfort factors male toilets almost never provided. Sure, bad smells run both ways, but eight times out of ten the world over, the female bathroom was more pleasant. Inside, the vanity mirror was a narrow, shoulder-width piece in portrait orientation. Below that was a deep porcelain sink in the middle of a bench with room enough either side to prop Lincoln on for a wash.
‘You okay if I take your pants and underwear off? We need to clean you up.’
Lincoln didn’t reply. He didn’t protest either, which Mackay took as an agreeable response all the same. He was stained and filthy, and a good wash-down needed to happen. Mackay undressed Lincoln’s lower half then stood him on the bench. With warm running water and paper towels stacked underneath a fire extinguisher on the wall, Mackay got it done. Bringing him back to some level of dignity he hadn’t felt in days. He threw Lincoln’s underwear in the toilet and flushed the soiled thing away. Being without underwear was a minor issue most boys were okay with, and it was better lost through the pipes than left behind as evidence. Mackay removed Lincoln’s shirt, wiped him front to back, then refitted his shirt and shorts. Good to go.
Mackay washed his own face in the basin, then headed back out to the other end of the veranda. To the wide-open door. To close any paranoid feelings of unaccounted personnel. He kept Lincoln behind him, hand held, and walked inside. He found a single light switch on the inner wall and discovered a sizeable room. Around six metres by three. About the size of an average sports bar. Cooled to a light chill with air-conditioning. Four big freezers lined the walls, the chest kind. The reach-in design with the lid on the top. Two freezers sat across the back wall with a single freezer on the left and right. All the same make and model. Long, silver and modern. Big storage capacities with a couple hundred litres each at least. All positioned over a large set of digitised platform scales with a digital reader located at the front. Mackay figured the air conditioning was installed to allow for a cooler setting, so the freezers didn’t have to work overtime in summer.
There was a table in the middle of the room set up with a desktop computer and a large flat-screen monitor. On the screen were twelve security panels in grid formation. Mackay could see a number of the locations he’d moved through on the property: the first building where he’d tussled with the black mass, the noxious room where he’d found the reporter, the horse stables, maintenance shed, underground cellar and wine press. Some of the images looked out to the winery and some overlooked the driveway entrance and car park. He could just make out the lifeless body of the black giant in the corner of one of the panels, as well as the unconscious skinny cowboy in another. He couldn’t tell whether the skinny guy’s chest was rising or falling, nor did he care. Otherwise, from what he could see across the grid, there was no movement. Animal or human.
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0200hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Out of pure curiosity, Mackay moved over to the closest freezer against the right wall and lifted it open. It was filled with grapes. Frozen of course. Many still on the vine in bunches. Probably harvested and kept when there were harsh seasons and poor yields. A plan B. A backup when crops were low and export demands needed to be met. Lincoln also peered in. Then, for normal reasons relating to the enticement of a cold, juicy grape on a hot day, Lincoln picked one and popped it into his mouth. He chewed on it a little, then spat it out and made a face. Vineyard grapes aren’t always great for snacking. Often high in acidity, thick-skinned and riddled with seeds. Mackay hadn’t a clue what variety of grapes were in there, but he thought he’d try one, nonetheless. Not that he felt like it, it was more to get alongside Lincoln and humour him. Besides, icy fruit in the heat of the night would feel nice in the mouth, maybe a little sour, but it was still edible. How bad could it be, really? Mackay pinched one off a vine and crunched into it. Almost immediately, he too spat it to the floor. Something was off. Sour was the wrong word to use. He was no grape specialist, but he did know the difference between a vineyard grape and the grocery-shelf variety. And these grapes were neither. The aftertaste was punchy and awful. Icy, coppery and metallic. Exactly like blood.
Mackay grabbed a bunch and took a closer look. All the little bulbs on the vine had a tiny little pockmark on their skin. A tiny puncture. Like a track mark on a drug addict. He moved to the back wall, opening the next two freezers. Visually inspecting, tasting a grape from each horde, then spitting it out. All the grapes were the same. Bloody. Literally. Its original juice extracted, then replaced. Injected with blood by someone, or a working crew with fine fingers and lots of finesse. Probably female. Delicate work undertaken by Van Breeman’s other staff. Possibly the friendly faces from the front of house who serve the tourists. Mackay moved to the far left and opened the fourth freezer. It was empty. Nothing more to test. He then wiped his tongue back and forth across his shirt and scrubbed off as much of the bloody extract as possible. He took a water bottle from his backpack, filled his mouth, gargled and spat, then gargled and spat again. He offered the water to Lincoln who did the same.
Mackay hadn’t a clue whether the blood was animal or human, though he erred on the human side considering what Malvin had seen when he stumbled into the wine press. Not to mention the voodoo situation earlier. He knew less than squat about voodoo practices, but he knew enough from reading the British newspapers over the last decade. Many reporting on the hundreds of African children abducted and trafficked into the UK for blood rituals in underground communities.
Mackay stepped back to observe the room. On the front of each freezer was a label with a series of Roman numerals written in black marker. Likely to keep the details inside discreet. The numerals were number ranges. The freezer he stood in front of had the numbers marked IV–XII with two specified columns underneath: one marked M, one marked F. The two along the back wall both had the number XVIII+, also with two columns M and F. The last freezer on the right wall had the numbers XIII–XVIII, same columns, M and F. In English digits the numbers equated as 4–12, 18-plus and 13–18. To anybody else walking in, seeing the numerals and the frozen grapes would simply assume a date range or a grape vintage. Maybe even a weight or a volume. And the M and F columns could have stood for Month and Fruit. Mackay knew better, though. He’d switched on. Pieced it together. The number ranges were human years for children, adults and teens. The M and F columns were the gender split for male and female.
Below the labels, attached with a white fridge magnet, was paperwork. Which resembled an itemised checklist for quantity and quality. He didn’t know what the specifics were, and he wasn’t going to read them to find out either. Blood had been forcefully, or in some way involuntarily, taken from tourists and their children. Injected into the fruit then distributed. Sold on the black market as a pricey commodity through the Dark Web. Van Breeman’s moneymaker. Marketed to rich elitists with a disregard for human decency, and probably exported to African countries still practising voodoo. In any case it was a vile product for a vile customer. Hidden in plain sight. Part of the front of house where guests and tourists spent their money. Lincoln, fortunately, had alluded to the venture by accident. For the bigger picture, Mackay thought, it wasn’t completely realistic to have that much blood taken from winery tourists alone. Those four freezers held almost a thousand litres of volume in total. The frozen grapes inside, taking into account how much each bunch could hold, needed more than just a couple of tourists’ blood a day to be extracted. There was a greater operation at play. Van Breeman would have to have more connections through blood banks, paramedics, pathology clinics or phlebotomists to fill that many bulbs. Someone out there was offering patient samples in exchange for cash. Or special services. Malvin and his family just happened to be the ones passing through at the wrong time. Tourists doing tourist things when illegal demands needed to be met. Judging by the empty freezer labelled IV–XII, Mackay gathered Van Breeman had no more children’s blood and needed a fresh sample ASAP. A snap-decision leaving a horrific mess, seeing an entire family wiped out.
Mackay needed to leave. He wanted nothing more to do with the place. He didn’t know how far or how wide Van Breeman’s connections went, and he didn’t want to know. Wasn’t his problem. It was a clean-up project for someone else. For real cops with the right conscience. He knew they existed, he just wasn’t sure they existed locally. He’d found his nephew and made a dent in the ring of employment. That was enough. Above all things, his priority was to get Lincoln back to the only place he would be safe. Where both of them would be safe. Even from law enforcement, good or bad. Only back at the airbase would he and the boy have some form of refuge from the litter of bodies he’d left behind. He could potentially make it back to the UK even, if Cross’s contacts held up. Which meant he and the boy needed to make exit moves straight away – if Mackay wanted to remain a free man. Sure, he had a phone, but it wasn’t the burner he had originally purchased. The phone he had didn’t have Cross’s number logged in its software. He didn’t know her number from memory and hadn’t made the time or effort to write it down. Nonetheless, the phone he did have provided an opportunity. If played right, it would hopefully supply him with a vehicle to get him and Lincoln back to the Air Force base, and at the same time create an even bigger dent in Van Breeman’s operation.
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0230hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Mackay walked Lincoln back inside the main gallery into the admin room. He found the remote control for the television and turned it on. He needed something to occupy the boy while making his way out to the maintenance shed to pick up a few supplies. The television options were quite boring at half-three in the morning: international news, a handful of home shopping channels, low-budget cooking shows and music videos. He opted for the cooking shows. Easy on the brain, not too exciting.
Mackay sat Lincoln on one of the pleather armchairs. ‘Ten minutes, then we’re out of here.’ Lincoln nodded once, tucked his knees up and looked at the screen with heavy eyes.
In the machinery shed Mackay found both things he was looking for quickly and easily. The first was a jerry can, the second was a lighter. The jerry can he found on a tiered shelving unit next to the ride-on lawnmower. It was half full and more than enough to start a blaze. The lighter was inside the skinny cowboy’s front jeans pocket. As Mackay searched his pockets, the cowboy began to wake. Starting with light moaning first, then slowly building to an annoying bleat. Like a hungry young calf looking for its mother. The pain signals shooting up from his ankle, sternum and jaw into his nervous system, then back down again. For good measure, and to keep him out of the picture, Mackay cracked him in the face. Twice. Right fist, middle of the forehead. Enough to put him back to sleep and prolong the headache he was about to have. No knuckle dusters this time, the poor lackey had suffered enough.
Next, Mackay went back to the stable for the woman. As he entered the swinging gate, the lone horse left inside started up, just like last time. Braying and snorting. Backing away from the gate and kicking up a fuss. Mackay felt a little bad for the poor thing. It didn’t have a clue about what had happened to its friend: a broken neck, dead, lying out there in the vineyard on top of its master. Mackay didn’t intend it that way, the beast was basically collateral damage. Maybe the animal welfare groups would call it manslaughter, or whatever terminology was used in that context. He could never live down that moniker now though. Horse-killer. Two in one lifetime was a solid effort.
The woman was where he had left her. Still breathing, still bruised and swollen. She hadn’t moved. Mackay picked her up and placed her over his shoulder. He held her there with one hand and carried the jerry can with the other. He threaded back through the property, left the jerry can out the front of the wine-press facility, then continued with the woman all the way up to the main gallery. The cooking show was still playing in the admin room, lighting Lincoln’s face with a cool blue. Some frumpy woman with grey hair and glasses was pulling a cheesy dish from an oven. Lincoln was asleep. Out cold with exhaustion. His chest rose and fell steadily which was comforting. Mackay wished his brother was there to see him. See his son lying there, alive and comfortable. If there really was a spiritual place to go to after death, he hoped Malvin was there and knew Lincoln was safe. Watching over him from above, or perhaps standing somewhere nearby.
Mackay moved quickly outside to the front veranda. He didn’t want Lincoln to wake and see the sunken, bloodied form of the woman on his shoulder. He then moved toward the open room with all the freezers, but he didn’t go inside. He laid the woman down, just outside the door on the veranda floor. Recovery position. Head turned sideways over an outstretched arm. The soft hay would have been more comfortable, but he wanted her there. The emergency responders needed to see her body first.
Before getting to the main theatrics, Mackay stepped inside the room and walked over to the freezer on the right wall. The one numbered XIII–XVIII. He moved around behind it, found its power connection and ripped out the lead. He shuffled the bulky prism away from the wall, opened the lid, reached underneath and lifted – pouring all the fruit bulbs of blood onto the floor. It was as if a massive gumball machine had exploded, scattering millions of frozen purple and green balls everywhere.
Mackay moved onto the two freezers lining the back wall numbered XVIII+. He performed the same four-step process. The first of the two was an exact repeat: power lead out, shuffle it from the wall, open the lid, lift and tip. More grapes everywhere. The second of the two was slightly different. It was heavier. Mackay went through the same motions, only when he got to lift and tip, he had to readjust his hand position underneath, clamping down harder and lifting with more effort. This time there weren’t just grapes being emptied from the inside compartment, a body toppled out with it. A frozen female. Folded in half to fit. Naked and dead and purple. Like the grapes. She had needles fixed with tubes attached to various sections of her see-through skin. Whoever the woman was, she was now shrivelled, dehydrated and ultimately sucked dry of all her blood. Part of Van Breeman’s 18+ catalogue. Her face was a gaunt outline of bone. Her prominent features reduced to a film as thin as food wrap. Her hair, strangely, was tied up away from her face, wrapped in a neat bun. Her eyes, once wide and pretty, were now hardened to glass. She had high cheekbones with even features at all angles. Probably a looker back in her day. How long she had been crammed at the bottom of the freezer only Van Breeman would know. Now a dead man’s guess. No rhyme or reason. Another tick in the box for humanity, thought Mackay, and someone else’s problem very shortly.
Mackay didn’t need to empty the last freezer. The one numbered IV–XII was bare anyway, so there was no point. He left the room and worked his way down to the wine press, moving inside with the jerry can to the most flammable object in the facility. The antique wooden structure. The old basket press he’d come across earlier. All wood, all old, all ready to burn. Luckily Van Breeman liked to keep some forms of tradition alive, which for this job was a good thing. Mackay felt a little bad about destroying it, as it was rather beautiful considering its age and craftsmanship, but it was owned by a dead guy with shameful ethics. In the end, Mackay figured burning the old press was serving a purpose for the greater good. Like a martyr.
The two vertical beams were tall enough to almost reach the wooden ceiling joists. Another good thing. Especially when the flames started licking at the top. Mackay doused the press with fuel from the jerry, splashing evenly at the front, then pouring a nice little pool inside the central basket to get the heat going. He then moved around to the back of the structure, tight up against the gyprock wall behind it. Using what fuel remained, he doused it along the back of the beams and rotating capstans. Suddenly, Mackay stumbled sideways into the gyprock with his shoulder – falling inward through a door cut into it. Seeing as the wall itself remained erect, Mackay figured he’d fallen through a concealed partition. A false door. Opening to an entirely new room completely separate from the main facility. As he looked around, the first thing he noticed was the long wooden table in front of him, extending left to right. Two tables aligned together end to end, stained with shades of purple and red. Grape juice. Or blood. Most likely both.
Set at the table closest to him were six chairs: three chairs per table. On the other side were four surgical trolleys, all lined with stainless steel trays. The two trays on the left were neatly laid out with laboratory equipment, as if prepped for a high school science experiment. Each tray had an open box of surgical gloves, pathology syringes, a vial rack filled with a dozen vials, two small strainers, a box of paper filters, beakers, and a set of everyday kitchen scissors. The two trays on the right were lined with cutting implements. Some were surgical like scalpels, forceps and scissors – same as what you’d find during an autopsy. Some were more industrial like what you’d find at a butcher: cleavers, boning knives, chef’s knives, clam knives and scimitars. A fully fleshed-out blood-grape operation. It was worse than Mackay originally thought. They weren’t just acquiring blood volumes through pathology clinics or blood banks; they were also taking their quantities by force. Victims captured and killed. Taken down like slabs of meat at an abattoir. The wall on the left had a set of black aprons on hooks. Shiny waterproof ones made with rubber and vinyl. The wall opposite had a big stainless-steel wash basin. The floor was laid with smooth tiles and a small drainage grill fixed in the middle. There was also a retractable winding hose reel set in the corner, which Mackay assumed was used to pressure clean the floor with, and regularly too. There wasn’t a hint of leftover residue or debris to be seen, everything was immaculately kept. No flies and no smell either. Someone somewhere had been running the place to inspection order.
The room was obviously set up for blood injections. Employees who were probably shuffled around in alternating shifts to inject grapes, then serve customers at the front of house. Six chairs for six workers, though could easily allocate for more considering the space. Workers who would soon find themselves unemployed wherever they were. This was the real daily grind of the winery. Working bees diligently slicing, dicing, draining then infusing. Who knew what they did with the remains, or whose the remains were or where they came from. The list of possibilities was a wide-open source: locals, tourists, refugees, illegal immigrants, even international cadaver shipments. A matter for a higher power. Not Mackay’s problem. He’d be long gone before anybody came looking for him, and he was about to burn the place to the ground anyway. Better that way. There’d still be plenty of evidence left over for an open-and-shut case, but at least the most crucial elements would be taken down in the blaze.
Mackay stepped back through the gyprock wall and lit up the old wooden press with the cowboy’s lighter. The theatrics started slow, creeping from a smoulder to a flame, to a blaze to a bonfire. The final dent in Van Breeman’s enterprise. He then made his way back to Lincoln who was still sound asleep in the chair basking in the warmth of pulled pork sliders on the television. He could see Lincoln’s eyes moving underneath the lids. Dreaming. Hopefully about chocolates and Mary Poppins and not of the brick fireplace or whatever else he’d been through over the last three days.
Mackay left the room again, letting Lincoln sleep. Safe and comfortable. There was still a little time, and Lincoln had earned a bit of shut-eye. Somebody needed to be notified of the situation: the beaten woman, the blood in the grapes and the hollowed, defrosting body from the freezer. And that somebody was not going to be any individual paramedic or police officer. Or anyone with any connections to the local emergency services in the area. He needed to call everyone. Because chances were, if all emergency departments were there, accountability to manage the truth was at a much higher percentage. The more members dealing with the bodies, fire, and Van Breeman’s exports, the higher the likelihood it would be handled through correct processes. The more the merrier.
Mackay took out the mobile phone he’d found on the wine-tasting bench and stepped onto the veranda. Which was when he encountered a problem. He didn’t know Australia’s emergency number, which he recognised put him in the complete-idiot category, pure and simple. Then and there, his greatest dumb-arse moment of his entire life. Cross would never let him live it down if she ever found out. He was a world-traveller. A soldier. A corporal for goodness’ sake. Yet he hadn’t the foggiest idea. Europe was all 112, and the whole world knew 911 was for the United States and Canada. He even knew the secondary 999 number of Ireland, but Australia? He’d never visited before. Never needed to know. Foreign number, foreign country. His mind was blank.
‘Fuck. What the fuck is the emergency number?’ he said out loud, hating himself every passing second. Spoiling the momentum right when things were swimming along. In that same flash of disappointment, Mackay heard a small set of feet shuffling through the gallery behind him. Tiny tiptoeing steps, slow and light. Mackay turned. Lincoln’s malnourished form hobbled over next to him. Mackay knelt down as Lincoln wrapped his arms around his neck and hugged him, like it came naturally.
‘Zero, zero, zero,’ Lincoln said in Mackay’s ear. His voice dry and automated.
Mackay paused, blinking away his confusion. He shuffled back and faced his nephew.
‘What’s that, Lincoln?’ said Mackay.
‘You told me.’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘After your accident we visited. You said soldiers don’t say oh. They say zero. That’s the emergency number here. Zero, zero, zero.’
The little autistic boy knew it.
‘How did you figure that out?’ said Mackay. ‘Who told you that was the emergency number here?’
‘I read it.’
‘Where?’
Lincoln pointed to the female toilets at the other end of the veranda. ‘A sticker on the big red bottle.’
From where they stood, Mackay could just make out the fire extinguisher fixed to the wall through the female bathroom’s vacant doorframe. Above the paper towels he used to wipe Lincoln down with.
‘You’re incredible,’ said Mackay.
‘You could still dial one, one, two,’ said Lincoln, ‘it wouldn’t matter. It would still go to an Australian emergency line.’
‘How do you know that?’
Lincoln shrugged.
Lincoln’s spectrum quirks made Mackay feel even more stupid.
‘I’m tired,’ said Lincoln, and nestled his head on Mackay’s shoulder. Gently, comfortably. ‘You should call right away,’ he said. ‘There’s a fire out there.’ Lincoln turned and pointed. ‘Behind us. I saw it. It’s far away so we’re okay now, but it’s big. You’re supposed to call the fire department if you see a fire.’
Mackay’s sense of stupidity vanished, immediately replaced with endearment for the boy. An uncle’s love. A family tie that would never break. In that moment Mackay had found his new purpose in life: to look after Lincoln until he was a grown man. Until he was able to manage the world on his own.
Mackay dialled 000. A recorded message began:
“You have dialled emergency triple zero. Your call is being connected. An operator will answer your call and ask whether you need police, fire and rescue, or ambulance.”
An operator came on the line.
‘Do you require Police, Fire or Ambulance?’
Mackay gave his best Australian accent.
‘All of them. Frans and Hoek Winery in Margaret River is on fire, and there are bodies everywhere. Some are alive, some are not.’
That was it. Mackay hung up, wiped the phone down with his sleeve then stomped it to pieces. He had no further use for it and being traced was not an option. He had no idea what Cross’s number was, or any other contact in Australia for that matter, so he couldn’t make any calls regardless. Even if he wanted to source military aid from his old contacts back in the UK, it would leave a trail. Which meant from that point on, he was completely on his own.
|
0430hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Day was breaking. Black was slowly morphing to a muted grey. Which, against the contrast of the bristling fire behind the gallery, made for a bleak morning. Unfortunately, it made the morning feel worse than the world could give credit for. Really, it was just another day. The planet had turned. As it would the next day and the day after that. People had died. But Mackay was alive, and Lincoln had been found.
After destroying the phone, Mackay carried Lincoln across the winery car park, over the road into a litter of trees behind a single wired fence line. Into more forest growth, like most of the land surrounding the vineyard, only it wasn’t as densely populated. After thirty paces Mackay found two wide jarrah trees living next to each other, providing enough cover from either direction of the road. He sat down with Lincoln asleep in his arms, his face pleasantly contrasting the dusk’s gloom. He propped his back against the thicker of the two trees, closed his eyes and waited. Resting and thinking. He tried clearing his mind, but he was too wired. Attacking brain waves of self-awareness kept slipping through. All noise and chatter. The events of the evening playing over and over, along with the doubt of getting out of the situation without the authorities catching up with him. His head was like a scream-fest blaring incoherent thrash metal somewhere in the background. He ran his fingernails hard through his hair. Around the ears, the temple, the crown, down the nape. Drawing blood into the scalp. Painful and relaxing at the same time. For a long moment he wished he was back in Afghanistan. Slinging banter with the boys, prepping for an operation. Mostly, he thought of Cross. Back at the airbase, waiting for information to come through. A loc-stat or sit-rep report. Which he couldn’t give because he had nothing to communicate with. He knew nothing could be done, but he was still fuming about not knowing Cross’s number. Or having any contact written or digitally keyed in somewhere for that matter. He and Lincoln were surviving purely on the concept of luck and soldier experience, which had served well so far. To a point at least. The only reason he had come out on top was an insolent will to survive, as well as the fortuitous addition of some enhanced technology imbedded inside him.
At ten minutes into dozing with Lincoln’s sooty hair brushing his neck, a distant wail hit the air. It travelled across the valley, starting low in the hilly range, rising steadily, then shrieking into life as a big red fire truck, pulling into the vineyard’s entrance. The driver quickly established a manoeuvring point then beelined down behind the front of house where a monstrous orange blaze licked the dawn clean out of the atmosphere. Mackay could feel the warmth of the fire even from behind the thick jarrah. He was a little annoyed though, as he had hoped the paramedics or police would arrive first. Namely so he could hijack their vehicle and start making tracks. Taking a firefighting truck would be slow and cumbersome on the roads, and much too visible. Even at this hour of the morning.
Three minutes later, this time without the noise and theatrics, the paramedics arrived. Which made sense. The cops would arrive third, seeing as Mackay had not stated whether the bodies were in immediate danger. He mentioned a fire in progress first, with bodies everywhere second. The order of arrival may have differed if he said it the other way around. Either way, Mackay was happy with an ambulance as a mode of transport.
From between the two jarrah trees Mackay watched the ambulance park in front of the gallery. He then watched a second ambulance arrive, which gave him even better odds of scoring a vehicle. Having two vehicles arrive made sense, given his open-ended description of bodies everywhere. Typically, one ambulance catered for one critical patient, but with two, they’d be able to assess the situation and possibly request a third, or a fourth. For the numbers, five ambulances were required: the reporter, Van Breeman, the cowboy, the black mass, the frozen woman. Though, Mackay wasn’t sure what they’d do with her. She was undoubtedly a cold case. Literally and figuratively. Dead and frozen for a good long while. A missing person from way back. Whether she was a police concern or a paramedic concern was a debate he wasn’t going to have. He needed to steal one of the two ambulance vehicles as soon as possible.
In the fiery light, Mackay watched both sets of paramedics exit their vehicles – each in tow with a detailed heavy-duty response kit. The four of them gathered on the veranda around their first casualty as expected: the beaten woman. The petite brunette he’d laid at the open door with the tipped freezers and blood-grapes. All of which were thawing out on the floor. Easy evidence which Mackay hoped would already be releasing its coppery blood stink as they rose to temperature. He then watched them mediate and discuss things, looking at the signs of mayhem. Nodding and pointing back and forth, finalising decisions on who was doing what. After a few seconds, one paramedic from the first ambulance slowly entered the room while his partner opened the response kit and began tending to the woman. The second pair from the second ambulance then left the veranda and disappeared behind the gallery. Either to collaborate with the fire department or to look around to find the initial caller. Or maybe they went searching for more potential casualties. Whatever they were doing was irrelevant. Mackay picked Lincoln up and dashed back across the road toward the car park. To the closest ambulance with its driver’s side door open. Staying silent at this point was also irrelevant. Any sound made crunching across the gravel was dampened by the sound of a building being reduced to kindling over a hundred yards away. Not to mention the hundreds of pounds of pressurised water smothering the woofing inferno.
Mackay checked the keys were still in the ignition then hopped into the front seat. He slid Lincoln’s sleeping form over the console into the passenger side and closed the door. So far so good. He’d gone by completely unnoticed. Mackay reclined Lincoln’s seat back a little for comfort, strapped him in, then secured his own seat belt. He selected reverse on the gear lever, backed out of the parking bay, then shifted into drive – creeping out of the winery towards the road. Before leaving the grounds, he made a final left-right sweep across the side-view mirrors. In the driver’s-side mirror, he could see the rear end of the fire truck with two guys operating a hose on a raised ladder. In the passenger’s mirror, he saw the first two responding paramedics spring from the veranda and start running towards him.
Mackay exited the gravel driveway and turned left. He got no more than a couple hundred metres down the warming blacktop before a van appeared over a crest in front of him, moving with purpose. A second after it passed, it pulled up hard. Its tyres shrieking painfully as they bawled to a halt twenty metres behind Mackay in a cloud of smoke. Through his rear-view mirror Mackay watched the van back up and work a fast three-point turn. Lock-to-lock, one-eighty degrees. Changing direction to the same as Mackay’s line of travel. The van accelerated furiously up beside him on the right and then swung into his lane. Cutting him off completely and pulling to an immediate stop. Forcing Mackay to bed into the brake and hold the vehicle steady, halting inches from the van’s tailgate.
The light of the dawning sun hadn’t completely split the horizon yet, so Mackay wasn’t sure of the exact colour of the vehicle. From where he sat, it looked silver-grey, however the make and model were distinct: a Kia Carnival. The chrome badge and lettering gleamed from the soft red of the brake lights. The van moved, veering to the farthest edge of the road on the left before backing up and swinging around again. The full process: three-point turn, lock-to-lock, one-eighty degrees, blocking Mackay the entire time. Then it crawled forward. Aligning its driver’s-side door right alongside Mackay’s. Each vehicle facing the opposite direction in the middle of the road, one metre apart from handle to handle. The driver, a man, powered his window down and leaned out, taking in the clearest observation possible through the dark-grey tint of Mackay’s window. His eyes were searching and agitated. He had a thick neck and a blockhead with a ballpark age of around forty. It did not seem like he had stopped to ask for directions. Rather, he was assessing the occupants: Mackay, wearing a military-grade tactical uniform, and the small passenger reclining next to him. A young boy, asleep, aged around five or six.
Over a surge of milliseconds, Mackay processed a number of deductions linking the driver and the vehicle. This included the time of day, the frenzied approach, the screeching tyres and lack of driver etiquette; not having his low beams on in the dimness of the morning. Even though Mackay couldn’t clearly see the driver’s features through his window, he could tell he wore a dark collared shirt and that the man was tall – considering how close his blockhead was to the roof lining. All calculations boiled down to the theory that the driver did not want to be seen, yet needed to move with speed and purpose. The man was pressured to reach a specific location with utmost urgency. Which quashed Mackay’s first three proposals: either he was a concerned neighbour, an unmarked police vehicle or another emergency responder out of uniform. Neither proposal felt right. In the end, tying it all together was the driver’s expression. Which brought Mackay to his fourth and final conclusion: the driver was one of Van Breeman’s men.
At the same time all the little pieces connected, the driver also joined his own dots as to who Mackay was. Or at least who he suspected he was, because without a flinch, word or gesture, once he locked eyes on Mackay, he dipped his shoulder below the doorframe, raised it, then extended his arm out the window holding a weapon. A big one. Blue steel frame with distinct cylindrical chambers. A revolver. The guy’s paws were big, wrapping comfortably around the handle, but the weight of the piece was obvious. His wrist wasn’t flush and the barrel angled slightly lower than level. Which meant the chambers were full of lead. Beefy .357 rounds. All of which indicated something powerful, most likely a Magnum. A Dirty Harry. Sure-fire single burst, no safety, would not jam. One hell of a gun. Not something any regular Joe could just walk into a gun store and purchase. At least not in Australia.
Mackay hit the gas pedal in the nick of time, right before two cracking blows punched into the side of the ambulance. The first round shattered the window next to Mackay’s head. The hydrostatic pressure from the slug exploding the glass like silver confetti, embedding the chips into his hair and face. The second round drove through the B-pillar next to the headrest. None hit flesh or bone which was a positive, but a shard of glass split Mackay’s left eyelid, making the landscape a little pink and blurry.
Mackay had no idea where he was going, he just knew he was on a country road leading away from the winery. Luckily where vehicles drove on the same side as back in the UK. He had a marginal head start which was somewhat advantageous, thanks to the direction he was already facing. Whereas the other guy had to drop the Magnum, sit back in his chair and work the transmission again. Third time lucky: three-point turn, one-eighty rotation, then pile on the gas. Enough time for Mackay to extend his lead by about seven or eight seconds. Enough to get ahead, but not enough to be out of sight. And the daylight was only getting brighter which made everything more conspicuous. Especially an ambulance.
Mackay drove fast but steady. Big vehicle, unfamiliar roads. He did his best to drive to the conditions and gain as much distance as possible, but at the same time had to keep in mind there was a small boy curled up in the seat next to him. Which also meant Mackay needed to think. Think about how he was going to eliminate the encroaching enemy without a weapon or a secondary aid. He had no spotter to help give directions, divert attention, or blanket the van’s windscreen with a spray from a machine gun. There was nobody sitting next to him who could hold a rifle and take head shots or blow tyres out. Mackay was on his own.
After four minutes of long sweeping bends, hills and dives, the West Australian sky cracked a sliver of orange, opening the landscape with good visibility. And with regular glances into the rear-view mirror, it was obvious the ambulance was the heavier vehicle. The silver van behind them slowly but surely kept creeping closer. The driver familiar with his vehicle and the roads. Time was running out and Mackay had to think harder. There was only one road snaking through the terrain, so he couldn’t divert onto any alternate routes or forks or bush tracks. The fence lines either side holding back the wildlife made veering off the road impossible, as were the road shoulders which were deeply gravelled for drainage. When a break from the fence line did intermittently open, the scattered trees, ditches and thickets of bushland were too dense. The vehicle was not an off-roader, so it wouldn’t be able to take it. Even if a diverging track did miraculously appear, careening across the red earth would make his position too obvious. The mammoth plumes of burgundy dust billowing into the air would pinpoint his location like a beacon. Bad idea. As was turning the vehicle around to try and veer the driver off the road. Playing chicken on a reckless impulse with Lincoln in the vehicle was not an option.
Mackay needed to wait for the road to rise into a tall ascent, tapering to a blind hill at the top. A peak with nothing to see over the crest other than the horizon. Which came a few short kilometres later as the route twisted around the land. As the slower vehicle, what Mackay was about to do, he had to do rapidly. The van was less than a kilometre behind him, literally only a few hundred metres. Every passing second, the driver was increasing speed and cutting his distance. Mackay had one chance to get this done, and get it done right. Which was a big ask in that pressure-cooker moment. The last time things got hairy whilst operating a vehicle he had made mistakes. He had reacted without thinking, without applying standard operating procedures. Drills he’d practised hundreds of times had gone out the window. He had failed his training. Team members were killed. That could not happen again. All steps in this next strategy needed to be applied aggressively. Slow and smooth would not work.
Once the vehicle started climbing the crest, Mackay reached over Lincoln and grabbed his seat belt, holding his forearm firm against Lincoln’s chest. Once the vehicle hit the peak of the rise Mackay held his line and began braking steadily. Not hard enough to activate ABS, but heavy enough to pull to a stop without burning rubber. Consistent, modulated pressure. Burned rubber and smoke was as good as giving away his intentions.
The ambulance twitched and skimmed until the top of the vehicle dipped beyond the peak then slowed to a stop. Invisible from the rise behind them, dead centre of his lane where the road continued into the horizon. Narrow as a blade of grass. Lincoln’s eyes flicked over to his uncle, watching as he undid both seat belts in frenzied succession, crawled across the centre console, pulled him into his arms, opened the passenger door and leaped out. With Lincoln cradled against his chest, Mackay dove at a low angle, ensuring he hit the roadside shoulder first – his momentum sending them tumbling into the red earth.
Three seconds later a chrome grill rose into view as the silver van appeared over the crest. It didn’t slow until it was too late, ploughing headfirst into the back of the ambulance, doing well over a hundred kilometres an hour. Metres from Mackay and Lincoln huddled in the dirt. The ambulance bucked forward and exploded. Not into a cloudy inferno with fire and smoke, but into pieces. Chunks and sections of body panels, seats, engine components, first aid equipment and an ocean of glass. The stretcher flew up vertically, wafted like a kite and landed off into the shrub.
The front end of the van crumpled like an accordion before bouncing away, careening sideways onto two wheels then rotating over and over up the road ahead. Like a spit roast over a flame, it just kept turning. Flipping and breaking apart before settling against a pod of grasstrees and sedimentary rock.
Mackay stood immediately and carried Lincoln over to the silver wreckage. He remembered the words of an old sergeant. A warrior’s battle code: if your enemy is down, make sure he stays down. After a hundred paces Mackay peered into the mouth of the carnage – where the front windscreen, bonnet, headlights and grill should have been. The trashed machine lay upside down, the make and model now completely unidentifiable. The whole front was a blended mesh of steel and plastic. He left Lincoln on the roadside then stooped down to look under the crumpled bonnet. There was no body in the driver’s seat. Which was only half true as the body that was there just wasn’t complete, and wasn’t breathing, which was all Mackay needed to know. The driver’s torso had dropped onto the road, fallen out of the windscreen with his legs and buttocks still partially attached to the seat. Courtesy of the fastened seat belt. At some point during the impact and subsequent flipping, glass and steel had cut him open. The man’s trunk was agape. The separation between upper and lower body like the open jaws of a shark. Fleshy slabs of red and white were crusted over with glass. Gravity and positioning had done its thing and spilled his innards. Spread like a tray of butcher’s sausages. Plenty enough for a family barbecue. All in a neat little mound on the blacktop underneath him, which Lincoln didn’t need to see. Flies had already gathered for the feasting, crawling around and sucking on his blood.