Dead heat, p.30
Dead Heat, page 30
‘Something wrong?’
She looked away. ‘No. I was just wondering . . . When we’ve got my mother, where will we go?’
‘We won’t be using my yacht for a quick getaway, since you trashed it.’
‘I didn’t trash it! It blew up!’
‘Not of its own accord.’
‘I reckon it was a bomb,’ she said.
‘Yeah. You reckon right.’
She blinked. ‘You knew there was a bomb on your boat?’
‘Yup.’
‘Lee!’ God, getting information from him was like trying to squeeze orange juice from a lump of coral.
‘I instructed the captain to prep the boat and let it be known around town I was about to set sail. The RBG fell for it. I saw the thing they’d planted the day you took your ride.’ He shot her a look of admonishment. ‘If I’d known you were a Ferretti joyrider, I’d have dismantled it.’
‘There was talk of you with a woman . . .’
‘Yeah. I spread the rumour. To unsettle the Chens a fraction.’
‘Do the RBG know I’m alive?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Expand, would you?’
‘If I heard you were around, then Spider would too. And I did pick you up outside a police station. Word’ll be out.’
She mulled it over, how the Chens were still holding her mother despite Songtao’s demise, and a sick horror flooded through her at her next thought. ‘Are you sure Daniel’s not Spider?’
He looked up and she saw with astonishment that she’d shocked him. ‘Jeez, you’ve got an even worse opinion of the world than I have. And there was I thinking you liked the bloke.’
‘I do!’
‘Well, then. Trust your instincts.’
*
Lee spent the remainder of the day repetitively checking his guns, then his car. Fluid levels, filters, tyres, even the windows got a wash. Then he ran through his plan. Made her repeat it back. After she’d got it word-perfect three times running, he disappeared for a nap, suggesting she did too, but she was too hyped up to lie still enough to relax, let alone fall asleep. She wondered what Daniel thought of her disappearing from the cop shop, and whether he was worried. She tried to read a paperback and by the time she’d got to the second chapter and realised she hadn’t taken in a word, Lee returned, and started preparing supper.
Honey duck and crackling with fresh green beans and steamed rice. Lots of preparation. Garlic to be finely chopped, fresh ginger grated, shallots stripped, sesame seeds roasted.
‘Do you always cook like this?’
‘Nope. But I find it helps settle the mind—’
‘Before a raid.’
It felt weird, helping him in the kitchen. Like she was playing sous-chef to Darth Vader, or Superman. She wasn’t quite sure whether he was a superhero or a supervillain, and decided he was both.
*
‘You’ve one hell of an appetite on you,’ he said when they were finally on their way. ‘Must have been all that sea air.’
‘You’re one hell of a cook,’ she said. ‘Are you married?’
‘What, in my job? You’re kidding.’
They fell silent as they headed into Nulgarra, Lee cruising cautiously, constantly checking his rear-view mirror, his wing mirrors. It was eleven thirty when he doused the lights, shut off the engine and silently rolled to a halt a hundred metres from the Mighty Chopstick.
Her breathing was shallow and she was trembling. She dreaded to think what she’d be like come 2 a.m. A basket case, probably.
Buzzing down their windows, Lee lit a cigar and exhaled steadily outside. ‘One thing I haven’t told you,’ he said.
From the way he studied the tip of his cigar, she guessed she wasn’t going to like it.
‘My boss has put out a rumour I’ve discovered who Spider is, but haven’t given him a name. Spider will do anything to wipe me out, now he thinks I know who he is. And he’s up for a bonus if the RBG get hold of Mingjun, Jon Ming, for their Chinese clients. Eighty grand or thereabouts, I’ve been told. One hell of a bonus, wouldn’t you say? Worth killing for.’
Flicking some imaginary ash from his shirt, he continued. ‘The RBG have told Spider I’m after your mum. But Spider doesn’t want us to get Linette. He still thinks it’s the only way to keep you in line and tell the RBG where Jon is, thus guaranteeing his bonus. He’s been blocking me all the way. He got Jason Chen to move Linette when he heard I was getting close. He even suggested the restaurant. Immediately after we have Linette on board, my boss is going to tell the force what I’m doing, but not where. Spider will come here like a shot, and try to take me down.’
His hands clenched and unclenched.
‘And I’ll be waiting.’
Anxious, she said, ‘He won’t jeopardise Mum?’
‘Nope. You’ll both be far away by then. No problem.’
*
Waiting was torture. Her natural instinct was to get stuck in and make things happen. Patience never had been one of her stronger points. She tried to strike up a conversation with Lee but since it was like chatting with a retarded mollusc, she gave up after a while. She studied the street a thousandth time. There were rows of fig and palm trees and streetlights with weatherboard houses on the right and closed-up shops on the left. Milk bar, small grocery store, fishing and dive shop and newsagent were all flanked by the Mighty Chopstick at one end and the All Italia Pizza at the other.
Occasionally a vehicle drove past, but they hardly saw anyone on foot. One man walked his dog. Another popped from one house to the next, and back again five minutes later, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Through the open car window she could hear the background noise she usually never noticed, a steady faint hum that was the sound of a town falling asleep; the mutter of TVs, people chatting, stereos playing, phones ringing.
As the clock ticked to 1 a.m., the hum had all but gone, and the insects had taken over, clicking and chirruping. She could even hear a bunch of frogs croaking.
Lee suddenly stiffened. A side door to the Mighty Chopstick cracked open and light spilled out. Lee slid down in his seat and Georgia followed suit, eyes latched to the figure emerging. It was a slender Chinese man dressed in cotton trousers and baggy shirt, shiny black shoes and a big black belt with silver studs.
‘One less to worry about,’ said Lee.
‘How many are in there guarding my mother?’
‘Just the two now.’
‘How do you know for sure?’
He gave her a sideways look. ‘I do this for a living.’
Oh, God. She kept forgetting his trademark. Disembowelling his victims for information. Did his DIMA boss know he did that sort of stuff? Surely not. The Aussie government wouldn’t sanction such torture.
Lee forced her to wait until 2.45 a.m. before leaning over and raising his trouser leg. He had a holster next to his shin. She watched him withdraw a knife. Wickedly curved, its steel was matt-black – for night work, she guessed – and had a blood gutter. A flashback to the air crash. He’d hacked her hair free with that same knife.
He passed her a mobile phone and said, ‘Let’s run through it one more time.’
Tucking the mobile in her front shorts pocket, she repeated what he’d told her earlier in the day. She was to wait in the driver’s seat of the car until he came out with Linette and make sure they were alone before driving forward to pick them up. If anyone remotely suspicious arrived at the restaurant, she was to ring him and let his mobile ring just twice. No more, no less. His would be set to vibrate. Hers too. If anything went wrong, she was to drive away immediately. Should he and Linette not appear within twenty minutes, same story.
He gave a nod to tell her she’d got it right, then he took his Beretta and gently racked the slide to chamber a round. Did the same with the Magnum. He gestured at her, and she primed the two Glocks, stuffing one in the small of her back, in her waistband, the second in the well between the seats. Another nod, then he quietly opened his car door and slid outside. She did the same, crept around to the driver’s seat and snicked the door shut, watching him move soundlessly down the road.
Slipping down the side of the restaurant, he vanished from sight. It was only then she realised she’d been holding her breath and let it out in a little rush.
One minute. Two minutes. Three. How long would it take to pick a couple of locks, disable two men and release a hostage? Four. Five. She was getting mesmerised by the car’s digital clock and hurriedly started scanning the street. God, some lookout. Must concentrate. Keep alert.
Quick flick to the clock. Six minutes.
All was still and silent, aside from the insects and frogs.
She didn’t know when she first noticed. A flash at the end of the street, then a pair of headlights turning into Crown Street.
Ducking low in her seat, she prayed. Please, just be going home after dinner with friends. Just be going home.
In the next ten seconds she saw the car sweep to its right, and slow as it approached the Chinese restaurant.
It was a black Mercedes.
Thirty-nine
Fingers unsteady, she called Lee’s number and let it ring twice. She pushed her phone back into her pocket and picked up the Glock from the seat well. Her hands were sweaty, but the grip was ribbed and didn’t slip.
She didn’t take her eyes off the Merc. Three men climbed out. Two from the front, one from the back. The driver she didn’t recognise, but the man from the passenger’s seat wore jeans and a leather jacket, even in the heat . . . Jason Chen turned to his father and said something. They were too far away for her to make out their features or see their lips move, but she could tell they were talking by their body language; little gestures, head movements, posturing.
They looked relaxed. No guns that she could see, although she didn’t doubt they were armed. And they hadn’t looked her way or checked the street.
The three men walked steadily for the side of the restaurant, still talking. She debated whether to call Lee again, and decided not to distract him. One warning would be enough.
She watched the men, terrified she’d see a head turn, look straight at her. Her hands were shaking and she double-checked her finger was off the Glock’s trigger. She didn’t want to loose off a shot by accident.
When they vanished from sight, she stared after them.
I don’t believe this is happening.
Could she just sit there and wait for them to kill her personal hawk and drag her mother somewhere else?
The next second she clicked open the car door and slid outside, leaving the keys in the ignition. Glock in her right hand, she forced herself around the bonnet of the Mitsubishi, trying to tread quietly, flinching at the tiny scrunches of grit against her shoes. She took four more steps and she was on the pavement, walking as fast and soundlessly as she could. She bent low and headed for the side of the restaurant.
What she was going to do when she got there, she hadn’t a clue. Cautiously she peered down the narrow alley between the newsagent and the restaurant. And jerked like she’d been shot when her mobile vibrated.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘How many?’
‘Three.’
She was opening her mouth to ask if he had her mother but he’d disconnected. Hell. She’d wished he’d given her an order, like go to the front of the restaurant and shoot the door down. But then he assumed she was waiting in the car.
Glock tight in her hand, she headed down the alley, moving step by nerve-racking step, trying to see where her feet trod, making sure there wasn’t a tin can in the way, a rustling paper bag. She reached the end of the alley and peered right to the rear of the restaurant. The back door was ajar, spilling light across two industrial-sized garbage bins, four white plastic chairs and a load of bindweed growing up the surrounding fence.
She still had no idea what to do. If she opened the door, she might alert the Chens she was there and blow whatever plan Lee had. All she could think was that she couldn’t stand there and do nothing.
Tiptoeing to the door, she peered through the crack. All she could see was a wall. Whitewashed. No pictures. No flaking paint. Tucking her forefinger around the door, she pulled it, infinitesimally slowly, open a centimetre.
Crack!
She jerked back, a scream forming in her throat.
A gunshot from inside the restaurant.
Crack! Crack!
The sound of shouting, feet thundering. More shots. Men hollering in Cantonese. A crash as something hit the floor. It sounded big, like a piece of furniture, not a person.
Crack!
Another crash. A smashing sound, like china. Lots of yelling.
She found herself cowering, making herself small against the bedlam.
Boom!
Lee’s Magnum.
Boom! Boom!
Crack!
Sudden silence. Her ears were ringing from the shots and she could hear nothing aside from a dog’s mad non-stop barking nearby. She had no doubt the entire neighbourhood was currently dialling triple zero from under their beds.
‘Aiyee!’ An exclamation of what sounded like relief.
A long stream of Cantonese. Small silence.
Oh, Jesus, sweet Lord. Is Lee all right? Mum?
More chattering. Excited and relieved all at once. A couple of clicks that sounded like gun chambers being emptied, or loaded.
She stood there trembling, flinching with each sound, sweat pouring, her grip on the Glock spasmodically tight.
A roll of Cantonese. Slightly slurred. Deeper than the rest.
Lee. Lee’s voice. Had he been shot? What about her mother? She couldn’t hear a woman’s voice.
The rustle of cloth. A small thud. Lee’s groan.
They’d kicked him.
Strangely, it was this realisation that prompted her into action. Not that they’d shot him, which they probably had, but that they’d kicked him, like Jason Chen had kicked her, to make themselves feel big.
She was only a foot from the door leaking its light. Frozen into place, she’d barely moved since the shots had started.
Another thud. Another long, agonised groan.
Lots of chattering. A laugh. The Chens releasing their tension.
Georgia took a step and curled her fingers around the door and tugged it gently open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. Amazingly, it didn’t, and she pulled it wider, seeing whitewashed wall, more wall, then a boot. Two boots. One was Lee’s. The other she didn’t recognise. As she inched the door open she realised Lee was sprawled next to the inert body of the driver of the Merc. She saw the bodies of the two guards at the far end of the room. If Lee had been correct about the number of guards, the only enemies left in the room were Jason Chen and his father. She couldn’t see her mother. God, please let Mum be safe.
She saw Lee’s black shirt was wet and glistening with what could have been dark paint. Blood. He was covered in blood. And he wasn’t moving.
Although she’d guessed he’d been shot, she hadn’t reckoned on her reaction to seeing him like that. It was as though her heart had been torn from her chest and sliced in half. She couldn’t breathe, and the pain in her heart grew and grew until she thought she was having a heart attack. She had to see if he was alive. If he was alive, she knew the pain would stop.
She was dimly aware of the chatter of Cantonese, the smell of cigarette smoke, but she put the danger aside in her all-consuming desire to open the door a bit further . . . just to see Lee’s face . . .
Gap-tooth Chen’s shoulder came into view, a cloud of cigarette smoke drifting around it.
She pushed the door a little wider, craning to catch a glimpse of Lee . . . She saw his shirt collar, his cashew-smooth throat, then the angle of his jaw, the scar running behind his ear, his mouth, straight and unmoving, that narrow nose . . .
Black eyes staring straight back.
A sensation of roaches scurrying over her skin. He’d been aware of her all along. He was alive.
Black eyes flicking to Gap-tooth then back to her. His lips moving. Shoot him.
Georgia began to raise her Glock and curled her finger around the trigger. Next step, she knew, was to feel the resistance of the trigger against the pad of her finger and shoot.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
At that moment the door was flung open wide.
She jumped and flinched backwards, then yanked her finger on the trigger but nothing happened. Her hesitation had activated the safety system. Her wrist was grabbed and she was flung inside, sprawling almost on top of Lee. She was swinging round, trying to bring her Glock up when she saw a boot aiming for her kidneys. Rolling, still holding the gun, she let the boot smash into her ribs like a stab of white lightning, and Lee was rolling too, towards her, and she felt his hand in the small of her back, pulling the second Glock free.
Crack!
Her eardrums contracted from the blast.
She saw Gap-tooth’s chest erupt in a spray of blood and his body drop like a stone. Lee was surging left but Jason Chen was swinging round, aiming his gun at Lee. Lee was yelling something but she couldn’t hear.
Her world was small and silent now. She was on her feet. Had the first Glock in both hands.
Lee diving for the floor. Jason Chen’s gun following him. Lee’s face a howl of pain as his shoulder slammed on to floorboards. Lee trying to bring his Glock up, unable to, lips bared in agony. His blood was smeared across the floor like a paintbrush stroke.
Jason Chen taking his time, aiming for Lee’s head.
Her arms were straight. She felt the cool metal of the trigger travel from her fingers into her hands and through her arms into her lungs, her heart. She closed her left eye, trained her right to the end of the barrel, to the foresight, and aligned it with the rear notch, aiming right between Jason Chen’s shoulder blades, and gently, oh so gently, holding her breath, she increased the pressure and the trigger gave way.
Crack!
The pistol jolted, the slide cycling back and forwards.
Jason Chen faltered, one foot raised. Georgia felt her finger squeezing the trigger again, and again.
Crack! Crack!
She was still firing, her mind yelling, Go down, you bastard, go down, you bastard, go down!
