Where they fall, p.24
WHERE THEY FALL, page 24
Curiosity had lured Jake to the back door of the van. Given the crumpled nature of the chassis, the door creaked about halfway open on bent hinges. He did a double take. Nausea rose from the pits of his gut. He dropped to his knees as he stared and the foul smelling remains of his best friend. During his escape from Lyndhurst, he didn’t even get to say goodbye. He had convinced himself he would never see his best friend’s body again. Everything compounded until the weight of the trauma and fatigue, the fear and the guilt became too much to bear. Jake Gibbs hunched forward on the road and let out a series of gut-wrenching screams.
Ryan did the only thing he could do. He stood beside his wailing accomplice and placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. He didn’t speak. There was nothing he could say. He rubbed Jake’s shoulder as the tears flowed. It took a lot of self-induced persuasion for both of them to accept that this was their reality. This wasn’t a morbid nightmare they had found themselves in. This wasn’t a sick dream. Jake was being hunted by whoever these black uniformed mercenaries were. Now that Ryan had sided with him, he, too, was a target. He had a slight advantage. Ryan Bannon knew his way around the desert better than anyone. He knew the terrain and the inhospitable nature of the place. He felt at home in the wild. Surely that would account for something.
The wind picked up from the west, bringing grains of sand howling across the empty highway. The saltbush flexed in the gusts, defenceless against the increasing windstorm.
“Hey,” Ryan finally said. “I don’t think we should linger. We should get to the army site. It will be safe there.”
Jake looked up with red eyes, as if only realising for the first time that Ryan stood beside him. “We’re not leaving Larry here to rot with these psychopaths. We’re taking him with us. He deserves better.”
Ryan couldn’t disagree. If it were one of his closest friends, he would do the same. Despite the blood, despite the maggots and the putrid stench of death, they owed it to him. Ryan lowered the tailgate on the black Hilux and together they forced open the rear door of the van enough to drag Larry’s body from the wreckage. Larry’s corpse had developed rigor mortis. His muscles were stiff with rigidity. He felt unreal, inhuman, as they dragged him from the van. They both held their breath as they hauled Larry across the hot bitumen and lifted him into the back of the Hilux. His skin colour had turned an ashen grey. The blood that covered much of his head had turned a sickly brown.
“We leave the others here to rot,” Jake said, pushing the tailgate closed. “Larry will get a burial.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “These guys don’t deserve any of that. They can spend eternity at the gates of hell.”
Ryan nodded as grains of sand lashed their faces, carried across the highway in the strengthening wind. “Sure thing. But we’ve tested luck long enough. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes past. Then they’ll contact the cops.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They took off with two AR-15 assault rifles, fully loaded, along with one man’s faded leather wallet. Jake fingered through the items in the wallet. He pulled out a Victorian driver’s licence with a Melbourne address. Sebastian Rossi. He found a visa card, a Health Partner’s health insurance card and sixty bucks cash. Jake shuddered as he sifted through the personal items. It made the guy dead on the road more human than Jake wanted to accept. They were bad guys. That’s where it stopped. He didn’t want to think of them as people with bank accounts and health insurance. With names and Netflix accounts. He took the cards and the cash, then flung the empty wallet out into the desert sand.
They hauled Sebastian Rossi’s body into the back of the crumpled van and slammed the door. Jake climbed into the driver’s side of the Hilux while Ryan took to the passenger seat. The Hilux had a new-car smell. A black ice scented pine tree hung from the immaculately clean rear-view mirror. Jake ripped it from its mount and flung it out the window, leaving it in the middle of the road as he drove off towards Aroona Dam.
Ryan navigated as they took a series of corrugated dirt roads, zigzagging through the desolate saltbush plains. The sun rose higher into the cloudless sky, heat radiating off the rocky terrain with an oasis-like shimmer. They made it to an unmarked, narrow gravel driveway, splitting from the road that continued west to the dam. According to Joel Watson, this was their turn off. They followed it for a good kilometre. They passed several private property signs. After descending a narrow track down into a valley, they came to a gate dissecting a chain-link fence. Rusted razor wire hung from the top of the chain-links. Ryan jumped out and opened the gate, dummy locked with a seized and rusty padlock, allowing Jake to drive through, before closing it again.
Once the valley floor flattened out, they came to a series of portable buildings surrounded by a vast stretch of dry desert. A rocky ridgeline concealed the buildings from the north, a cluster of ancient river red gums offered some shade to the south. A crooked and dirt-covered sign hung from a steel fence at the entrance to a graded parking lot.
AROONA TRAINING COMPOUND
AUSTRALIAN DEFENCE FORCE
This area is prohibited. Trespassers prosecuted.
“At least we know we’re in the right place,” Ryan said. “Should we look around?”
Jake wiped sweat from his forehead with a dirty hand. He scanned the compound for movement. Dirt, debris and wild saltbush growing from the front steps showed no one had set foot in the Aroona Training Compound in months. Years perhaps.
“I want to bury Larry,” Jake said. “If we wait too much longer, in this heat, there won’t be much of him left to bury. We need to put him to rest. We need to do what’s right.”
Ryan forced a smile. He pulled his rabbit-felt Akubra hat from the foot well before him and placed it on his sweaty head. “Righto. Let’s go find something to dig with. I won’t lie. When I woke up yesterday, I never in a million years thought I would dig a grave today.”
Jake put his hand on Ryan’s forearm. “Thanks, Ryan. Thanks for being there on the radio. Thanks for stopping. Thanks for taking a chance. Without you, I don’t know if I would even be alive right now.”
Ryan smiled again. This time, it wasn’t forced. “I’d hope you would do that same thing for me, buddy.”
The sun crept across the sky as the heat intensified. River red gums moaned, and the timber creaked as it expanded. The distant rumbling of rocks falling from the high ridgelines caused Jake to flinch a few times until he became conditioned to the menacing sound synonymous with the rugged Flinders Ranges gorges. They located a maintenance shed near the rainwater tanks at the back of the compound. Once they pushed aside the thick layers of spider webs, they found two long-handled shovels and a pick. All three tools were rusty and dented. They looked older than Jake himself, but they would have to do.
Jake picked a shaded spot beside the dry creek bed and began digging. An hour passed. Then two. They took turns and dug in silence, digesting the gravity of their situation. They were digging a grave. No one should have to do that. Ever.
By the time they had dug through the rock-like dirt deep enough for a grave, both men were shirtless, covered in a shiny layer of sweat. They wrapped their damp shirts around the lower half of their faces to protect them from the smell and went to collect Larry’s rotting body from the Hilux.
After lowering Larry’s stiff body into the deep hole in the ground, they both began pushing the loose soil back over him, closing off his last resting place from the rest of the elements.
“Rest in peace,” Jake said, fighting tears. “I’m so sorry. The Strzelecki Track was my idea.”
“Hey, don’t blame yourself,” Ryan interrupted. “We’re dealing with some fucked up shit. Allan is to blame for this. Sebastian Rossi is to blame. Never blame yourself.”
“I’ll see you on the other side,” Jake continued.
A distant hum cut through the unnerving silence in the creek bed. The hum intensified. Jake and Ryan left the tools beside the shallow grave and wiped their sweaty, dirt covered faces with their even sweatier shirts. They gravitated towards the Hilux, reaching for the rifles resting on the back seat.
“That’s a car,” Ryan said, hope and excitement skewing the tone of his voice.
Before Jake could reply, an olive green all-terrain truck appeared over the ridge to the north, a plume of red dust trailing behind it. Optimism. Fear. Excitement. Anxiety. Jake’s emotions collided in a surging tidal current, making it hard to process reality. The defence force was here. He knew what the next step was, and it caused knots to tighten in his stomach. It was time to find Annie. There was quite a strong chance that the outcome would be bad. He knew he would need to face that. He had found solace in the inability to act, in the waiting game. Now, with the waiting game ending, he needed to face the truth—a truth that might be the hardest thing in his life to stomach. Was Annabelle even still alive?
The truck slowed as it pulled up beside the Hilux. Dust squealed on dirty brake pads. Steam rose from the overworked radiator. Two uniformed soldiers leapt from the side door of the vehicle and landed on the compact gravel. They wore camouflage fatigues and leather combat boots laced halfway to their knees. Both men had shaved heads. They could have passed as brothers. They loomed six feet tall—even when hunched over.
Jake shuffled with nervousness. Ryan stood still and waited. A third guy stepped down from the driver’s door. He wore the same camouflage fatigues and the same boots. Dissimilar to his colleagues, the third soldier had a neat, combed mop of oil black hair, a pale complexion and facial hair that lived somewhere between unshaven and a beard. He looked over at Ryan with a warm smile. Friendship. Memories. Acceptance. Hope personified that smile. Jake’s heartbeat settled.
Lieutenant Colonel Joel Watson took large strides across the dusty gravel. As he neared Ryan Bannon, he put both arms out in a welcoming gesture. Ryan stepped forward and the two men embraced with a big, beautiful bear hug.
“Good to see you, Banno. It’s been too long.” Watson’s smile dissipated. He turned to Jake, as if reminding himself about the reason for their meeting. “I just wish it were under different circumstances.”
He reached out with a raised palm in Jake’s direction. “G’day Jake. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Joel Watson. We’re here to get your girl back. We’re gonna put a stop to these motherfuckers.”
Despite the internal battle Jake waged, despite the trauma and the hopelessness that crawled through his tired bones, an authentic, though unexpected smile appeared on his face. He reached out to shake Watson’s hand.
“I hope you’re right.”
FORTY-TWO
Cole stared at the double white lines in the centre of the long, empty highway.
Blake slept beside him. Chung snored in the back. Fatigue had tarnished Cole’s usual ability to process information. He stared at the road, zombie-like, and gripped the steering wheel. He couldn’t remember where one day ended and the next day started. Hell, he didn’t even know what day it was anymore. He had travelled over fifteen hundred kilometres from Blake’s apartment in Melbourne, running on truck-stop coffee and a desire to succeed. The coffee had worn off. The desire was waning.
As the day stretched on, the sun’s relentless power found its way inside the van, even with the air conditioner on full. Cole drove past the rotting remains of a kangaroo carcass on the side of the highway, a stark indicator of the unforgiving environment. Life cannot thrive out here. Death is certain.
He rubbed his eyes and thought of his daughter. He desperately wanted to call Cynthia, to check in and make sure she was okay, but he knew that Prime Technologies would most likely be tracking her phone. Guilt came in a toxic wave. A hot flush came over Cole as an unsettling truth made his skin crawl. They would go after Jenny now. He couldn’t be sure how he knew, but he knew. The game had levelled up. They’d tried to silence him in Elizabeth, to throw him off their scent. By now, they would know he had Chung. The rules had changed. They would play dirty, and he knew that meant they would try to play to his weakness. And Cameron Cole’s weakness was Jenny.
He pulled over on the side of the highway and checked his service-station burner phone, a lone bar of signal displayed in the top right corner of the screen. He sent a text to both Cynthia and Jenny’s mobile numbers, knowing that soon he would lose signal. Blake and Chung didn’t stir. They both slept like death had claimed them.
Hey, it’s me. I can’t call right now and I don’t want to scare you.
You need to leave now. Right now!
I’m so sorry and I’ll explain later but PLEASE just trust me.
Go to where we used to spend the October long weekend when Mum was alive.
You know the spot. Go there, take what you need for a few days, and don’t tell anyone.
But PLEASE leave now.
I love you both. Dad xoxo
The message tone sounded as the text went through. Cole realised tears hung suspended from his eyelashes. He couldn’t swallow the sour taste of guilt and stale coffee. He had been so caught up in exposing Holland, in finding Lachlan Harvey, that he turned a blind eye to the notion that these people could get anyone, anywhere. They’d taken Harvey. They’d driven Blake off the road. They’d tracked Cole’s Ranger and planned to ambush a police detective.
“I’ve fucked with the wrong people,” he said aloud as he pulled back onto the sizzling hot bitumen and continued north towards the desolate plains spanning across the horizon. His shoulders ached. He couldn’t be sure if it was from hours of gripping the steering wheel, hunched forward with such poor posture, or if the weight of remorse became crippling. His conscience plagued him. He blamed himself for Blake’s wounds. He blamed himself for the edge of the precipice that he forced her to balance on beside him.
“Get a grip,” he said.
Blake stirred in her seat. “Get a grip on what?” she asked sleepily.
Cole looked over at his partner. “Nothing, Rach. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”
Even with the graze on her chin hardening into a layer of brown scabbing, she forced a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Birds screeched unsettled afternoon songs in the nearby trees. A navy blue Mazda 3 pulled up along the curb in the quaint suburban backstreet less than a block from the Armadale train station. The sun hung low behind a wall of grey cloud and rain fell in intermittent deluges. It was the afternoon to stay indoors.
No one walked their dogs. No one jogged along the sidewalk. It might as well have been the set for an abandoned post apocalyptic movie scene. The rain and the bitter southerly wind howling through the tree’s canopy provided better conditions for binge watching a series inside.
That would benefit them.
Two men stepped from the Mazda 3 and walked across the wet sidewalk, navigating a chain of puddles between the pavers. Both men wore black jackets with their hoods up. Given the foul weather, this wouldn’t raise alarm. The latex gloves fitted to their hands may have turned a few heads. But no one was around to see them. Underneath their jackets, they both gripped Glock pistols with silencers attached to the barrels. They had received instructions. Find the girl and take her. Kill the woman. Make a statement.
The taller of the two men, gangly with a wiry frame and a long face, tiptoed across Cynthia’s front lawn. His brown leather boots squelched in the sodden soil. His partner, shorter, but better built for a boxing ring, detoured around the garden bed, following a red brick path leading to the front porch of Cynthia’s modest suburban bungalow.
They didn’t knock.
The shorter man pulled a heavy, cylindrical rod from within his jacket, almost the thickness of his bulging forearm and similar in length. He gripped it by a welded steel handle on its topside then lined it up with the dead bolt. His partner cast a quick glance both ways down the deserted street. The shorter guy swung the heavy chunk of metal back and slammed it forwards with frightening strength. The cylinder hit the timber door with the dead bolt centred. Wood split, shattering into shards as the door flung open on its brass hinges. Before the shards of timber had even fallen to the porch, the two men were inside, pacing through the carpeted hall with muddy shoes. They didn’t care about the footprints they left. They both wore US size ten, the most common male shoe size. Good luck tracing those.
They moved through Cynthia’s house with seasoned agility, barely making a sound as they inspected each room with their weapons raised. The kitchen light glowed at the far end of the hall, bathing the open-plan living area in a golden glow. A half empty glass of milk rested on the kitchen counter with a bowl of corn chips beside it.
The two hit men searched every room. They opened every cupboard and looked under every bed. No one was home. The tall guy pulled a Samsung Galaxy from the pocket of his damp jeans and put it to his ear.
“Victor, it’s Jackson. The house is empty. Target not acquired… okay, yes, boss… not a problem. See you soon.”
Cynthia sat with Jenny Cole in a humble two-bedroom cabin in the Torquay Holiday Park.
She had made tea for the two of them to calm them, but both seemed disinterested. The mugs rested on the coffee table as the lemon and ginger tea cooled. They sat wide-eyed with worry. They both received the same text message from an unknown number. Cynthia didn’t hesitate. She knew her brother-in-law. He had never been the dramatic type. He had never jumped to conclusions. If a message of that nature came through, she knew something was serious.
Cynthia had barely thrown anything into a bag. She’d grabbed her phone and wallet and ushered Jenny out the front door with her stomach in anxious knots. They stepped into Cynthia’s X-Trail and got straight onto the ring-route heading to the coastal town two hours east. Jenny’s thoughts were a tangled mess of despair. Growing up, Jenny, her parents, Cynthia and Cynthia’s previous partner had visited the Holiday Park every October. They had shared fond memories of those holidays, exploring the coastline, watching the surfers at Bells Beach. Jenny recalled her dad paddling out there one windy morning and almost drowning, getting pummelled by the relentless sets of peeling waves.
