Blair Denholm
Shot Clock
Copyright © 2021 by Blair Denholm
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
First edition
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I go out there and get my eyes gouged, my nose busted, my body slammed. I love the pain of the game.
Dennis Rodman
Contents
Acknowledgement
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
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About the Author
Also by Blair Denholm
Acknowledgement
A massive thanks to all who helped me produce this second book in the series The Fighting Detective. Props to Don Hawthorne for spotting typos no one else seems to see. And, as always, thank you Sandra.
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Chapter 1
His nerves jangled so hard he could barely steer the stolen car in a straight line. He tuned into a classical music radio station. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Summer, to match the calendar. Sublime timing. The third movement erupted, the thunderstorm. He half closed his eyes, soaked up the energy of the frantic violins and cellos. The perfect motivating force for the carnage that lay ahead.
He leaned to the left, grappled for the phone in the console, cursed as he dropped it on the passenger seat. It bounced onto the floor, out of reach. He pulled over to the kerb, stretched his long arms under the seat and retrieved the phone, checked the screen for the second time in five minutes. Nothing, too early, yet he couldn’t resist a sneaky look. In case he’d somehow missed the call to action. Patience. The plan’s a good one, don’t veer from the plan.
The Camry driver would receive only two messages on this burner phone. In fact, they wouldn’t be messages at all. Too unreliable. Texts can go missing in the ether for days before landing in your inbox. No. For this mission it would be old-fashioned telephone calls. Three rings followed by a hang up to get into position. Four rings and a hang up to launch the attack.
He smiled, appreciating the simple elegance of the outmoded Nokia 3500. He’d bought a pair of them, plus disposable SIM cards a week earlier. One for him, one for his friend and accomplice who’d organised the car and the number plates. The wizened elderly gentleman at the mobile phone shop counter paid little attention to the driver; it was a run-of-the-mill dodgy cash purchase made with fake ID. The phones would be dumped and no connection ever made with that shop.
A horn blasted behind him. An indignant voice screamed, the message muffled through the Camry’s closed windows. It sounded something like Get outta the way, dickhead! He glanced at the rear-view mirror. A belligerent male, a bearded man in a green fluoro vest and driving a pickup Ford utility stacked with construction equipment. The man shook a fist and glared like he wanted to kill. A quick look to the left and the Camry driver realized he was parked in a loading zone. On any other day, he’d engage the arrogant labourer in a spot of road rage. Take him down a peg or two with some well-placed punches and kicks. Not today though. Today he was on a mission that required focus and attention, not impulsive assaults on members of the public, no matter how irritating they were. Instead, he waved a meek apology and smiled, edged back onto the road and resumed executing laps around the block, waiting for the signal.
Cool air poured from the vents of the late-model Camry Ascent. He’d asked his accomplice to supply him with a white, nondescript make and model, a vehicle that was new and reliable. Reliability was crucial. The last thing he wanted was mechanical trouble.
Still, there was no room for complacency. No time for relaxing.
The air-conditioner’s maximum setting wasn’t enough to stop the sweat leaking from every pore of his body. Despite the physical manifestations of stress, he knew his nerve wouldn’t fail him at the crucial moment. The build-up was what he hated, the awful anticipation. He slapped the steering wheel three times and let out a whoop. Let’s get this show happening. Ring me, dammit!
The traffic gradually began to thin out as early morning ticked over to mid-morning. By now most commuters were at their office desks, kids were dropped off at school, mums and dads back at home. The fewer cars about the better. Night would have been ideal for the operation, but it was impossible. The target would have smelled a rat.
His friend assured him he’d get the target to the spot before 10:15am. Now there were barely any cars about and the dash clock said 10:13am. Looking good.
The phone rang. Three times. Then it stopped. Show time.
He double-checked his seatbelt, buckled in nice and tight. He took a black ski mask from the glovebox and pulled it over his head. Checked his mirrors then made the final right turn onto Scanlan Drive. No cars in sight now, the wide road resembled an airport runway cleared for landing. Two hundred metres away – the spot where the target would be standing. His accomplice had to do everything exactly right from this point. Lure the man to the edge of the road after taking a stroll through Currie Park, emerging near a copse of thick, shady trees. Make him stop while the accomplice made an “important call”. Four rings, hang up. Tell the target he’d reached an answering machine and ended the call as he doesn’t like leaving messages. Propose they cross the street there because the pedestrian crossing is miles away…then…
Four rings and a hang up.
The Camry driver gripped the wheel, analysed the street. Empty of traffic. Up ahead, at the corner of Scanlan and Lewis, he saw him. The man he despised. The man he wanted dead. The driver gently pressed on the accelerator. The target stopped expectantly on the kerb.
The needle crept to 70, 80, 90. The target shielded hi
s face against the sun, looking in the direction of the accelerating Camry. Good. Hopefully he’ll get a look at my teeth grinning through the ski mask. 100, 110, 120. The Camry was 20 metres away from the target. A glance left, the target lurched into the street, arms and legs flailing, bending backwards, instinctively trying to stop forward movement.
Too late.
The driver turned the steering wheel towards the man. A lot of effort had gone into this. To come so far and miss would be a disaster.
He didn’t miss.
The centre of the car’s front end ploughed into the body; the driver heard the crunch of multiple bones shattering, metal crumpling. The bonnet scooped the man up and lifted him off the ground, causing him to bounce violently off the windscreen which somehow remained intact. The driver laughed as the body rag-dolled, spun three rotations in the air and landed on the tarmac with a splat behind him as the car continued forward. It all happened so fast the victim had no time to scream.
The Camry kept drifting towards the kerb. Maybe there was something wrong with the tyres. A blow out? The driver panicked, overcorrected and tugged the car back to the right, creeping over the centre line.
No!
An oncoming car.
Where the fuck did that come from? The driver jumped on the brakes, sending the vehicle into a chaotic slide. No matter which way he turned the wheel, he couldn’t prevent the Camry skidding into the path of the other car. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He looked up to see a man’s face twisted in fear, bracing for imminent death.
The screech of tyres.
BANG.
The driver’s body rocked forward, his face smashed into the inflated air bag. He felt glass diamonds showering over his head, down inside the collar of his shirt. The pungent scent of burning rubber and petrol filled his nostrils. By some miracle, he was still alive and in one piece. He pulled the door handle and pushed with his shoulder. He had to escape.
Stuck.
Shit, shit, shit.
Back and forth, he battered the stubborn door six times before it creaked open.
No. Not yet.
The airbag, dammit!
Skin cells from his face would leave DNA traces. If – more likely when – the cops tested him, it would be a match. He’d taken every possible precaution with the gloves, the ski mask and a hoodie – even a hairnet underneath the head coverings to trap any loose hairs. He needed something sharp to cut away the damned airbag.
He leaned over and groaned as he popped open the glovebox – empty apart from a grubby old chamois and a box of tissues. Shit. There was no way to rip out the entire bag by hand. Maybe there was something sharp in the console? Yes. A nail file. He stabbed a hole in the nylon bag, inserted two fingers and starting ripping. In less than thirty seconds, and with a litre of adrenalin coursing through his veins, he’d somehow torn a large square out of the bag where he figured his face had contacted the surface. He stuffed the piece of cloth in his pocket, threw the nail file under the seat, and pushed the door open wide.
A handful of people stood around on both sides of the road, open-mouthed, unable to comprehend the horror they’d witnessed. Some pointed their phones at the crash scene, others turned to walk away from any trouble.
The driver had no time to hang around. The man in the other car would have to cope as best as he could. Hopefully, he’d also survived the crash. Another man’s death would be a tragedy, and he’d feel guilty about it. But he wasn’t prepared to go to jail for either victim, so he legged it. The cops would be on the scene within minutes, or a do-gooder citizen would try to grab him. Agonising pain shot through his lower back and ribs, his shoulder where he’d bashed against the door, but adrenaline came to the rescue again.
Escape. He must escape.
He winced as he turned and grabbed a small backpack from the rear seat, exited the car and began a slow, painful jog to the footpath.
Time for a new plan – head up Strudwick Avenue and disappear in the lush botanical gardens, strip off the black clothes, stuff them in his backpack and get out of town.
No one dared make a move to approach or apprehend him.
He lengthened his stride. It hurt like hell, but he couldn’t stop.
No one had followed him from the crash scene. A quick look over the shoulder – the coast was clear. Damn, it was so hot, humidity through the roof. He fought to breathe in the muggy mid-morning heat. He needed air, tore off the ski mask and hairnet, went to throw them on the ground, thought better of it and tucked them in his pocket. People might see his face as he fled the scene, but he kept his head down as he ran, shielded his face with his hands. If anyone tried to stop him, he’d smash them to the ground and beat the shit out of them. Kill them if he had to.
A voice called out. Stop! He turned. A young punk, approaching fast on a kick scooter.
Camry driver wouldn’t stop. Not for that kid, not for anyone. He picked up the pace, put the pain to the back of his mind, and sprinted towards the gardens.
Chapter 2
The interfering punk was too slow, even on a kick scooter. Confident he’d lost the tail, Camry driver didn’t stop running. He’d never run so hard in his life: not in the toughest training session, not in any competitive endeavour. Never. This time it was all primal instinct, his freedom depended on it. He sprinted so hard he thought his heart would burst.
Soon he could relax.
But not yet.
He wasn’t free yet.
Then, there it was, up ahead. The gates to the Yorkville Botanical Gardens. Those beckoning wrought-iron beauties, framing the entrance to a cool, refreshing, safe oasis. Shade, dense thickets of tropical plants. A maze of dark, narrow lanes. A place where he could rest, regroup and regather.
Run, run, run for your life!
He tore past a broad-hipped Aboriginal woman pushing a twin pram, swerved around an elderly white couple in loud Hawaiian shirts, each with a bulky camera perfect for photographing the wonders of the gardens. Americans, probably. They’re the most ostentatious tourists, always drawing attention to themselves. As he had just done. Time for a costume change, to slink back into the safety of anonymity.
Now, through the main gates. Still not safe. This part of the garden was a wide open space, dotted sparsely with low shrubs but nowhere to take cover. The entrance to the cool rainforest section was another hundred metres away: get to the end of this footpath, then a dogleg left. He sensed the curious eyes of the young mother and the tourists targeted on his rapidly retreating form. Once the news broke later today, they’d be telling everyone how they’d had a close encounter with the wanted hit-and-run driver, clad in black, haring through the gardens. Maybe they’d call the TV stations and offer themselves up for an interview. Who cares? No one would catch him.
Run, run, run for your life!
His heart didn’t burst as he feared it might. God, he needed to get out of the damned heat, to get the black clothes off his boiling body. A torrent of perspiration was running freely inside the hoodie, the long pants. His feet were on fire inside his shoes. He had to get the damned clothes off. Take a drink, get his breath back, bring down the core temperature. Rest for a moment, gather his thoughts, and then get the fuck away from Yorkville.
But the plan, his perfect plan, had gone to shit. Smashing head-on into another car was not part of the fucking plan! How could he have been so careless? He had to get the hell out of town. But how? He was miles from the bus station, there were no suburban trains in Yorkville, there was no second car at his disposal. Should he hijack one on the highway? No. Too risky.
There, he saw the answer. Next to the kiosk. But first, he needed the temporary refuge of the park’s rainforest.
A left turn, feet slapping against the asphalt pavement, shimmering in the heat. Another fifteen metres. He glanced over his shoulder. No one in sight.
At last, he was there. A thicket of ferns. He ducked low, lunged headlong, pushed branches aside until he was 20 metres inside the lush vegetation
. Out of the blazing sun and cooler by three or four degrees. A fire raged in his lungs. Hands on hips, he sucked in big gulps of air. He pressed his back against a tree trunk, slowly slid to the leaf-littered ground. After two minutes of controlled deep breathing, most parts of his body stopped shaking. He leaned to the left, right hand braced for support, slipped off the backpack. He ripped open the zip, drained an entire litre bottle of water. It was deathly silent in here except for the twittering of invisible birds and the soft scurry of insects.
Camry driver closed his eyes for a moment, rallied his strength. He changed his clothes with the speed of an actor urgently needed back on stage. New attire comprised a pair of khaki shorts and a brand-new white t-shirt, plain white cap with no logo. Trusty flip-flops. He shoved the drenched black clothes in the plain grey backpack, put his arms through the loops and shrugged it on. Sunglasses back on, he pulled the fronds apart and stepped back onto the path.
Deserted.
Perfect.
And twenty metres away, beside an unmanned information kiosk, was a bike rack populated by a dozen or so bicycles. All padlocked. Never mind, he’d selected a palm-sized rock in the bushes to liberate one of them. There were some fancy looking bikes there, but he chose a modest one that wouldn’t get too much attention from the police if it was reported stolen. The owner was a trusting or stupid soul who’d left their helmet clipped to the handle bars. Upon closer inspection, he realised the bike had been there for days or weeks, maybe it was abandoned. Thick cobwebs covered the helmet, almost welded it to the handlebars. Perfect – no one would report it stolen. A quick look left and right. A garden worker a long way off was clipping a hedge with a noisy petrol-powered trimmer. No threat. Camry driver slammed the rock against the padlock of the old Malvern Star bike. The lock landed quietly in thick grass. He straddled the seat, acquainted himself with the gearing arrangement, and peddled away for all he was worth.
Shot Clock Page 1
