by L. A. Larkin
PRAISE FOR L. A. LARKIN
‘A sweaty-palm page-turner with short chapters and loads of action … exciting, compulsive reading.’ Australian Bookseller & Publisher
‘A savvy, entertaining environmental thriller.’ The Age
‘Will have you riding a frantic rollercoaster of plot twists until the final resolution.’ Herald Sun
‘A heart-pumping, edge-of-your-seat thriller which will satisfy fans of Matthew Reilly and Michael Crichton’ West Australian
‘This chiller thriller will reel you in with ice-cold action.’ Marie Claire
To Michael, who believed in me
Contents
Cover
Praise
Dedication
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
Also by L.A. Larkin—Thirst
Chapter 1
Sydney CBD
A few years from now
He kicked the leather chair away and instantly the rope snapped tight. He hadn’t thought of the pain to come, when he’d threaded the rope through the light fitting and tested it could bear his 110 kilos. His throat crushed, he couldn’t call out even if he’d wanted to. His lungs burned and the veins in his face felt close to bursting. His brown eyes bulged as if in surprise. But he knew he had to die. It was his only option.
In the last throes of death, as his heart beat so loudly it was all he could hear, his legs thrashed madly and his body, naturally, tried to save itself. But the chair, where he had sat and made all those terrible decisions, was too far away. He registered a warm wetness in his pants and a moment’s shame swept over him. He couldn’t even die with dignity.
In that second, he saw his personal assistant finding him the following morning, the pungent smell of stale urine and God knows what else forcing her to turn away repulsed. He saw Jane and Thomas in his mind’s eye, and silently told them he loved them.
Mouth agape, eyes bloodshot, the last image he saw was the night sky, clear and filled with stars, through his office window. His foot gave one final twitch and then went limp.
The office was silent except for the almost inaudible hum of the air conditioning and the creak of the rope straining as his body swung. The thick glass windows kept out any city noise. The moonlight shone on his bald head, highlighting the dark regrowth that he shaved so carefully every morning – even that morning. His wife, Jane, and three-month-old son, Thomas, watched him, smiling, from the digital photo frame. Seconds ticked by and the digital image changed to one of Tony and Jane on their wedding day two years ago, taken outside the sandstone church. He’d been slimmer then and looked very handsome in his dark suit. In the photograph, he was looking at his wife adoringly.
Next to the silver photo frame lay a white envelope, addressed in blue ink, ‘To my beautiful wife and son’. Its whiteness contrasted with the golden honey colour of the Huon Pine desk. Tony stared vacantly, no longer able to hear the whooshing sound of the door opening. A man’s large-boned hand hovered over the sealed envelope, and in the moonlight his shadow made him appear twice as big as he was. He picked up the envelope and, without opening it, placed it in his jacket pocket.
The body had stopped swinging, and the intruder stepped towards it. He stood for a long moment in front of the dead man. One corner of his mouth turned up: a hint of a smile. He raised his second finger to his temple and saluted the man he’d been sent to kill. Then, turning, he quickly walked towards the glass door. It slid open and he stepped through it, careful to avoid the security spy-eye camera in the executive suite of offices. As the door closed, the words ‘Tony Mancini, CEO and Senior Vice President’ glinted, etched in the frosted glass.
Tony had made his last executive decision.
Chapter 2
Orange, New South Wales
Two weeks earlier
Turning off the ignition, she knew she was too late. In the dwindling light, the whitewashed weatherboard farmhouse resembled a sepia photograph. Through a haze of dust, she watched as her brother, Keith, pushed himself up from the soft cushions of the three-seat swing chair. For a fit farmer in his thirties. his movements were unsteady and deliberate, like an old man’s. He left the long evening shadows of the verandah and stood on the top step, one hand clinging to the railing. He didn’t wave.
With the air conditioning off, the heat of the summer’s day rose from the scorched earth, permeating the car’s interior. Serena kept both hands on the sticky steering wheel. If only she’d left Sydney earlier. If only she’d said no to the interview. Her bloodshot eyes squinted as the last of the sun’s tendrils released their grip on Swift Farm, her family home. The people on the verandah disappeared into darkness. The century-old pear trees, heavy with ripening fruit, resembled blackened, gnarled fingers scratching at the corrugated-iron roof. For as long as she could remember, colourful parrots had heralded the end of each day with their raucous squawking. But even their cries were muted. Her brother waited patiently.
Serena opened the car door and stepped out. The shallow trench-lines of the driveway—formed by generations of car tyres—felt familiar. Her long hair, normally clipped up, fell loosely around her face. In another place, on another occasion, her figure would have drawn admiring glances. A neighbour had once said the then-teenage Serena should become a model. That had been before her striking curves developed. She had replied that she didn’t want to do something as boring as ponce up and down a catwalk. She wanted to use her brains.
Someone hit the exterior light switch and, for a moment, she was blinded by the brightness. The light revealed Serena’s head of thick, strawberry blonde hair, and her white T-shirt, khaki shorts and long runner’s legs. She stepped through the patchy grass of the front yard to the verandah. She could now see Keith’s heavily pregn
ant wife sitting on the cushion next to the one her husband had vacated. Serena’s unusual eyes, hazel with a star of amber around her irises, searched her brother’s face for a sign.
‘Am I too late?’
She hoped he would say, ‘No, come quickly. He’s asking for you.’ But Keith shook his head and the pity in his eyes destroyed the last vestige of Serena’s composure. Part of her didn’t believe him, didn’t believe it possible her dad was dead. ‘I must see him. Where is he?’
Keith walked down the steps and took her arm. He led her into the house. Everything looked exactly as it always had and reinforced her hope that Keith was wrong. If her father were dead somehow the house would have changed with his passing. But a newspaper was open and the dining chair sat away from the table at an angle. Someone had been reading about a footy star disgracing himself. Why would any of that matter if her dad were no longer there?
Keith looked at her but she Serena just stared at the polished floorboards, at the black stain left many years ago by a science experiment she had accidentally spilt. She moved slowly even though her head was pounding and her mind was screaming out the question ‘Is he?’. Her feet were heavy, as if she had lost the feeling in them.
She couldn’t see the bed at first. She took another step. The bedroom door opened inwards, blocking her view. She caught sight of the wrought-iron bedpost and saw the sheet raised in a small pyramid where her father’s feet rested. Serena looked further up the sheet, hardly daring to look at his face. She counted off a few seconds to see if his chest rose and fell, but it did not. Her heart seemed to spasm. No chest movement meant no breath, she told herself and then shoved the thought away. She forced herself to look at his face and took in a sharp breath. Serena felt as though she had sucked in boiling water. Her lungs burned.
His eyes were closed. His face was waxy grey. But his expression was peaceful. It showed none of the pain he must have suffered at the end. His lips were slightly parted. She had to be sure, so she leaned over her dad and listened for his breath. She brushed her ear against his lips and they felt warm and soft. Shocked, she straightened.
‘You’re wrong. He’s alive.’
Keith just looked at her, unable to speak.
She was sure her dad’s body would have been cold by now if he were dead. He had to be sleeping. Serena touched her father’s cheek. It felt as it always did. She moved her hand over his fine grey hair and stroked the thinning strands.
‘It’s all right, Dad, I’m here now. It’ll be all right.’
She held her breath to stop her tears flowing but it didn’t work.
‘Dad, talk to me,’ she said.
Keith placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Serena, he’s gone.’
She shook her head.
‘He can’t have. He can’t go.’
Silently, Keith turned and left her. She barely noticed.
‘Hey, Dad,’ Serena said, and sat on the edge of the mattress next to his pillow. ‘Sorry I’m late. I wanted to say how much I …’
She couldn’t finish. Tears blinded her. She lay down on her mother’s side of the bed, and placed one arm gently over his chest and one above his head. It reminded her of when she was a kid and would dive into her parents’ bed in the mornings. Except, then her dad had cuddled her. Now she cuddled him.
Time passed but Serena was unaware of it. Her body kept his warm. She imagined he was still alive.
‘Serena,’ she heard.
Her brother was at her side. She didn’t move.
‘Serena, Dad needs some time to himself. You can see him again a bit later.’
She sat up. Her face was red and wet. Her nose ran like a toddler’s. She swung her legs around so they touched the floor and stood shakily. Her brother caught her arm and led her away from the bed. She looked back at her dad and saw that next to him was an indent left by the weight of her body.
‘Did he suffer?’ she asked.
The momentary pause told her everything she didn’t want to know.
She shook herself free from Keith’s grip and touched the cold metal of the bedpost. It dawned on Serena that his death should never have happened and she awoke from her stupor. She faced her father.
‘Dad, I’m so sorry. I let you down again. But I’ll make them pay. I promise.’
Chapter 3
The Rooney Agency, North Sydney
Three days after Mancini’s death
The lobby of the Rooney Agency and Big Noise PR did double-duty as a café and art gallery. Sculptures on plinths were like obstacles in a pinball machine, as people wove in and out trying to avoid knocking them over. One bronze piece looked like a giant artichoke. Another was made of balls of light, which changed colour as busy office workers walked by, the colours supposedly reflecting their moods. It turned coffee-bean brown as Serena passed. She smiled and thought it must mean ‘needs caffeine’.
As she strode to the lobby café in her designer dress, she hoped that nobody could guess her state of mind on this, the first day of her new job. Perhaps if they’d looked closely, beneath the row of red beads covering her chest, they might have noticed an agitated flush. Or if they’d known her well, they would have noticed her shoulders were slouched instead of her normally upright posture. Despite applying her make-up carefully that morning, she’d been unable to hide the blue-grey semicircles under her eyes. She remembered Tracey telling her always to apply her ‘war paint’, that it would mask the tell-tale signs of even the worst hangover. But she doubted its magic today. Perhaps they’d been right: she wasn’t ready. The truth was, she felt sick to the stomach.
She had time for a coffee, so she joined a short queue, and contemplated having some raisin toast to calm her nervous stomach. She was unaware of the glances she was getting from male passers-by. A woman in front of her ordered a flat white and stepped aside.
‘First day?’ the café owner asked Serena.
‘Yes, is it that obvious?’
‘No, I just never seen you around before.’
‘A long black, please,’ Serena said.
‘I make it extra special for you,’ he replied with a wink and grinned, revealing a wide gap in his front teeth. She paid for her coffee and stepped aside to wait for it. She found a copy of the Australian Financial Review and flicked through the paper.
‘Long black for the beautiful lady!’ called the barista. Serena smiled, walked away and then realised she’d forgotten to ask for sugar, so went back to the counter to pick up some sachets. She tore open three and poured in their contents. Like her dad, she had a sweet tooth. She smiled as she remembered his fifty-ninth birthday party: only four weeks ago. His pale face, wracked with pain, had lit up at the sight of the chocolate mud cake she’d baked. Two weeks later, her dad was dead.
‘You bastard!’ a man shouted behind her.
The voice was high-pitched and shrill. Despite the noise in the lobby, it reverberated off the marble floors and glass walls. Everyone, including Serena, turned towards the source of the sound. A small crowd of people waiting for their coffees partially blocked her view. A dishevelled man in his sixties with glasses and an ungroomed beard raised his skinny arms in the air and propelled himself at a man in a dark suit. The target of the attack had his back to her. As the older man grabbed the younger man’s lapels, the victim tried to pull away.
‘You killed her!’ the man yelled with such vehemence the businessman recoiled and dropped his briefcase. He shoved the screaming man away from him. The aggressor bent like a bow and staggered back a few steps, his scrawny frame unbalanced by the force of the well-built younger man’s thrust.
‘Can I get some help here?’ the businessman called out. He was American, his accent Texan. Serena still couldn’t see his face.
‘Listen, I don’t know you. Please leave me alone,’ he said, slowly and calmly, his arms held out for protection.
‘Liar!’ the older man yelled, charging again. ‘How can you forget me? I’m Fergus McPherson, remember?’
The businessman grabbed McPherson’s swinging arms and held them tightly.
‘Yes, of course, Professor, I recognise you now.’ His tone softened immediately. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ The younger man shoved McPherson away with a force that belied his sympathetic tone.
‘Like hell you are!’ McPherson screamed as a security guard threw him to the floor.
Simultaneously, a bull-necked man in a chauffeur’s uniform ran to the businessman, picked up his briefcase and steered him rapidly towards the elevators. Pinned to the floor by the beefy guard, McPherson whimpered.
‘Al, stop this,’ he called after the businessman, stretching out his only free arm. His voice sounded like the last hiss from a deflated football.
The businessman didn’t look back.
McPherson tried again. ‘Please, for the love of God, stop. New Dawn will only make things worse. Al, it’s not too late.’
Al disappeared through closing elevator doors.
The assailant lay on the floor sobbing, oblivious to the bystanders staring at him as if he were a two-headed creature in a research laboratory. The guard yanked him to his feet and shoved him through a door behind the reception desk.
Serena was rooted to the spot. The force of the old man’s anger had shocked her. She glanced at the door he’d been dragged through and wondered what would happen to him. He’d sounded crazy with grief and she could understand that. But she had to pack away those feelings somewhere they could be ignored. She couldn’t allow them to dent the confident, competent image she needed to present today. Serena took a few sips of her coffee as she rolled the torn sugar sachets between her fingers. She wondered who the American was and how he’d provoked such fury. She hadn’t managed to get a good look at him, but from the cut of his suit and his chauffeur-come-bodyguard, she guessed he was someone important. Rooneys was the building’s major tenant. Could he be a client? An uncomfortable thought crossed her mind. No, it couldn’t be.
Serena pushed her half-drunk coffee across the counter. She didn’t feel like it anymore. Despite her determination to stay focused on her new job, the word ‘killed’ reverberated in her head. He had said ‘killed’, hadn’t he?
