by Chris Allen
“Please. Don’t leave me!” she cried.
But Morgan had disappeared.
*
From her suite, Arena Halls heard the shots.
It was impossible not to. Her room overlooked the park, and with the promise of imminent rain, she had left the balcony doors wide open to allow the sweet, fresh smell of the storm in while she awaited news from Morgan and Sutherland.
As she ran onto the open balcony, her first thoughts were of Morgan. She could see that the wind was building, whipping up the treetops, its howl heralding the arrival of the storm. She instinctively crouched low, and grasping at the balustrade rail, peered through the glass to see what she could through the thick, green canopy, just as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.
There were more gunshots, and then more. Cracks and bangs bit through the howl of the growing winds. It sounded like Chinese New Year. People were screaming and she could see them fleeing across Elizabeth Street. The busy traffic came screeching to a halt as drivers swerved and braked to avoid them. One hand went to her mouth. Her breathing became shallow while her other hand grasped tightly to the railing. Oh my God! What was happening down there? Alex! No!
There came a sharp, unexpected rap at her door. Shock rippled through Ari’s body.
“New South Wales Police, Miss Halls,” said an authoritative voice. “Could we come in? It’s urgent.”
Ari went toward the door, feeling both relieved and fearful. Sutherland hadn’t mentioned anything about the police coming for her. She stood rigid, inches from the door. If anybody, it would be Sutherland himself who would come for her. At least, that’s what he’d said. Or perhaps, with everything going on there’d been—
More knocking, louder and more insistent.
“Miss Halls, please,” came the same deep voice. “We must talk to you. There’s been a change …”
“Yes?” said Ari. She opened the door.
*
The Malfajirians had arrived from nowhere with guns drawn and Lundt’s backup crew had immediately stepped up. Now the park was awash with hornets of gunfire.
At the sound of the first shot, Lundt dropped into a well-practiced firing position. So, Johnson had decided to do away with him as well. Fucker! He brought the P99 up and aimed it directly at Cornell’s chest. But like a myotonic goat seized by fright, the hapless civil servant’s knees buckled under him and he fainted, falling straight into the Lake of Reflection. Lundt swore but didn’t have time to hang about dealing with Cornell. In a split second he was on the move.
*
Gregory Cornell came to with a massive gulp for air and pulled himself from the water, coughing and spluttering like a young child who had slipped in the bath. He dragged his sodden, wretched body up onto the pool surround and, seeing that Lundt had disappeared, gathered all the strength he could muster and ran from the park.
He saw nothing but the exact tunnel of space that opened between trees, people and things, taking him away from the center of the battle zone. He was on the verge of hysteria, scarcely able to comprehend what had happened or what he’d found himself in the middle of. All he could think of was the inevitability of a shot from Lundt’s gun. He imagined every detail: the sound of the shot meant for him, the crack as it fractured the air between the end of the barrel and his back. The wind forced from his lungs in an animal cry and his body contorted from the pain of that tapered fist of metal, taking him to the ground. Cornell let out an involuntary “No!” and kept running.
*
Dave Sutherland, his left knee strapped tight, flew into action the moment the news of a gun battle blasted across the police radio waves, barking commands on his radio and choking back the pain of barely healed surgery. There was no way he was about to leave Morgan out there without him, and there was no way he was about to let Cornell slip through their fingers either. Cornell was their prize witness, Intrepid’s only hope of untangling the network that they now knew included Lundt and were certain included Johnson. Sutherland was under no illusion that despite cooperating to date, Cornell would do anything to extract himself from the center of it.
*
Cornell saw he was heading to the underground railway station called Museum. If he could get onto a train, he’d be rid of them all.
The clamor of the gun battle receded into the background, overpowered by the sound of his own breathing and the thud of his feet on the wet ground. The rain was falling now, heavily. Cornell had to blink away the raindrops from his eyes in order to see.
*
Time came to a standstill for Morgan. His limbs felt heavy, but his every instinct catapulted him forward.
“Lundt!” Morgan bellowed, tearing his SIG Sauer P226 from the holster concealed beneath his jacket. He sprinted toward Lundt, desperately trying to secure a fixed aim at him. Hitting any of the civilians now fleeing the area was unthinkable. “Lundt!”
Lundt looked around for a second, confused by that voice. Morgan? No, couldn’t be. He had to be dead. Then there was a sudden movement nearby. It was too close. With the cold economy of a professional killer, Lundt instinctively spun toward the movement and fired without provocation at a young man, no older than a teenager, who made the fatal mistake of getting in the way. Lundt fired three rounds at point-blank range and the kid fell dead upon the soft, green grass. The dark eye of Lundt’s gun stayed on target, and for a macabre instant Lundt was hypnotized by the stunned expression frozen on his victim’s face as the body had crumpled to the ground. It wasn’t Morgan.
“Jesus!” Morgan exclaimed, raising his weapon to aim at the retreating figure of Victor Lundt. He was a blur of rage hurtling headlong for Lundt but there was no way he could shoot without risking others. He was too far away.
Morgan’s heart was exploding in his chest. He couldn’t contain the fury he felt at witnessing this latest killing, or his memories of Malfajiri and Lundt’s chilling admission as he left Morgan to die: “I was the one who got these savage bastards to put your mate out of his bloody misery. Watched ’em cut his throat and feed him to the dogs.”
The crack-crack of exchanged gunfire continued through the park. Sprinting after Lundt, Morgan registered that there were three groups going head to head: the police, a group with Lundt, and the Malfajirians. The Malfajirians seemed more intent on engaging Lundt and his crew than the police.
Still running, an almighty thump slammed hard into Morgan’s right shoulder. The sudden impact spun him viciously on his axis and sent him cartwheeling into a heap. Morgan felt the air burst from his lungs as his left hand grabbed at a bullet wound. Blood spilled through his fingers. Momentarily dazed, he cursed and searched for the shooter. But there was no sign.
Morgan struggled back to his feet, right arm hanging by his side. It felt like the bullet had only skimmed the muscle; his bones and shoulder joint were still intact. That was a blessing, but the pain would come. Until then, he had to keep moving. He had lost sight of Lundt.
*
John Stojakovic saw Lundt murder the kid, too, but now he had him. He could feel it.
Lundt was visibly slowing, exhausted by the unexpected effort of the chase. He was heading straight for an escape vehicle, a Land Rover moving fast along Elizabeth Street toward the edge of the park. They were now clear of the main fight. If Stojakovic could get to Lundt before he reached the Land Rover, Stojakovic knew he could take him. The man showed no remorse, no hesitation, absolutely no regard for the consequences of his actions. If anything, it looked like he’d enjoyed killing that kid. To Stojakovic, a career cop who’d seen it all, this guy Lundt had no right to draw breath.
Stojakovic felt his chest tighten. He hadn’t had to run like this for a long time, but he knew he had more left in him, more than Lundt. How could this have gone so wrong, so suddenly? The escape vehicle was closing on Lundt. Soon he’d be away and lost in the traffic, but just another 30 feet and Stojakovic would be on top of him.
The Land Rover screeched to a halt. The rear door burst op
en and a pair of gloved hands reached out, clawing for Lundt.
Stojakovic raised his weapon.
*
Across the park, Morgan watched the unfolding battle between Lundt and Stojakovic.
He was dazed, pain reaching from deep within, when he broke into a sprint around the edge of the war memorial. He, too, could see Lundt tiring from the contest, and a Land Rover coming in along the edge of the park. The traffic around the Liverpool and Elizabeth Street intersection was clear and the escape vehicle’s erratic movement continued unimpeded as it headed to collect Lundt. Morgan could see Stojakovic was weighing up whether to continue with the chase or just shoot. “Shoot, John! Shoot him!” Morgan cried. Stojakovic had him, but Morgan saw that the Land Rover was too close. There was a flash of movement from within the vehicle. Stojakovic didn’t see it.
“John! To your right!” Morgan cried, sprinting at the top of his range. “To your right!”
The shot was barely distinguishable above the clamor of the traffic, but the bullet found its mark and Stojakovic buckled. The policeman’s hands instantly gathered inward and, dropping his gun, clutched at the center of his ruptured stomach. His feet lifted from the ground, his back arched and his jaw clamped shut before he fell forward, flat on his face, and lay still.
Lundt had not turned or even halted at the shot. He kept running those last few feet to the Land Rover. At the front passenger window, a gloved hand retracted, still holding a heavy-caliber revolver.
Morgan had forgotten his own injury, ignoring the searing ache forcing itself upon him. Instead, he drove himself on in pursuit of Lundt.
*
Horns from other cars and buses were blaring in protest as Lundt struggled to clamber into the escape vehicle smoothly, and was hauled unceremoniously inside. As they wrestled to get him aboard, the backup crew failed to notice the swift advance of Morgan. When they’d seen the cop fall, they’d discounted any further threat. The priority was to extract Lundt and flee the scene.
Then Morgan was upon them; his actions were rapid, deliberate and calculating.
Calling on everything he had, Alex Morgan leapt headlong at the open rear door of the vehicle. In mid-flight he reached up above the cabin of the Land Rover with his left arm and his straining fingers mercifully closed around a roof rack. He held on with all of his strength; his right arm hung limp.
“Alex,” came a cry from the back seat. “Alex!”
Morgan’s heart sank as he caught a fleeting glimpse of Ari before she was thrust roughly back down to the floor by one of Lundt’s lieutenants. Oh, Jesus!
The rear cabin of the Land Rover was a gaggle of disorder. Lundt and another man were a tangle of limbs, struggling to regain their poise.
“Shoot the fucker!” Lundt was yelling. “Shoot him! Shoot him!”
Morgan’s face was a mask of rage. He had just seen Lundt murder the young guy before his eyes, and God only knew what shape Stojakovic was in.
In Malfajiri and elsewhere, Morgan had seen the results of the legacy of Victor Lundt and too many others like him – the deaths, the mutilations, the lifelong psychological trauma inflicted upon innocent people already struggling to survive. The small nations of the world were easy prey for big governments and big business. To Morgan, the very thought of allowing Lundt and Johnson to profit from more bloodshed repulsed him. Now, on top of it all, there was Ari, a hostage within his grasp. In those split seconds between latching onto the luggage rack and summing up the confusion around him, Morgan’s mind was awash with images of Lundt: from the past, the present and, prophetically, from the future.
No!
The man had forfeited his right to live long ago.
With his left foot braced hard against the rear running board and clinging on for dear life, Alex Morgan raised a heavily booted right foot as high as he could. Then, in the blissful elation of pure, unrestrained retribution, he kicked ferociously at Lundt’s exposed back and head. Hammering his heel angrily with each and every pile-driving blow, Morgan grew more and more enraged. When the other man tried to fend him off, Morgan struck at him too, alternating his feet as he kicked the shit out of his victims. His onslaught was brutal. He could almost feel their ribs breaking beneath every strike.
By now, the Land Rover was forcing its way into the traffic on Liverpool Street and had gone some distance before the driver even realized what was going on behind him or even heard what Lundt was calling out. But the unexpected sight in his rear-view mirror of a demented man kicking viciously at the others caused him to swerve violently, striking hard up against a huge furniture truck in the adjacent lane. Immediately, there was an angry chorus of horns, and with the abrupt impact Morgan almost lost his footing. The Land Rover was forced left and went careening into College Street, heading north.
The driver, the man who had shot Stojakovic, turned his attention to the mirror in disbelief and saw Morgan’s continuing savage attack. In a flash, he produced a gun and, battling against his own erratic accelerating and braking of the Land Rover, leveled it at the dead center of Morgan’s bulky frame, silhouetted perfectly in the open door.
“Shoot him for fuck’s sake!” cried Lundt.
The driver fired, twice.
“Alex, no!” Ari screamed.
Both rounds missed Morgan, hitting instead the body of the Land Rover, sending shards of jagged debris hurtling throughout the rear cabin.
Amid the commotion, Morgan disappeared.
CHAPTER 58
With the proficiency of one who’d had enough of a recalcitrant, Commander Dave Sutherland dispensed with any consideration of Cornell as a star witness, and dropped the man with one well-placed strike. Now, on the corner of Hyde Park, at the entrance to Museum Station, Sutherland had Cornell face down on the wet pavement with cuffs on tight, just in time to see Alex Morgan propel himself onto the back of the escaping Land Rover.
Jesus Christ, he thought. What the hell is he doing?
The traffic was frenzied and horns were blaring, while up on the footpaths, people were too busy rushing clear of the storm to realize that they were heading into the middle of chaos. Unmarked police cars from Counter-Terrorism and Special Tactics were all over the intersection, with red and blue lights flashing and heavily armed police swarming through the park, bringing the gunfight to a rapid close. Arrests were being made and bodies found. Three dead, two seriously injured, and an unknown number on the run. It had happened in minutes.
Dragging Cornell to his feet, Sutherland pushed him impatiently toward one of the police cars.
“He’s all yours,” Sutherland yelled over the rain to one of the officers, then shoved Cornell like a sack of wet spuds into the back of the car. “Don’t let him out of your goddamn sight, bud! You got medics inbound for your boss?”
“Yeah,” came the shouted reply. “Two guys are with him now and the ambos are on the way.”
“Good,” Sutherland said, biting back the shooting pain in his knee, clapping the young police officer on the back. “Now, I need a car and your best driver to get after Major Morgan, and I need to speak to whoever is flying your chopper!”
*
Morgan fell backward from the Land Rover, and bounced across the hood of a BMW, forcing its unsuspecting driver to brake sharply, narrowly avoiding a rear-ender collision. Morgan tumbled left and then right, eventually rolling to a stop in the gutter. His body ached like hell and the pain in his shoulder was agonizing. The storm was hammering Sydney, and, with peak hour approaching, there was little hope that things would get any better. Ignoring it all, Morgan shook his head clear and raced across the street to see the Land Rover disappearing down William Street toward Kings Cross.
*
Sutherland rode in the passenger seat of a police vehicle driven by an uncompromising and tough officer named Tony Mugan. Mugan was tearing through the traffic, sirens blazing. “He’s down there, bud,” Sutherland yelled, pointing. “Left here!”
Mugan executed a perfect sideways slide agai
nst the red light and around into College Street.
“There he is, mate,” said Mugan. “On the corner. Hang on.”
The car raced into a clear space ahead of oncoming traffic. Sutherland was straight on the radio to the police helicopter, PolAir, a Kawasaki BK-117 of the Police Air Wing that was on station high above Sydney, calling the play.
“Keep your eyes on that Land Rover,” Sutherland was saying into the radio. “Stay on his tail and let me know the moment it stops or anyone gets out. Copy?”
“Copy that,” came the response from the chopper. “But you guys better get moving because he’s heading toward the Cross and I may lose him in the tunnel. Stay on William Street.”
“Shit!” Sutherland looked at Mugan. The policeman’s eyes said, “Got it,” and he brought the car to a screeching halt at the top end of William Street.
“Get in!” cried Sutherland, leaning across his seat to throw the back door open. Morgan dived in.
“What took you so long?”
“Traffic,” Sutherland replied dryly. “You’re bleeding, man. You hit?”
“Shoulder. It’s nothing. I’ve got some movement back in the arm,” Morgan replied. “I’ll sort it out later.” He looked straight at Sutherland. “He’s got Ari, Dave.”
“What!” Sutherland exclaimed. “How the fuck?”
