Blair Denholm
Sold to the Devil
A gripping noir thriller
First published by Blair Denholm 2020
Copyright © 2020 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.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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To the wild spirit of the Tasmanian Devil.
Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth
– Mike Tyson
Contents
Acknowledgement
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
About the Author
Also by Blair Denholm
Acknowledgement
Thanks to everyone who’s helped me along the way with this sequel to SOLD. Whether that be in the way of hand-holding, technical advice, or a kick up the backside when required.
Special thanks to the awesome editing duo of Moraig and Ruth. And a shout out to Big Rob for his guidance on firearms.
Chapter 1
Wind whipped up waves the size of apartment blocks. The ferry tossed around like a cork in a bathtub. Suitcases and shoes skidded back and forth across the floor. Lightning flashes lit up the cabin. Gary’s stomach churned.
If this wasn’t the stormiest night in the history of Bass Strait crossings, it had to be damn close.
According to the official schedule, the ferry should now be about halfway between Melbourne and the northern Tasmanian town of Devonport. But in these conditions, surely it must only be a quarter of the way. Gary decided to hunker down and ride out the storm.
None of these passenger ferries had ever gone down before, right?
The boat clambered up another gigantic wave and plummeted down the back. Christ, maybe one had sunk.
It was hard to sit straight, let alone walk around. Gary braced himself with one hand on the edge of the bed. Like a kid with a new toy, he kept glancing at the ID documents strewn across the blanket. The Spirit of Tasmania, his own Noah’s Ark to a new life, wasn’t cooperating. The vessel rocked like an out-of-control amusement park ride, and he had no hope of reading the dancing words on the documents.
A half-eaten cafeteria pie and soggy chips jiggled on the bedside table. The storm turned serious an hour ago, and Gary’s appetite took a dive. He needed something to settle his stomach. From the bedside table, he grabbed a can of lukewarm Boag’s Draught and skolled the contents. The six-pack was reserved for emergencies. His stomach grumbled in appreciation as he stuffed the ID papers into a plastic sleeve and tucked them into his suitcase.
As he pulled the zip closed, the boat listed to starboard. Gary flew off the bed and crashed into the wall. The beer can launched into the air, somersaulted and smashed into the back of his head. He gingerly clambered back onto the bunk, rubbed the growing lump on his head and cursed the captain. He closed his eyes tight and mumbled a few words to the patron saint of seafarers; and, he hoped, ex used car salesmen and real estate agents. Couldn’t hurt. Dear St Nicholas, if you save me I promise to go straight. No more bullshit. Amen. He made the sign of the cross. Oh, yeah. He clamped his eyes shut again. And please save Tracey, too.
But would prayer be enough? Things could go the way of the Titanic. All hands and passengers down with the ship. A glorious and romantic death. He clung to his bed while the psychotic washing machine that was the Spirit of Tasmania continued its angry cycle for another half hour. The storm gradually subsided to rigorous spin mode – still rough, but nowhere near as frightening. Thank you, St Nicholas. You bloody beauty.
Now that Mother Nature stopped trying to kill everyone on board, Gary retrieved the treasured documents for another look. Tasmanian drivers licence. Shit photo. Those fucked-up ears are shockers. Gotta live with it mate. Medicare card. Stay healthy and you won’t be needing it in a hurry. Trust Bank of Australia transaction account and credit card. Be nicer with more zeros on the balance, but you can’t have everything. And, priceless, a beautiful, brand-new Australian passport. He kissed it for luck. It would get him over lots of hurdles, that little baby. A collection of precious papers and plastic cards. Name: Dylan Oscar Wagner. Address on the licence: Risdon Vale. Near the notorious Risdon Prison, apparently. Fucken hilarious, guys. Occupation: unemployed bogan. Reinvented as a downsized factory worker, unlikely to attract the attention of the authorities. Couldn’t they have made him a fancy-arse stockbroker living in a nice Hobart suburb, like Battery Point?
‘The detail in this stuff leaves a lot to be desired.’
Tracey looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘That’s deep. Original.’
‘Whatever.’ Tracey laid her head on a pillow. ‘I need shut-eye.’
‘But I guess you’re right. In the grand scheme of things, as my old mate Foss used to say, these are minor irritations. “Concentrate on the big picture” he’d say. Gary Braswell is, after all, the Federal Police’s most wanted man.’
‘And I’ll be the most wanted woman if you don’t shut up.’
‘Have you seen the stuff online?’ Gary ploughed on as if talking to himself. ‘Rumours are running rife: I’ve had a sex change, I’m dea
d, murdered by vengeful Russian crims, fled the country.’
‘Does escaping to Tassie equate to fleeing the country?’
‘Almost. But you know what? Fuck the rumours. Even if these documents aren’t perfect, they’re still pretty damn good. That’s what Foss would say. Think positive.’
Tracey groaned. ‘I think you’ll find that’s pretty much what I’ve been saying the whole time.’
‘Yeah. But I can’t help having negative thoughts now and again. That’s only human, right?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Like how so many things have gone tits up. Like with Maddie.’
‘Listen, mate.’ Tracey sat up on the bunk. ‘Crying over spilt blood is a waste of time; obsessing about it is plain stupid.’
‘Paying all that money to Abdul sure hurt the bottom line.’
‘Can you just stop it, please?’ She stretched her arms wide, stifled a yawn. ‘So what if their services cost a bundle? There are worse scenarios. Much worse. Jail, for example.’
‘I’d be a lot calmer if the Feds hadn’t offered that massive reward for my arrest. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the headline. Plenty would be tempted to turn me in for coin like that. You’d never dob me in, would you, Trace?’
Silence.
‘Trace?’
He glanced at the rake-thin woman lying asleep next to him and smiled. The little vixen he picked up in a Kings Cross pub proved to be a life saver and, for that, she deserved love. Especially when they were rooting like rabbits. In the afterglow of sex, feelings took a back seat. He preferred extra meat on women to make post-coital embraces more enjoyable; with Tracey he could be cuddling a bag of spanners. But he reckoned it was a forgivable flaw; Tracey Southern, with her anachronistic pink punk haircut and goth makeup, was a prize asset in his quest to re-establish in Tasmania. Smart as a computer with an almost-completed university degree in economics or commerce or accounting; something to do with money, anyway. Plus a keen sense of… not sure what he’d call it. An uncanny ability to predict when trouble lurked around the corner and which direction to take to avoid it. With skills like that, it made sense to keep her on board for as long as possible.
Gary stood up delicately, knees still sore. He strode to the porthole, flipped open a metal cigarette case and extracted a dart. He lit it with a Gold Coast Titans souvenir lighter and inhaled deeply. Smoking was forbidden in the cabin. But he hadn’t had a nicotine hit in hours and arrival was going to be delayed in these rough seas. Passengers weren’t allowed on deck in shit weather, so he’d have to break the rules.
The other thing that hurt was the after-effects of backyard plastic surgery. New ears, lip implants. The procedure happened weeks ago. It felt like yesterday. The leering mug of Abdul Wadood loomed large in Gary’s memory as he took a drag on a cigarette, pursed his lips into a bum-hole ring and exhaled. He spotted a smoke detector and dropped the ciggie into the empty beer can, swished it around until it extinguished in the dregs. Dammit, he’d have to wait till Devonport after all.
Sleep came when the weather calmed. All strength had drained from his body, expended trying to stay upright during the storm. A dreamless sleep, only interrupted when a hand shook his shoulder. He looked up to see his panda-eyed companion, grinning like someone who’d won the pub meat-tray raffle with her last dollar.
‘Boat’s about to dock. Get your shit together.’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ Gary groaned as the ferry’s horn sounded.
Chapter 2
One deep drag. Smoke up hard while you’ve got the chance. That was the lesson learned on the storm-battered Spirit of Tasmania. Another was: don’t take a ferry across Bass Strait ever again. Why didn’t Abdul put him and Tracey on a plane? Would’ve been quicker and less stressful. Bloody lucky to have survived. Just a couple more degrees of lean and the vessel would’ve capsized and gone under. He checked his watch; the coach for Hobart via Launceston was scheduled to leave in a few minutes. He sucked another cubic litre of smoke down his neck. Buggered if he’d get through the long drive south without nicotine preloading.
Gary stamped out the smouldering butt and looked up at the Tasmanian sky. Perfect porcelain blue, like his honeymoon with Maddie all those years ago. Feathery cirrus clouds directly overhead and bright sunshine almost made for a cheery welcome to his new island home. One key meteorological factor gave cause for concern, however. It was cold. Damned cold. He checked the weather app on his mobile: five degrees Celsius. Probably not unheard of in Devonport, but shit, in the middle of February? This was high summer season.
‘Please get on, sir. We’re way behind schedule.’ A nasally strine drifted from the driver’s seat. The owner of the voice was a beer-gutted walrus sporting a brown and yellow Hawthorn AFL beanie and chunky ski gloves.
‘Sorry. Waiting on my girlfriend. I think she’s having a slash. Won’t be a tick.’
A wind gust tore around the corner of the bus and blasted the waiting passengers in the face. Two long-haired Chinese women morphed into giggling medusas. No mention of the Antarctic winds in the advertising brochures.
Tracey emerged from the entrance to the bus station, hands crossed over her chest with the jumper sleeves pulled to cover her hands. Looked like she was wearing a straitjacket. A bloody Bass Strait jacket. She jogged over to Gary and wrapped an arm around his waist. ‘Ready to go? Man, it’s freezing!’
‘This is weird. Devonport’s supposed to be around 20 degrees this time of year. I haven’t felt this cold since…shit, I’ve never felt this cold.’ Gary’s teeth clacked like a novelty wind-up toy. He zipped up his threadbare hoodie. Pity he hadn’t grabbed the puffer jacket in his suitcase along with his winter gear. ‘It was 27 degrees when we left Melbourne last night. I was sure coats, hats and gloves wouldn’t be needed for a few months. C’mon. Let’s get on the bus before we die of hypothermia.’ He snatched up his carry-on bag and gave Tracey a nudge in the small of her back.
‘Bugger that, Gaz. Over there.’ Tracey pointed to the car park where a shiny black Commodore SV6 sat fifty metres away in a no-standing zone, exhaust fumes billowing in the chilly air. The car’s headlights flashed three times. ‘You didn’t think our friends in Lakemba would make us take a bus to Hobart, did you?’ Tracey windmilled her arms like she was guiding a plane in to land.
‘Why the fuck not?’ Gary rubbed his hands together. ‘They made us take that stupid ferry.’
‘You know that’s ‘cos of the pressurisation on aeroplanes and your lip implants. Couldn’t risk them exploding mid-flight and blowing your cover. Not to mention wrecking your brand-new good looks.’
Gary shook his head. ‘Fucken hilarious. But now you mention it, my lips are feeling numb in this cold. We should’ve picked somewhere warmer to live. This is going to be a nightmare, I’m telling you.’ He looked up at the bus driver. ‘Excuse me. Could you hop down and let us retrieve our suitcases?’
The blubberous beast at the steering wheel shook his neckless head. ‘Mate, I told you. We’re running against the clock. The boat was hours late docking. No more delays. We’ve gotta go now. Please get on.’
‘Gone from “sir” to “mate”, have we? You’ll have more than delays to worry about if you don’t fetch our bags. Changed our minds. We’re using alternative transport. So, chop chop.’ Gary clapped and pointed to the luggage compartment at the side of the bus. He scowled – not easy with new puffy lips – and squinted hard. But the lazy prick only glared back at him. Intimidation fail. Probably didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bus.
‘Listen, I don’t know what your issue is, buddy. Too many No-Doz pills or whatever. Get our bloody bags, will ya?’ Gary stamped his foot on the first step of the bus. ‘I’m not moving until you get off your fat arse and let us take our stuff. Got it?’
Walrus shrugged, his face twisted into a knot. He slapped his hand down on a button. The door juddered and started to close. Gary wedged his body in the narrowing gap. He managed to squeeze through the door before it h
issed closed. He glanced over the shoulder and saw Tracey on the footpath, arms akimbo, mouth agape. He swivelled to face the maniac driver, who made a motion to release the handbrake.
So far, words hadn’t worked. An alternative approach was called for. Gary threw a jab at the driver’s left ear. Walrus parried the blow. Although vulnerable in his seat, the man was clearly a better brawler than Gary. Must’ve been trained to deal with unruly passengers.
Before Gary could blink, a heavy right fist slammed into his jaw, sent him reeling two metres down the aisle. A fine welcome to Tassie. Fighting with a psychopathic bus driver.
Passengers gasped and shrieked, but no one made a move to assist. Fuck this generation of cowards. Bunch of pussies. He grabbed a seat armrest and pulled himself to a standing position. Walrus put his foot down. The bus accelerated and Gary flew through the air. His hip smashed into an armrest, and a bolt of pain rocked his body to the core.
The coach trundled a few metres down the road and gradually picked up speed before the driver slammed on the brakes. Gary slid on his belly like an ice-hockey puck towards the front of the bus. He scrabbled on the floor, snatched at an armrest and hauled himself up. Through the window he spotted the Commodore parked in the middle of the road, blocking the coach’s path. Two well-muscled men in jeans and lumber jackets stood between the car and the bus, stocky legs shoulder width apart, brandishing what looked like powerful submachine guns. Gary squinted in an effort to see better. Both men sported facial tattoo roadmaps so extensive they might’ve been rolling around in wet comics.
‘Everybody, please stay calm,’ Walrus commanded over his shoulder, then repeated the order in what sounded like Chinese. Never would have guessed the feral brute could speak a language other than the twangy north-east Tasmanian dialect of English. It must have been an accurate translation because a weird silence fell. The driver leaned forward in his seat and barked, ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ A condensation cloud of breath followed the words out of his mouth.
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