The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  ‘Tell me,’ Angie says. ‘How do you go from fighting for refugee rights to fighting in the war that creates them?’ But then she smiles without humour as understanding dawns. ‘You were already a soldier.’

  ‘Plain-clothes cop,’ the Major says, unapologetic. ‘Joined the army a month later and if we’d succeeded when I signed up, the refugee crisis would’ve been sorted.’

  ‘But you didn’t succeed.’

  ‘No.’

  Angie eyes him up and down. ‘Why aren’t you still over there? What happened to turn you into Peta Paxton’s bitch?’

  Ryan and Waylon exchange a startled glance.

  ‘A suicide bomber drove a car into a market in Aleppo. I lost forty-two soldiers, half my left leg and the best part of an ear.’

  Jules can’t remember him limping when he came into the kitchen. Angie looks him over again, slower this time. She lingers on the mangled tissue where his earlobe should be.

  ‘Forty-two men and women…that’s a platoon.’

  ‘Near enough. And sixty-two Syrians died on their way to prayer.’ The Major’s voice gives nothing away but Jules doesn’t miss his stranglehold on the towel. ‘SECDET Q18 is a trial counter-terrorism unit. We’re given corporate ops when they align with our own objectives.’

  ‘Really? And how do your objectives fit with Pax Fed?’

  ‘Peta Paxton wants to protect her company from acts of terrorism. We want to infiltrate and dismantle terrorist cells—foreign and domestic.’ He levels his gaze at Angie. ‘Which is why we’re here.’

  Jules watches Angie take a measured breath—the equivalent of a ceasefire—and her fingers leave the knife hilt. She raises her eyebrows at Jules; it’s the first time they’ve had eye contact since coming back into the kitchen. Jules gives a small nod, reassuring Angie she’s got the current under control.

  ‘What was wrong with using the front door?’ Angie asks.

  ‘Aside from your federal cop mates parked outside? You’ve got other admirers.’

  ‘So I hear. Who?’

  ‘James Xavier. He tops our list of suspects for Wednesday’s attack.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He keeps a low profile but he’s leading the Agitators these days. Have you had recent contact from the group?’

  ‘No. Why would he be watching me?’

  The Major wipes his hands on the towel, tosses it on the bench. Jules resists the urge to pick it up. ‘Could be he’s unhappy you’re getting the credit for the attack and he’s curious about who’s giving you attention.’

  The night lights up again, forcing its way through the blinds. Jules finds Waylon studying her. He has soft eyes; a kind mouth.

  ‘Was that mob always so feral?’ he asks her.

  Jules remembers the frenetic energy blasting up Queen Street. ‘Not like on Wednesday.’ She thinks about the discarded clothes in the back of the van and the stink of scorched corflute. ‘Were you at the protest?’ she asks Ryan.

  ‘Briefly.’ He gestures to his mate. ‘Waylo was approached by Xavier.’

  Waylon nods. ‘He was expecting that blast.’

  ‘And today he made contact,’ the Major says. ‘Waylon’s going with them to South Australia. They leave for Port Augusta tomorrow.’

  ‘The nuclear plant? There’s already hundreds of protesters camped outside the front gate. Why bother?’

  ‘Our intelligence indicates Xavier’s ambitions have moved beyond protesting. The plant’s an obvious target.’

  Angie stiffens. ‘It’s a nuclear reactor. The Agitators aren’t going to do anything that risks radioactive fallout—what do you think the protesters are doing down there in the first place? They want to shut down the place, not ramp up the risk.’

  ‘Are you willing to bet lives on that?’

  She chews on the Major’s words. ‘If your boy’s in, why do you need me?’

  ‘I don’t know who’s funding Xavier or who else is involved. I don’t know his agenda and I want to stop him before he kills more civilians. Waylon’s job is to gather intel. If the Agitators are on board for whatever Xavier’s got planned, we need someone with influence there to undermine him.’ A drop of water slides around the edge of the Major’s damaged ear and drips onto his T-shirt. ‘Help Waylon get a foothold in the Agitators,’ he says to Angie. ‘Win back that rabble. Nobody’s going to say no to Angela De Marchi, no matter how much of a grip Xavier thinks he’s got on them.’

  Jules sees it in Angie’s eyes. The fire, the urge to be back with the Agitators. The need to be back in the fight.

  And then it’s gone. ‘I can’t.’

  The Major’s eyebrows twitch. ‘I thought you’d jump at the chance to protect your people.’

  Angie glances at Jules. The storm rages on outside, rain lashing the kitchen window. ‘Apparently they’re not mine anymore.’

  ‘I’m offering you a job, Angela. Two birds. One stone.’

  ‘You want to pay me—’

  Glass shatters behind them in the lounge room.

  Jules spins around to see the timber blind ripped aside. A black cylinder thunks onto the floor and Ryan lunges for her.

  ‘Get down!’

  17

  Ryan hauls Jules around the table, all adrenaline and instinct. He pushes her to the floor and shields her with his body, clapping hands over her ears as the stun grenade goes off.

  The flash is blinding and the bang fills his head, leaves him muzzy for a few seconds. Phosphorus burns his eyes and nose, forces its way down his throat.

  ‘De Marchi,’ he rasps, his eyes and nose instantly streaming. Her hands are over his now, pressing his palms tight against her ears. Rain-soaked wind rips in from outside and he blinks to clear his vision, still stained from the flash. There’s more shadow than light but a candle flickers, throwing a fuzzy halo over the kitchen table. Ryan’s head rings but he’s been through dozens of blasts like this, knows how quickly his eyes and ears will recover; Jules and her mum are going to be a mess for a while longer. He needs to get moving because whoever threw that canister is coming.

  Ryan rolls away from De Marchi, pulls the pistol from his ankle holster. His eyes sting but he can see enough to make out movement.

  ‘Cover the back,’ the Major orders. He’s already up and moving, a watery shadow dissolving into the darkness.

  Angie coughs and gags. ‘I can’t see—’

  ‘Stay down,’ Ryan hisses over his shoulder.

  Something splinters at the back of the house. The laundry door. He keeps low and heads in that direction, one hand on the wall to feel his way. Aren’t the feds supposed to be parked outside?

  A quick tap on his shoulder. Waylo is crouched beside him, ready. Knowing he’s there steadies Ryan a little. They’re armed, dosed and trained—maybe not for exactly this scenario but at least they’re not pissing their pants.

  The wind howls through the house, battering blinds over the broken lounge room window. Ryan clicks off the pistol safety and wipes his streaming nose against his shirt. Tries to blink away the grit behind his eyeballs. He lays a palm flat on the floorboards hoping to feel the intruders moving about in the laundry, but the whole place is creaking and shaking with the storm. Are they already up the back stairs and inside? He presses his spine flat against the hallway wall. What are they waiting for?

  Another crash, this time at the other end of the house. The front door’s gone too. Ryan hesitates. Was the laundry a diversion? Which way are they coming in? Should they stay here or go back and cover the lounge and kitchen?

  Fuck it.

  He launches himself up and into the laundry—

  And right into a rifle barrel.

  ‘Drop it.’ The voice is muffled, controlled.

  Ryan freezes, squints through bleary eyes. In a flash of lightning he catches a glimpse of the bloke holding the rifle, sees enough to know he’s wearing a lightweight gas mask.

  ‘Drop your weapons. Both of you.’

  Crap. Ryan was hoping
Waylo was still in the hallway out of sight.

  Ryan raises his hands, palms out and finger well clear of the trigger, heart smashing against his ribs.

  ‘Lose it, or lose your kneecaps,’ the mask warns.

  Ryan lets the pistol clatter to the tiles. Waylo’s weapon follows half a second later.

  ‘Hands on your heads. Back it up, slowly.’

  Something crashes in the main part of the house. The Major?

  ‘Eyes on me, mate.’

  Ryan backs down the hallway. In the muted light he can make out a military-style vest and weapon holster. It’s the same crew as Wednesday, has to be.

  There’s scuffling in the lounge now, swearing.

  ‘Aaarggh, fuck!’

  A shot echoes through the house. Ryan’s pulse spikes. More crashing. A strangled cry, definitely female.

  De Marchi.

  Another shot…and then stillness. Even the wind drops.

  ‘Clear?’

  A grunt from the lounge room. ‘Are your targets secure?’ A new voice, male. Older.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put a bullet in them if that changes.’

  Ryan keeps moving backwards, barely feeling his legs.

  ‘Stop. Turn around and get on your knees.’

  Ryan does as ordered—and freezes.

  A bull-necked bloke wearing a gas mask has a handgun to Julianne De Marchi’s head. He’s using her as a shield, one meaty arm clamped across her chest. Her eyes are red and streaming, unfocused from the blast. He can see from here how much she’s shaking.

  There’s movement on the floor by the fridge: Angie is clutching her arm and gasping for breath. Her fingers are wet with blood and her face is streaked with tears and snot from the gas. The bull-neck takes the gun from Julianne long enough to point it at her mother. ‘Give me an excuse to put another one in you.’

  This is really happening.

  The rifle barrel presses into the back of Ryan’s neck. The gunman kicks out the back of his left leg and his new knee breaks the fall. Pain shoots up Ryan’s thigh and into his hip. Waylo lands beside him, fingers clasped behind his head.

  Ryan’s pulse thuds in his ears. Is this how it ends for them?

  Did he go through all that angst with his old man to leave the farm, all the tears from his mum, to die on a stranger’s floor without a whimper?

  He thinks of Tommy and his mum laughing at the kitchen table; his old man grinning at him from the boundary line. A sharp stab of regret. Why didn’t he sort out that mess with his dad when he had the chance?

  Get your shit together, Ryno.

  ‘You good?’ Ryan’s gunman asks the bull-neck.

  Ryan realises Angie’s knife is jutting from bull-neck’s left thigh. That explains the bullet in her arm. Bull-neck returns the muzzle of his weapon to Julianne’s temple, pushes it into her skin. Rage stirs in Ryan’s chest, hot and dangerous.

  ‘Let the girl go, or your mate here gets one to the brain.’

  The Major.

  He’s by the front door, so deep in shadow Ryan missed him first time around. He’s got a third gunman pinned against the wall, a pistol jammed hard against the top of his head. The gas mask is gone and Ryan can see buzz-cut grey hair, a thick forehead.

  ‘Hold your position,’ the third gunman says. His face is mashed against the plasterboard. ‘Wait for my command.’

  Ryan’s heart jackhammers. He needs to get that gun away from Julianne’s head. Fragments of training pierce the panic, sharpening him. He risks a sideways glance at Waylo and they share brief eye contact. He’s good to go. The guy behind them is bulkier and older than them—Ryan can tell that much by the way he moves—but if they can get his rifle, they can tip the balance in this standoff.

  ‘Jules,’ Angie rasps from the floor. ‘Let it go.’

  Ryan looks at Julianne’s empty hands. Let what go?

  ‘Mum…’ It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough for the bull-necked gunman to tighten his grip on her.

  ‘Protect yourself.’

  ‘What is she talking about?’ Bull-neck slides his finger to the trigger.

  ‘Jules,’ Angie urges.

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Do it!’

  Ryan is watching when it happens: a sharp crackle and a flash so bright he has to squint against it. But it doesn’t come from the sky. It comes from Julianne.

  Bull-neck jerks on the spot and drops the gun without uttering a sound. Julianne squirms out from under his grip before he drops to the floor. Ryan’s brain takes a second to understand and then the smell of burnt human flesh hits.

  Julianne De Marchi just electrocuted the guy with her bare hands.

  18

  Ryan reacts on instinct. He ducks out from under the rifle barrel, spins on his knees and punches the gunman behind him in the gut. It’s a sharp, targeted strike, and the bloke drops like a bag of shit. Ryan’s vaguely aware of Waylo scooping up the rifle and Julianne scrambling for Angie.

  Ryan springs from the floor, rips off the gunman’s mask and smashes his fist into a flat nose, once, twice, before the guy’s eyes roll back into his head. The impact hurts like hell but the brutality makes him feel stronger. He pats down the gunman: a hunting knife goes inside Ryan’s boot, a handgun in the back of his jeans. The Major pistol-whips the older gunman across the back of the head and the big man buckles. He catches him before his head meets the floorboards.

  They’ve got control—unless there are more men in the yard.

  Ryan shoves aside the kitchen table to get to Julianne. She’s cowering on the floor with Angie, her body angled to shield her mum. ‘Come on.’ He reaches for her and changes his mind. She took out a six-foot mercenary—what if she turns on him? Jules grabs a tea towel and presses it to Angie’s arm. ‘Mum’s bleeding.’ Her voice is ragged from panic or phosphorus or both.

  ‘Angie,’ Ryan says. ‘We have to go, now.’ As impatient as he is to get moving he doesn’t touch either of them.

  ‘Did you come to hurt Jules?’ Angie croaks. Her bloodshot eyes are fierce and wild.

  ‘No.’

  The wind whips up again outside, brings a blast of rain into the gaping house. Angie lifts her elbow. ‘Help me up.’

  Julianne struggles up from the floor without support but reaches for the bench once she’s on her feet.

  ‘Here.’ Ryan guides Angie to Waylo and offers a hand to Julianne, tentative. He expects her to protest—or worse—but she rests an arm across his shoulder and leans into him. She’s shaking as they step around the bull-neck sprawled by the sink. Waylo crouches and presses two fingers against the man’s throat.

  ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Julianne stiffens. Ryan actually feels the buzz that rips down her arm and he almost lets go.

  ‘No, hang on, I’m getting a pulse.’

  Julianne’s grip eases and Ryan takes a steadying breath. Man up.

  The Major crosses to them, slipping a flexi-phone into his pocket. ‘Van’s on the way.’ He nods in the direction of the laundry.

  ‘To take us where?’ Angie pulls free of Waylo and plants her feet, sways a little. Ryan doubts she can see properly—it’ll take a good dousing to get her eyes completely chemical free—but she’s staring down the Major regardless. Her arm is slick with her own blood.

  ‘Back to base.’

  ‘So you can hand Jules over?’

  The Major’s jaw twitches beneath his beard. ‘We didn’t come here for Julianne.’

  Julianne’s fingers tighten on Ryan’s shoulder. She doesn’t believe the Major. Ryan’s not sure he does either. She electrocuted a hundred-plus-kilo man without a weapon—of course the Major’s interested in her.

  ‘Why the base, then?’ Angie demands.

  ‘You’ll be safe.’

  ‘Not if the army’s after us.’

  ‘We’re the army and we’re not after you. We need to clear out, now.’

  ‘And then what?’

  The Major checks the safety on th
e pistol he’s carrying, barely masking his impatience. ‘You can decide your next move.’

  Ryan watches Angie wrestle with the offer. Her choice is to trust that the local cops will protect her and Julianne, or to take her chances with the Major. She doesn’t have much time to decide: the sirens are faint but they’re coming. Somebody’s reported the gunshot.

  ‘You’re with us?’ the Major prompts. ‘Good.’ He nods at Ryan to get moving. Angie hesitates for all of a second and then follows. Whatever went on between the two of them must count for something. Or her daughter’s half-killed someone and she doesn’t think the cops’ll look the other way.

  The Major leads them through the laundry—Ryan and Waylo collect their guns on the way—and outside into the rain. They follow the fence line at the side of the house and the Major scouts the road. Ryan’s aware of the heat radiating from Julianne and half-expects the rain to turn to steam when it hits her.

  Brake lights flash twice further down the street: Frenchie’s in position. She pulls away from the kerb as soon as they reach the van. The Major opens the sliding door and they pile in: the De Marchi women first, then Waylo and Ryan. The van keeps moving, forcing the Major to jump in the back instead of taking the passenger seat. Frenchie guns the engine as soon as the door slams.

  Ryan rests against the side panel as the van bounces over a speed bump. Every jolt is a comfort: they’re clear and they’re alive. He takes a handful of hair and wrings it out, resists the urge to drop his head and shake it like a dog. He runs through the events back at the house. Feels a stab of embarrassment. He really lost his shit there for a second.

  Angie and Julianne are on the bench seat, hanging on as Frenchie takes a corner too fast. The Major and Waylo are crouched at the rear. Rain pelts the windscreen, making a racket on the roof. A few more turns and they’re on the motorway heading west and it’s not long before the screen slides back.

  ‘Ah, sir?’

  Ryan’s head snaps up. The pitch in Frenchie’s Leb-Aussie twang is off.

  ‘What is it, private?’ The Major has one hand on the seat near Angie for balance, the other holding his pistol.