Open Wounds

by Camille Taylor

  He stepped out of his apartment, shut the door behind him, and started down the stairs. He hoped Toby wouldn’t comment on the backpack. He wasn’t sure what he’d tell the teen, and right now his brain wasn’t functioning properly enough to come up with a lie.

  He heard Toby behind him as he descended the stairs.

  Relax, he’s probably just going out. Don’t freak out or you’ll tell him you’re hiding something.

  Toby was the kind to report on his own mother, if he had one.

  The kid was on his heels as he walked over to his car, dropping the backpack on the passenger seat. He’d rounded the hood and opened the driver’s side door when Toby suddenly touched his arm, startling him.

  Michael glared at him. “You want something?”

  “Not me. Coleani. He wants to see you right now.”

  Oh, shit. I’m a dead man.

  “Can’t it wait? I don’t want to disappoint Coleani’s customers.” That was the last thing he cared about, but it amazed him how scared he could be. Hours ago, being stuck in an interrogation room at the LAC had seemed like the worst thing imaginable. The prospect of confronting Coleani was much worse.

  Toby shook his head. “Boss wants to see you now.”

  Michael let out a deep breath, appearing outwardly calm but shitting bricks on the inside. “All right. I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll drive with you.”

  Michael clenched his hands into fists. He knew what Toby was doing—making sure he did what was requested of him.

  Think, damn it, think. Maybe Coleani has no idea. Maybe he wants to commend you or even throw you an initiation party. That was feasible, right? After all, technically he had passed the test.

  He started up the car and drove out onto the street in the direction of Coleani’s restaurant.

  “So, do you know why Coleani is so anxious to see me?” he asked, hoping for something to calm his frayed nerves.

  “Nope. Just that he expects your arse to be in his office pronto.”

  Oh, fuck. This could very well be his last day alive.

  Chapter 13

  Nick jumped out of the car as Dean radioed the accident in. The scene around him was a chaotic mess that reminded him of a war-zone. The intersection of Howard and Evans wasn’t usually a high accident zone. Named after the founding father of the town, George Howard and the once infamous convict escapee John Evans the two streets created a T-junction dead centre of town.

  Two crumpled cars lay slightly off to the side, having spun around after the initial collision. The traffic light embedded in the side of one vehicle seemed like a permanent feature, the car curved around the thick steel pole. The other car’s hood had been crumpled like an accordion. It was hard to determine who’d been going in what direction.

  The shrill whine of a siren told Dean the first responder was on his way. He and Doyle would certainly need all the help they could get. Traffic continued to pile up, and it was only three-thirty in the afternoon. It would be a nightmare come rush hour, since the Howard-Evans intersection was the most frequented in town. Over seventy percent of Harbour Bay citizens used it on a regular basis.

  Nick rushed over to a late model Ford and took a quick inventory while Dean moved towards the other car, which resembled something out of a Bathurst 1000 crash and quickly assessed any possible danger as he approached.

  He glanced through the tinted window at the driver and knew without opening the door and feeling for a pulse that the driver was dead. He shouted at a few bystanders to stay the hell back as they inched forward, and prayed the uniforms would get here soon to control the masses. For now, his authoritarian voice would have to do.

  He pushed back his suit jacket to expose his gun holster and badge, informing the crowd that he was in charge before checking the other windows for other possible passengers. As far as he could see, the driver was alone and therefore the only casualty. He eased open the passenger door with a great amount of difficulty, the interior of the car resembling a sardine can as both sides compressed internally, crushing the life out of the driver as the external walls pushed into each other, fighting for dominance.

  Dean prepared to lean over the centre console to remove the driver’s wallet and hopefully his ID, which would make informing the next of kin easier, hopefully before they learned about the accident from the media and saw their loved one’s car on the news.

  With one knee on the passenger seat, he reached across and stopped dead.

  Shit! In the centre of the back seat, he discovered a child’s car seat, placed so the child could look out the front window. It sat on an angle, the sides cracked as it couldn’t hold off the excessive force. He hadn’t seen the child from the window since the tint was so dark.

  He navigated through the small confines and checked the small body for a pulse. He let out a relieved breath, feeling the light throb beneath his fingertips.

  He wasn’t sure how he would get the kid out. The little boy was unconscious, for which he was thankful. No child should see his father dead, and Dean had no idea how much pain the child might be in. The safety seat had taken the brunt of the accident, protecting him like it was designed to, but had also tightened around the child so that it was possible the kid had a broken rib or something just as worrying.

  Dean retreated from the car as he saw a marked police vehicle pull up. Two uniformed officers exited, one already heralding the spectators away. The other uniform began running towards him, recognising him instantly. Relief showed on his face.

  “Doyle and I are witnesses. We were following a suspect who must have panicked when he saw us and sped right through the intersection, causing the crash,” he told the cop, whose name was Huxley. “I’ve got one casualty and a minor trapped in the back who is currently unconscious. Stay with him in case he wakes up and inform dispatch we’ll need a rescue team. The kid’s in there tight.”

  Huxley swore to himself, and Dean jogged over to the other car where Nick had been helping a woman in her thirties out of the driver’s seat, her body visibly shaking. Tears ran down her face and she was in a state of shock, her eyes much too wide to be taking anything in.

  “Back-up just arrived. One survivor,” he told Nick, who nodded, understanding what had been said and what hadn’t. One survivor. Which implied one or more casualties.

  Nick eased the woman over to the kerb away from her car and out of danger when the rescue teams, ambulance and traffic diverters, arrived. Loud sobs escaped the woman’s mouth and Nick pulled her into his arms, allowing her to cry all over his linen shirt. He rubbed her back, giving comfort to her as he looked up at Dean as if to say, what else could I do?

  Dean wasn’t good with women. Crying or not. When they were emotional, it made things worse. After being partners with Nick for over three years, they had come to an understanding, each playing off one another’s strengths, each knowing his limits. This was Dean’s. He didn’t have use for someone who allowed their emotions to rule over common sense.

  Horns tooted in the distance as motorists became impatient. The heat of the day made him sweat, and he knew it would be more than just a little uncomfortable in the cars without air conditioning. People exited their vehicles, and Dean listened to the officer as he barked orders for people to return to their cars, his tone making it clear that if they didn’t do it willingly, he’d be more than happy to oblige in escorting them back.

  He left Nick with the overwrought female and moved towards the uniformed officer who’d arrived with Huxley. He spoke briefly with the officer, getting an estimation on when they would be joined by more members of Harbour Bay Police.

  He ran stiff fingers through his blond hair and cursed the day’s events. He hadn’t expected Lambert to spook. The man had been overly confident when he’d walked out the doors of the LAC.

  The teen wasn’t in as much control as he’d like to think. Was he getting concerned over his part in the murders as Coleani’s lapdog? Maybe the youth had a conscience after all and fe
lt guilty. Now would be the time to swing down and usher the kid away, before Coleani got his hands on him.

  Within minutes more police vehicles arrived, a swarm of navy uniformed cops descending on the scene, taking over witness detail and directing all the traffic away from the scene while an ambulance struggled to get through the heavy traffic.

  A bright red and white Harbour Bay fire engine stopped just outside the perimeter Huxley’s partner had cordoned off, and a bevy of well-trained firemen added to the rapidly growing response team.

  The woman continued to sob hysterically in Nick’s arms, not allowing him to leave her as she was escorted to the ambulance for a check-up.

  Had he been in charge of her well-being, Dean would’ve shaken her off long ago and told her to get a grip, which was why Nick handled the fairer sex. Dean watched as his partner leaned over and conversed with the paramedic who immediately nodded and retrieved a needle which he promptly tested for air bubbles and then injected the woman who—thankfully—started to calm down.

  Dean worked tirelessly under the harsh UV rays as he liaised with the firemen who continuously attempted to free the little boy. The mother had been notified and waited impatiently for news on her only child and last living piece of her husband.

  Goddamn Michael Lambert. He had caused all this. One man was dead, another life hung in the balance. A woman was overwrought—two when he considered the mother—and for what? Because of a murdering son-of-a-bitch.

  He made a fist, badly needing to hit something. Being a cop wasn’t as glamorous as they made it out to be in movies. It was rare to save the damsel in distress from the bad man. Instead, the day was filled with handing out speeding tickets, arriving at domestic disputes, and acting as mediator. Not exactly the finer life, but Dean couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He had lived a life full of violence and there was no turning back from that, no pretending it hadn’t happened or that it didn’t exist. He wondered how others, like Nick, handled the situation, having no background in the dark depravity he’d become accustomed to.

  He moved away from the noise created by the rescue teams, yanked his phone off his belt, and dialled a number.

  “Donovan.” Amelia’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “Hey, it’s Matthews.”

  “Where are you? I expected a report an hour ago.”

  “I don’t work for you yet, Donovan.” He knew he would one day soon, but not now. “Doyle and I are at the accident on Howard-Evans.”

  “I heard about that. Bad one, right? So why are you calling?”

  He leaned against his car. “Just wanted to give you an update. For one, Lambert caused the accident. He’s spooked and is probably about to run.”

  “I’ll let the others know. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Nick took some surveillance photos of Lambert coming out of Coleani’s and a couple more today at his various drops. We recorded their addresses so if Lambert won’t talk maybe one of them will. But I doubt they’ll be able to tell you anything other than Lambert’s name.”

  “Coleani always covered his arse well. Can either of you get away to collect Lambert?”

  “Nick’s got his hands full with a woman and I’m co-ordinating a rescue at the moment.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not looking good for a kid, Donovan.”

  She swore.

  “Tell me about,” he said. “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed.”

  He hung up and immediately shoved a pair of sunglasses on to shade his eyes from the harsh glare. Dean hoped they got to Lambert before Coleani did, because he wanted to be face to face with the kid who’d caused so much damage.

  If Lambert believed Donovan was the daughter of the devil, just wait until he met Dean Matthews.

  Chapter 14

  Amelia sat on the edge of her desk, facing Darryl and Kellie, whose diamond stud earrings winked in the sunlight that streamed through the large embankment of windows directly behind them, the long cream roller blinds drawn half way, giving off just enough daylight without blinding.

  Coleani had surprised her. He’d not at all been what she’d expected but there’d been no mistaking the coldness of his eyes or the arrogance of his position, which he’d achieved by killing his former mentor and gaining control of his organisation. Coleani had built on the small following until he had an empire, with young guppies ready to do his bidding.

  “Doyle said that when they followed Lambert home last night he was greeted as a conquering hero at his complex. Both he and Matthews agree that they’re more of Coleani’s men.”

  Kellie frowned. “They won’t talk,” she stated unnecessarily, one hand on her hip.

  Amelia wanted to clobber her old friend. Ever since they had returned from Coleani’s restaurant she had been a woman on a crusade—a dangerous one, at that. Amelia didn’t like whatever was going through Kellie’s mind and she’d have to keep a close eye on her if she had any plans on keeping her safe. Right now, she was her own worst enemy and messing around in Coleani’s business was a sure way of getting shot.

  “Yes, we know that, Kellie, but our main objective here is to bring Butler and Benedict’s killer to justice. That’s what we’re paid to do,” she said, trying to reason with a woman who didn’t want to be placated. “I understand that by bringing in Lambert we’re really not helping anyone. But at the moment, arresting Coleani is out of the question.”

  Kellie gave her a stormy glare that chilled her.

  She wanted to scream. What did she want her to do? If I could get away with it, I’d walk down to Coleani’s this very second and put a bullet through his head.

  Anger flushed her face and zinged through her blood. Her already short temper frayed to the point of snapping. Agitated, she clenched her jaw in an effort to avoid saying something she’d regret. Kellie always brought out the protective side of her. She could understand her frustration, as they had shared the same childhoods. Together, they had seen the worst humankind could offer. But, then again, her mother had never worked for Coleani, so maybe Kellie’s hatred ran a little deeper.

  Darryl glanced from one woman to the other, clearly sensing the raw emotions pulsating between them. “Lambert is green,” he added. “Way over his head. That night was no doubt his initiation into the inner circle. Coleani probably demands all his high ranking lieutenants take a life. That way, they’re in as deep as he is should anything go south. They’re just as liable.”

  Kellie snorted. “And this is a man free to walk the streets of Harbour Bay? All while we chase our tails and charge his lackeys for completing their tasks as ordered.”

  “The LAC has been trying to nail Coleani’s arse for over twenty years. The man is like Teflon—nothing sticks,” Amelia said, exasperated. She was really beginning to lose what little patience she had. “Our only hope would be to turn one of his men.”

  “You know full well his little cult members are hardened criminals. All of them would lay down and die for him. Not even a Donovan interrogation would yield results.”

  “Don’t let Coleani cloud your judgement,” she advised.

  Her phone rang. She reached over and answered it, her voice crisp. “Donovan.” She paused. “Where are you? I expected a report an hour ago.”

  Both Kellie and Darryl perked up, waiting for news.

  “I heard about that. Bad one, right? So why are you calling?”

  ***

  Kellie began to pace back and forth, her body stiff with tension, as a feeling of uselessness settled uncomfortably over her. Darryl rubbed the back of his neck as he watched her, his brown gaze caressing her body with interest as if trying to understand what made her tick. His avid attention knotted her stomach in a way she couldn’t understand. She mentally pushed Darryl aside, though that was a chore in itself and focused on the one-sided conversation.

  “I’ll let the others know. Anything else?” She paused again. “Coleani always did cover his arse well. Can either of you get away to collect Lambert?”

>   Darryl straightened, and Kellie stopped and stared.

  Amelia swore and caught her gaze, then hung up the phone.

  “Matthews?” Darryl asked.

  “Yeah, apparently Lambert caught sight of his tail and sped through an intersection causing an accident and heavy traffic jam. Good news is we have enough evidence to take him down.”

  A barrage of rapid gunfire put a stop to Kellie’s reply. Amelia dropped to the floor beside her desk, using the heavy duty object as cover while Darryl pushed Kellie to the ground, covering her body with his and pressing her into the hard carpet. She didn’t fight him, going willingly, too terrified to argue. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, to block out her surroundings as her body began quivering beneath Darryl’s in fear, but she couldn’t, not when other people were depending on her observations to keep them alive.

  She looked left, then right, expecting to see furniture combust into a thousand pieces. The sound of breaking glass and surprised screams and shouts swam around her head until she had no idea where they were coming from. The next room? The floor below? The floor above?

  The building’s internal security system started blaring, sounding much like the old World War Two air-raid warnings, and the shrill noise hurt her ears, threatening to burst the delicate drum. She was on the verge of losing it and for a second she imagined herself in the middle of a war zone, taking fire. That’s certainly what it felt like, only Darryl’s weight and heat seeping through her clothes and warming her chilled body kept her sanity.

  The world went silent momentarily before a loud squeal she presumed was a rubber tyre connecting with the asphalt reached her ears. They remained on the floor for several minutes after the gunfire stopped, until it was decided they were safe.

  Amelia lithely got to her feet and surveyed her surroundings, her take-charge personality a real blessing in situations like this. “Is everyone all right?” she asked.