by Chris Taylor
Lane nodded. “Yeah. Her name’s Allison. She’s his second wife. I haven’t met her, yet. She’s been away visiting her sister in Queensland. Last I heard, she was waiting for a flight.”
“Do we have any background on her?” Michael asked.
“No. Given that she was interstate when Olivia went missing, we haven’t focused our attention on her.”
Michael nodded. Another moment of silence descended before Lane’s boss drew in a breath, an unwavering look in his eyes. “All right, this is what we’re going to do. I’ll talk to the AFP boys, but we need to tread very carefully. Right now, I want both of you to run some property searches on Vukovic and Jovanovic. I tend to agree with you Lane. Vukovic hasn’t got the brains to pull this off on his own. Someone’s feeding him orders.”
He pursed his lips. “But, it was Vukovic who Brittany identified as the man who snatched Olivia. If he still has her, he must have her hidden somewhere. I’ve spoken to the boys in Organized Crime. They’ve given me a list of names of the other Redbacks’ key players, including a man by the name of Tim Todd. It’s widely believed by the blokes in Organized Crime that Todd is Jovanovic’s right-hand man. Run property checks on all of them, in case Vukovic isn’t the only one involved and track down the location of their clubhouse. I doubt they’d be stupid enough to stow her there, but you never know.”
Lane and Jett nodded grimly and returned to their seats. Lane tugged the keyboard closer and started punching words into the computer. Determination surged through him and he narrowed his eyes at the screen. “Let’s find this asshole’s last known address. It’s time we paid him a little visit.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, January 27, 9:25 p.m.
Olivia licked her dry lips and yearned for a drink of water. The room where she was confined was close and hot and it had been hours since her captor had paid her a visit. Not that she wanted him to. His ugly face and mean, squinty eyes frightened her. But she would have given nearly anything for a drink and a visit to the bathroom.
She lay on her side, with her cheek pressed against the dusty floor. It was made up mostly of bare boards. She could also just make out scraps of old linoleum in some pea-green color, stuck in sporadic strips to the floor where it caught the paltry light that escaped under the boarded-up window. Not that any light showed now. She could only assume night had fallen.
Swallowing a sigh that was tinged with desperation, she wriggled her body in an effort to reach a strip of the linoleum, hoping it would provide a smidgen more comfort than the bare boards, but after a few attempts to roll over, she gave up, exhausted.
The numbness in her hands had traveled up past her elbows. Her shoulders ached from the unnatural position she’d held for so long. For the thousandth time, she strained against the bindings that held her wrists, but like every other time she’d tried it, they didn’t budge.
A sob rose in the back of her throat and she clenched her jaw tight in an effort to contain it. Crying would get her nowhere. Crying only filled her eyes with tears and her nose with snot and she had no way of wiping away either of them.
She thought of her dad and prayed again that he was on his way to rescue her. He tracked down baddies for a living. He was the best in the business—so she’d heard from some of his work colleagues. Even her stepmother praised his achievements.
Olivia’s chest tightened with anger at the thought of Ellie. If her stepmother had allowed her to buy that stupid bikini, she might never have been taken. She’d be safely home with her brothers, listening to music on her iPod and counting down the days until school started. She couldn’t wait to start the fifth grade with Brittany.
Brittany. They’d only known each other for a few weeks, but they’d fast become best friends. Boris had smiled with a weird kind of pleasure when he told her a little while ago how he’d shoved Brittany out of the way and she’d hit her head as she’d fallen. He’d left her bleeding in the change rooms and seemed to be proud of it.
At least now Olivia knew her friend hadn’t also been taken. She hoped Brittany was okay. Surely Ellie would have found her before it was too late?
Thinking of her stepmother again, a twinge of guilt pricked her conscience. It hadn’t all been Ellie’s fault. Olivia didn’t even care that much about getting a bikini. She didn’t know why she’d picked the fight with her stepmother, but it seemed lately that’s all she did. Still, it wasn’t like she did it without provocation. Every time she turned around, Ellie was telling her what to do. Or more importantly, what she couldn’t do. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t her real mom.
So what if Olivia had been a baby when her real mother died? It didn’t mean her mom had never existed. It didn’t mean she’d never held her or wanted her or loved her. Her real mom had gotten sick and died. It happened to people all the time. Admittedly, they were usually old when that happened, but it still happened.
People didn’t simply forget all about them—forget they’d ever existed—and yet, that’s what Olivia felt was happening to the memory of her mother: That everyone around her wanted to forget that her mother had once been alive.
It was one of the reasons she’d begged her father to enlarge the portrait. She wanted a picture of her mother hanging on her bedroom wall where she could stare at it and tell her things no one else could understand.
For as long as she could remember, everyone had told her that she looked like her mother. The resemblance made her happy. It made her feel close to the woman who’d given birth to her, but whom she’d never known. It made her feel connected to her—like they were one.
The rattle of the key in the lock intruded on her thoughts. A moment later, the door swung open and she tensed in fearful anticipation. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and the bright flashlight that beamed in her direction seared her eyes.
The rancid smell of body odor and stale cigarettes preceded Boris into the room and her nose twitched at the onslaught. She turned her head away and breathed in the dust, by far the better option. A booted foot pressed hard against her side and rolled her over. She stiffened and ducked her head, anticipating a blow.
“Get up, you’re comin’ with me.”
* * *
Zara stared down from her bedroom window at the empty courtyard below. Her father still hadn’t returned. Her thoughts returned to the contents of the bottom drawer of his desk and the dread inside of her increased tenfold.
It had taken her awhile to find it. At first, when she opened the drawer, her shoulders slumped, both in relief and disappointment. There’d been nothing more than a pile of files. Riffling through them, she scanned the contents and found they contained notes and details of various party meetings and memos in relation to proposed policy changes. One file contained notes of a meeting between her father and the State Premier and a couple of other cabinet ministers, discussing the possibility of a threat to the Premier’s leadership.
Whilst she didn’t think the subject matter contained in the folders necessarily warranted a locked drawer, she could understand the sensitive nature of the memos and conceded that her father was probably wise to keep them under lock and key.
With a sigh, she’d arranged the files in the order she found them and returned them to the drawer. She was about to close it when a slip of paper snagged in the side of the drawer caught her eye.
Taking care to tug it free without tearing it, she smoothed out the single sheet of notepaper and tried to make sense of her father’s handwriting. It seemed to be a record of a phone conversation. Although there was no date, the word “Draco” was written and underlined twice.
Her heart thumped. Draco. It was part of the name Lane had given her when she’d asked about the identity of the man on the line-up, the man she’d seen in her father’s office. According to Lane, Draco was the president of the Redbacks. Written next to the name was an address in the western Sydney suburb of Milperra. Brittany had identified their attacker as a member of the Redbacks. Lane had also told
her the Redbacks operated out of western Sydney.
Lane had questioned the contents of the ransom note and its failure to contain any contact or drop details. In fact, he’d expressly stated that it appeared as though her father knew the kidnapper. Or his whereabouts.
With a growing sense of conviction, Zara tore a sheet off her father’s notepad and copied down the details from the note before returning it to the drawer. With shaking fingers, she locked the drawer again and pressed the key back where she found it.
Her mind whirled then—just like it was doing now, hours later. What if Olivia’s kidnapper wasn’t acting alone? What if the Redbacks’ president was in on it, too? It appeared the address and Draco was connected. Could the address in Milperra be the drop off point? Had the rendezvous point been arranged earlier? Is that why the ransom note didn’t include the kind of details Lane expected—like the meeting point?
Her mind spun with the possibilities. Could the address in Milperra be the same place where Olivia was being held? All of a sudden it seemed more than plausible.
She had to call Lane and tell him what she’d discovered. But then, she’d have to tell him how she came about the information and that would mean breaking her father’s confidence and maybe even worse.
Over the intervening hours, she’d become more and more convinced her father was involved, but she couldn’t be the one to point the finger at him. For the first fourteen years of her life, he’d been everything to her—father, mother and best friend. Then he’d met and married Allison and within a short frame of time, Brittany had arrived and the undivided attention Zara had enjoyed up until then had suddenly been vastly diluted.
Not that her father had loved her any less. She wasn’t immature enough to think that. But things had been different. There were others with demands on his time. A new wife took precedence over a daughter and an infant daughter was just plain more fun.
Despite this, Zara had been happy for her father. She’d been pleased he’d found love again and if she’d had an inkling her stepmother had liked her new husband’s daughter, Zara would have been satisfied.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. No matter how hard Zara had tried, Allison hadn’t warmed to her. Then when Brittany arrived, it seemed—as far as Allison was concerned—Zara no longer existed.
It had hurt; of course it had. It still hurt. But she’d learned to brush the hurt aside and focus on the good things in her life. Like her career. Like her sister. Like her father.
Indecision gnawed at every fiber in her body. Images of Olivia flashed through her mind. They were replaced by images of Zara’s father smiling tenderly, holding his arms out to his firstborn and pulling her in close for a hug. Then there was Brittany. Sweet, little Brittany.
Zara couldn’t destroy her family. She just couldn’t. But neither could she ignore another little girl’s terror. If there was a possibility Olivia was being held at the address Zara had taken from her father’s desk, she had to look into it. She’d never rest peacefully again if she discovered later that she’d had the information to find the child and had ignored it—out of fear, out of loyalty, even out of love. She couldn’t betray her father, but neither could she have Olivia’s safety or lack of it on her conscience.
Frightened by what she had to do, she turned away from the dark outside her window and stared at the piece of paper she’d stuffed in her pocket. Thirty-seven Scarborough Road, Milperra. A totally innocuous street address, in fact, it almost sounded pleasant.
What secrets lay behind its closed doors? She shuddered. There was only one way to find out.
* * *
Lane checked his rearview mirror for the headlights of the three unmarked police vans that had followed him to the nondescript fibro and galvanized-iron shack and was relieved to see them pull in behind him one by one and park a short distance from Boris Vukovic’s rented house. It had taken some doing and some clever searching, but they’d finally located his address. The building was set back on a small block surrounded by other housing commission homes, all in a similar state of disrepair.
Lane’s gut churned with nerves. He glanced at Jett beside him. He was sure his partner’s tense expression matched his own. Any raid on a dangerous criminal was an apprehensive and stressful event, no matter how well prepared and how well resourced the team.
Lane cleared his throat of the usual nerves. “Vukovic might not be the smartest one of the pack, but he’s known to shoot first and ask questions later. Make sure everyone’s wearing a Kevlar.”
Jett nodded, his lips compressed. Lane watched him check his gear for the hundredth time. Being prepared kept you alive. It was as simple as that. The phone in his pocket vibrated against his chest. He tugged it out and checked the screen and then cursed under his breath.
Jett looked at him. “What is it? Has there been a change of plan?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s a text from…someone I was supposed to meet at eight. She waited at my place for more than an hour before she gave up. I’ve had my phone on silent. I’ve been so caught up in all this, I forgot all about her.” He grimaced. “Now she’s royally pissed.”
Jett shook his head and shot Lane a slight grin. “Too bad, mate. I hope she understands when you explain what happened.”
Lane pursed his lips. He hadn’t given Katie a thought since this morning, when he’d replied to her email. Since then, his head had been full of the kidnapping…and Zara Dowton. And now wasn’t the time to think about either woman. He had a job to do.
Climbing out of his vehicle, he strode back to meet the other members of the taskforce and a handful of officers from the Tactical Response Group that had been put together with short notice to carry out the raid on Vukovic’s residence. It was late and the street was quiet. Conversation was clipped and kept to a minimum.
Lane ran through their plan again, confirming that everyone understood the drill. He checked again that they were ready.
His gaze drifted back to the ramshackle house. Light spilled through the open window of the front room and onto a weathered porch. A small child’s bicycle with the seat missing and a faded football stood in the shadows. A solitary streetlight illuminated the overgrown lawn and the piles of trash that were strewn across the front yard. Lane couldn’t imagine the kind of people who came home to such a welcoming scene.
Turning away, he did a last check of his equipment. A moment later, he nodded to his men and prepared to enter the building.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saturday, January 27, 10:17 p.m.
“Police! Open up!”
Lane gave the order and waited a few moments for the occupants of the house to respond. He was greeted with silence. He glanced at the team of TRG and AFP officers lined up behind him, armed with face shields, breast plates and fire power. Thumping on the door again, he yelled out for a second time. Not a sound emanated from inside.
He stepped back and glanced at the men around him. He spoke in a low voice. “All right, boys, we’re going in.” Speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder, he checked with the officers who waited at the rear of the residence. After receiving their okay, he nodded to the men behind him.
“After three. One. Two. Three.”
The steel battering ram hefted by two burly officers crashed against the wooden door. It groaned, but didn’t give. Another ram and then another. The men grunted with the effort. On the fourth attempt, the door splintered with a squeal of hinges. Lane charged through the door, his weapon drawn. The others poured in behind him.
A baby playing with an old toaster and wearing nothing but a dirty diaper stared up at him in surprise from its place on the bare floor of the front room. Lane cursed and looked around. A faded couch with the stuffing ripped out of it, leaving the springs exposed, lay along one wall. A television stood on a scarred, low table in the far corner. It was switched on with the sound turned down. There was no one else in the room.
“Clear,” he shouted.
He could he
ar his men plowing through the other rooms, clearing them as they went. And then the tone changed.
“Hands in the air! Put your fucking hands above your head!” It was Jett.
Lane’s pulse leaped. Leaving the baby where it was, he pushed his way down the hall, now ablaze with light. At the end of the corridor, he came up short outside a bedroom. Jett and two TRG officers had their weapons trained on a woman dressed in a filthy nightgown who lay on an unmade bed. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. She squinted at them through the light. The smell of body odor, cheap perfume and unwashed bedclothes assaulted his nose. He forced himself closer.
“Get up!”
Struggling to a sitting position, the woman complained loudly about their presence in her home.
“Shut your mouth,” Lane growled. “We’re here for Boris. Where the hell is he?”
The woman shrugged and attempted to push the sleeve of her nightgown back onto her shoulder. “How the fuck would I know? I’m the last one he talks to around here.”
Lane bit back his impatience and lowered his gun, indicating for the men around him to do the same. Tempering his tone, he spoke to her again. “What’s your name?”
“Sandra,” the woman offered grudgingly. “Sandra Welsh.”
“All right, Sandra, we’re here to speak to Boris. Where is he?”
“I already told ya. I don’t fuckin’ know where he is!”
Lane tried again. “You must have some idea. He lives here, doesn’t he?”
Sandra turned away and shrugged. “When he feels like it.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I dunno. A night or two ago. I lose track of time.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“What, do I look like—his fuckin’ mother?”
Anger surged through Lane. The woman must have seen something of it in his eyes because she quickly mumbled, “He said somethin’ about headin’ out west for a while. Had a job to do.”
