FIFTY-THREE
‘So what do we do now, Miss Hoang?’ It seemed like a fair question.
‘I’m considering my options,’ she said.
‘You weren’t calling roadside assistance back there, were you?’
She shook her head.
‘Old Peng?’
She nodded.
‘And he dislikes loose ends as much as Crockett does?’ I said.
‘I’m afraid so, Mr Murdoch. I tried to talk him out of it but you know too much. You’ve outlived your usefulness and become a liability. I’m very sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as I am, Miss Hoang. But, of course, you realise if I’m dead you’re the only person left who knows what’s been going on, and that also makes you someone with a very short use-by date. The way I see it, as long as I’m alive you’re safe, and as long as you’re alive I’m okay.’
I didn’t know how much sense that actually made, and I didn’t really care, as long as it bought me a few extra seconds. Nhu looked like she was thinking this over and was about to say something when I stomped on the brakes, swung the wheel hard left and shouted, ‘Kangaroo!’
Nhu glanced up at the empty road ahead, and as the muzzle of the pistol swung away from me I biffed her one on the jaw.
I’d been brought up not to hit women, but in this instance I figured violence was my only option. Nhu’s head snapped back, hitting the side window with a solid thud, and the little Beretta flew out of her hand and landed in my lap.
For a couple of seconds I thought I was going to slide into a three-sixty and lose the Alfa completely, but with both hands on the wheel I managed to get it back on the bitumen and under control, just in time to get waved down by an oncoming Northern Territory police vehicle. The bright blue Commodore with its chequered blue-and-white police livery was probably heading for Gaffneys Creek, following the tip-off from Gwenda. When he flashed his headlights and hit the red-and-blue roof lights, it seemed prudent to stop.
An unconscious Nhu was slumped down in the seat, her back resting against the passenger door. I leaned across and wound the window down, gave Nhu a kiss on the cheek and smiled at the copper, who was leaning out casually through the police vehicle’s open window.
‘Looked like a bit of pretty dodgy driving back there, mate,’ he said. ‘Everything okay?’
It seemed like the right moment for a quick bit of self-assessing of the situation. I was in a car that didn’t belong to me, with a shattered back window and several large-calibre bullet holes in the rear panels. There was an unconscious, mildly concussed Vietnamese copper next to me sporting a nasty bruise on her chin. I had a semi-automatic pistol in my lap and a sniper’s rifle that had taken out a psycho Macau casino operator in the boot. I’ve been in worse spots before, but not many.
‘Guess I almost lost her for a minute there,’ I said. ‘Swerved to avoid a roo. But everything’s hunky-dory now.’ I glanced at Miss Hoang beside me. ‘Didn’t even wake up the lady.’
The cop looked across at me for a few seconds. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, making it hard for me to guess what he was thinking.
‘You might wanna consider taking things a bit easier for a while,’ he suggested, and then he gave me a nod and drove off.
As I watched his dust in the rear-view mirror, it seemed to me to be a very sensible suggestion.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to Ben Ball and Miriam Cannell at Penguin, editor Janet Austin for her insightful suggestions and great catches, Jeremy McNamara and Nhut Huynh for advice on Vietnamese food and culture (any errors are all my own work), super agent Selwa Anthony, and to the several close friends whose lives I have been encouraged to creatively re-interpret.
Dead and Kicking Page 21
