Overkill : Pure Venom

by Lawrie Jordan

  Ronda walked out of Bosito-Di Bella Pharmaceuticals ten minutes later, having ordered 12 new antivenins, all at cost price. $12,000 all up. Men. They’re such suckers for a bit of boob and a damsel in distress.

  ***

  The offices of Bosito-Di Bella were in Charmer Street, Woolloomooloo. It was a good 30-minute walk back to the Hilton, but Ronda was in no hurry.

  Mike had driven, in an unmarked AFP car Brian had organised for him, over to Darlinghurst to stake out Caldwell. He could be gone all day.

  She was at a loose end, the ‘crush hour’ had ended and it was such a beautiful spring day. She swapped her sexy high heels for the Saucony’s she’d brought with her and set off back to the hotel. Through The Domain and back towards the CBD proper, using Centrepoint to get her bearings. The girl from the bush had been cooped up too long and it was good to get out and about and some fresh air – fresh-ish at least. It was Sydney after all.

  She strolled past St Mary’s in Cathedral Street, which led her to think about the St Mary’s in Adelaide, Chris O’Connor, and that scratch on his face. If he had got it while raping that poor defenceless girl, she was glad that Cassie had fought back and scarred him for life, short though it was. If it were him that had murdered her, she hoped the Red Belly Black had inflicted a painful death. Then she remembered the photo she’d seen of him post mortem and realised that indeed it had.

  While she was on this ‘trip down memory lane’, and for want of something better to do with her morning, she decided to walk down to The Greenland Centre, where Muir and Bellotti breathed their last. It was virtually on her way anyway. She walked diagonally across Hyde Park until she came to Elizabeth Street and hung a right into Bathurst Street, then headed west crossing over Castlereagh Street a few minutes later. The Greenland Centre loomed large on her left.

  Chapter 37

  Col’s lucky day.

  The longer Michael Marr sat there in the cramped Hyundai i30, getting more and more bored out of his brain, the more he realised that he was not cut out for this surveillance business.

  Sure, he’d picked the perfect parking spot for a stakeout. No one could enter or leave The Medusa without him knowing about it. It was just all this damn sitting around. He was the type of guy who always had to be doing something. He looked at his Apple watch for the umpteenth time. 10.35am. He’d been sitting there for over four hours. Maybe, he could call Ronda, see how she went with the antivenins, and what she was up to in the big bad city. But then they had been living out of each other’s pockets for a while, so it was probably best to give her some space. He glanced at his watch again. Still 10.35am. Aggghhhh!

  If only he knew that this stakeout was a complete waste of time. Caldwell wasn’t there in his plush Medusa penthouse. In fact, he hadn’t been there all night.

  ***

  Senior Sergeant Simpson of Alice Springs police was wrong when he said that there were no such things as coincidences. There were. One was taking place at this very moment.

  “Fuck me dead, it’s her!”

  “Change of plans, mate,” Caldwell told the cabbie from the back seat as he watched Ronda walk across Castlereagh Street. He flicked a lazy fifty from a thick wad of them onto the front passenger seat. “Pull up just past the lights and I’ll jump out.”

  This was Col’s lucky day. First that incredible lucky streak on the Roulette tables at Crown Casino where he turned a couple of hundred into a lazy $5,000. That had never happened before. Then the pit boss had invited him up to the High Rollers Room, where over the course of the evening/morning he had tripled it. How arsey was that! And he had only gone to Crown to kill a few nervous hours as he counted down the minutes till the big event.

  Then this chance sighting of that murdering blonde bitch – boy, was he gunna have some fun before he put that slut out of her misery. Maybe he should bump off her boyfriend too, just to tie up any loose ends.

  And then later on today, getting that long-awaited call from The Benefactor giving him the green light to set the wheels in motion. It was his lucky day, and soon Australia was going to go back to being ‘The Lucky Country’.

  ***

  It was her all right. The fact that she was standing there, right where that poofter Muir had splattered like a watermelon, sealed the deal. Did she come back here to the scene of the crime to gloat? Maybe she got off on killing people and was reliving the moment. Was she here to meet her partner? If she was, she’d been stood up because here she was crossing back over Bathurst Street and turning left into Pitt Street. He kept back as close as he dared – 20 metres or so – and followed her, ducking behind fellow pedestrians whenever possible in case she was looking out for a tail. She wasn’t. Some assassin.

  He sped up when he saw her walk into the Hilton, not wanting to lose her. It was mid-morning and there weren’t a lot of people around which was good and bad. Bad because the ones who were there stood out more, and good because there were less witnesses. As she headed for the lifts, he decided on a “bold as brass’ approach. If she made him and screamed, he would just bolt. With the suit he’d bought especially for the Casino and his upmarket new shades, he looked more like a businessman than the down and dirty ‘shorts and Aloha shirt’ Colin Caldwell that she’d seen at The Australian Arms in Penrith. And it was, after all, his lucky day. Just strut through reception like you own the place, pick up that copy of the Financial Times, and hurry like you’re late for an important business meeting.

  His timing was perfect, getting to the lift just as the doors opened and she got in. He walked in beside her. There was just the two of them, both staring straight ahead as one does in a lift. She pressed Floor 27, then as the doors closed turned to ask him where he was headed. As she politely asked “Which floor?” she realised who it was.

  “Yours,” he said drawing his Glock.

  Chapter 38

  Going up.

  Mike was going quietly crazy. How do the guys who do it so often, do it? he wondered. He was too afraid that if he stopped watching, even for a minute, that would be the minute when something happened, and he would miss it. Although he would have to have a break soon, he was busting for a piss. The real surveillance guys must piss into a water bottle or something.

  Just then his phone rang. He smiled when he saw who was calling. “Hello Ronnie, how’s it goi…?”

  “Listen arsehole,” came a familiar male voice, “if you’re not back at the Hotel in ten minutes, the blonde bitch is dead. Call the pigs and the blonde bitch is dead. Bring a snake and the blonde bitch is dead. Over to you, handsome.” Click. Handsome?

  Mike had the car started and moving before Caldwell – for that’s who it was – had finished making his threat. Being from the NT and not really sure of the quickest route, he drove like a maniac one handed down the hill, the other hand Googling ‘Darlinghurst to George Street’.

  What the absolute fuck? Ten hours!?

  Then realised, for some reason known only to Google, it had given him directions to George Street Brisbane. By the time he had corrected the mistake, he’d taken a wrong turn and GoogleMaps said he had eight minutes to get there. Shit on a stick! he muttered to himself and did a screaming U-ey.

  His heart pounding, he flew down William Street running two red lights and narrowly missing a council bus. He was doing well until he hit the Riley Street intersection where traffic had come to a standstill. Five minutes to go and he was only a third of the way there. Fuck! Hand blasting the horn, he wrenched the steering wheel down and turned right across the face of outbound cars and trucks, missing one by millimetres. Driving like a man repossessed, he then crash-mounted the footpath, straight onto The Domain bicycle path. Men in Lycra scattered every which way as he floored the tiny Hyundai.

  He looked in the mirror and saw – incredibly – that he was being followed. Not a police Q car – too old for that – but most likely an off-duty copper outraged by Mike’s dangerous driving and not wanting him to get away.

  Sorry officer, I’ll
explain later, but right now I’ve got to move!

  The car, he saw it was a Mazda 626, continued to tail him as he turned hard left onto the St Mary’s Cathedral forecourt then – somehow – made it through the narrowest of pedestrian access gates into Hyde Park. The pursuit car followed, albeit with the sandstone gateposts annihilating its side mirrors and inflicting deep gashes down both sides. You had to give the guy 10 out of 10 for determination, or maybe desperation. Just hope he knew a good panel beater.

  Tyres tearing the soggy lawn to shreds, the maniac drivers roared past the Archibald Fountain with four minutes to go, zooming through a small flock of pigeons and collecting a couple of bin chickens enroute. Fortunately, there was no gate this side of the park, just a metre-high hedge enclosing a rose garden. He charged straight through it, thumped over the footpath and bounced back down onto Market Street, near St James Station, just dodging oncoming traffic and cutting in in front of a truckie who gave him a real serve. The 626 slotted in behind the truck, still in pursuit.

  Three-and-a-half minutes.

  Still, glancing at GoogleMaps, he could see that Pitt Street was just a hundred metres up on the right. He could turn down Pitt – the Hilton had dual entrances – and be there in a minute. But ah, crap! When he got there, he discovered that Pitt Street was one way. The wrong way. He could go on to George, but that would involve a further 80 metres, a change of lights and precious seconds he didn’t have.

  He didn’t hesitate. Up onto the footpath, horn blaring, lights flashing, scattering pedestrians like sheep, then zigzagging left and right using lanes that weren’t even there, ignoring the angry shouts and honks. Cars and taxis desperately cleared his suicidal path, as he finally made it to the Hilton’s passenger drop off zone. He leapt out of the car leaving it where it was to the astonishment and anger of the concierge, and bolted inside.

  Two minutes.

  There was no way he could make it up 27 flights of stairs in time, so…

  He had to just bite the bullet and do it. Not think about it, just do it. He raced through the lobby, past a massive twisting, turning aluminium sculpture that looked like, of all things, a giant snake, until he got to the bank of elevators. There were six of them, but none were good to go. The closest was on the 8th floor coming down. It stopped on the fifth and seemed to take an eternity to get going again.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he urged, finger tapping the up button like he had Parkinson’s Disease.

  Fortunately the lift made no more stops. At last, the doors slid open, but he had to wait for half a dozen passengers and a bellhop pushing a birdcage-shaped luggage trolley to exit first. He roughly flung the trolley out of his way, scattering suitcases everywhere before he took a deep breath and stepped over the line. Literally.

  He was shaking all over now like he did have Parkinson’s. His face was as white as a sheet and he started to sweat profusely as he warily moved over to the floor button panel and stabbed 27.

  Ninety seconds.

  It seemed to take forever before the elevator doors began to close. He came within an inch of bailing out. I can’t do this! I can’t! I’m sorry, I just can’t! But then he thought of Ronda in the hands of that arsehole, that rapist, that murderer, and pushed through his panic.

  As the doors closed, he dry-reached and put his hands on the side of the lift to steady himself, and somehow resisted the strong urge to close his eyes and just drop to the floor.

  The doors were almost closed, there was only a ten-centimetre gap remaining, when the rubber stopper on a wooden crutch penetrated the closing space.

  The beam broken, the doors sprang open and in hopped Lirru Guttuk, with Joe bringing up the rear carrying his trademark Gladstone bag.

  For a brief moment Mike thought that his fear had caused his mind to snap and he was hallucinating. But then Lirru spoke up.

  “You drive like a plurry madman, matey,” he said, poking the ‘Door Close’ button with his crutch. “We could hardly keep up.”

  Chapter 39

  Transformation.

  The confusion of seeing this pair turn up so dramatically and unexpectedly, seemed to take Mike’s mind off his claustrophobia, enough for him to string a few words together anyway.

  “What the..? What are…? How did..?” he managed to blurt out as the elevator rose, way too slowly for his liking.

  “We were watching you watching Caldwell’s place,” Joe explained. “And when you took off like a ’roo with a boomerang up his bum, we followed you. Neat driving by the way. Ever think of becoming a Sydney cab driver?”

  “But why…why are you here?” Mike asked, one eye on his watch – 50 seconds – the other on the dial above the door showing the approaching level. 10th floor. He hoped Ronda was OK; if not he would kill that bastard.

  “Same as you,” Lirru said, matter-of-factly, “to kill Caldwell.”

  “I’m not here to kill the…”, he started to say, but just then a bell dinged and the lift stopped on level 15.

  The doors opened and two sweet little old ladies stood there smiling ready to get in. The one with the walking stick reminded him of his dear old grandmother.

  “FUCK OFF!” Mike roared, as he pushed the ‘Close Door’ button. He was instantly sorry as he saw their frightened faces, but time was running out fast.

  40 seconds.

  He turned around to continue his chat with Lirru and Joe and very nearly pissed himself. It was a wonder he didn’t with his bladder so full, because even though Joe was still there, Lirru had vanished completely. Well not completely, in his place was a snake. Van Heerden was wrong. There was a blue and red snake. It was right here. A long, thin snake with electric blue scales and a neon red head and tail. A very, very angry snake.

  Chapter 40

  Would the real Mike please stand up.

  Mike thought he was going to pass out. They say you should face your fears, but this was ridiculous. All his life, he’d been acutely afraid of elevators and other small confined spaces, and scared out of his wits by snakes, and here he was in a bloody lift with a goddam snake. A snake that had somehow materialised just seconds ago. He stepped back in a hurry, as far away from the snake as he could, and looked around.

  His heart was racing, twenty to the dozen. And where the hell had Lirru gone? Surely he hadn’t got out as those ladies were trying to get in. And if he somehow had, why was his crutch still here? It was totally beyond his comprehension, and his eyes were the size of dinner plates. If it weren’t for the fact that he only had 30 seconds and three more floors to go to save Ronnie, his bladder, bowels and esophagus would all have opened simultaneously and – he had no doubt about it – they would have had to drag him away, a blubbering mess in a straight jacket.

  Joe seemed to understand his dilemma. “Chillax, man. You’re totally sane…and safe. I won’t harm you,” he said, picking up the snake and gently placing it in the bag, “and neither will Lirru.”

  WTF? Is he seriously trying to tell me that that’s his grandfather???

  The lift bell rang again, bringing him back to some sort of reality, and the doors slid open. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but before he rushed out, Joe placed the Gladstone bag in his hands. “Here,” he said, “take Lirru along for protection. Quick, you’ve got 10 seconds.”

  ***

  Mike rapped on the door to 2705 with only two seconds of the prick’s deadline’s remaining.

  “Come in if you’re good looking,” he heard Caldwell say, then chuckle to himself.

  Mike opened the door and stepped inside to see Caldwell standing near the island bench in the kitchenette. Ronda was sitting in a chair in front of him with her hands and legs tied with belts from their bathrobes, a tea towel tied tightly over her mouth, gagging her, and his pistol aimed at her head.

  Caldwell nearly lost it when he saw him. Mike was worried that he was going to shoot first and ask questions later.

  “That stupid cunt! I distinctly told the asswipe not to call the coppers,”
he said, “and here you are!”

  “You told who?” Mike asked calmly, not wanting to get the redhead any angrier.

  “Fucking Mike!” he said.

  “But…I’m Mike,” Mike replied, setting the bag down slowly, raising his hands and inching closer.”

  “Bullshit…and take one step closer and she’s dead meat,” he said twisting the gun painfully into Ronda’s temple, making her wince. Then almost as an afterthought, “Put your gun on the floor…slowly…finger off the trigger, and slide it over here.”

  Mike was going to say that he didn’t have a gun; as soon as he gave that up, he and Ronnie would be at his mercy. He’d have nothing to protect her with.

  Protect her…hmmm.

  He slowly removed his service pistol from its side holster, and holding it upside down by just the little finger of his left hand, bent down and placed it on the tiled floor. He slid it across to the man, accidentally on purpose landing it a metre-and-a-bit to his right. In the time Caldwell’s eyes had swept across to the gun and reached across to grab it, Mike had flicked the catch on the bag and stood up.