“Them?” Cate queried before saying.
“Them, are your colleagues. Guys that have your back. You must trust them, like they must trust you. Regardless, I do appreciate you recognising a difference. Look I agree with you, for the moment. We will keep this between us.”
“What are we going to do about James?” Adam was now sitting forward on the chair, hardly containing his worried expression.
“First thing, keep you away from him while he’s under cover.” Cate declared.
“Well I have been,” Adam defended.
“Yes. I understand, but now you’re not involved with any operational stuff. No more stake-outs.”
A clearly despondent young detective started to protest. Cate stood from behind her desk. “I could resort to calling you by your official junior title and order you to hold your tongue. But this is how it’s going to work.” She took a deep breath and spelled out her decision.
“You’re a great asset to this force and I don’t want you to ruin your career by clouded judgement. Number one, I have no problem with your sexuality. However, in the interest of your immediate future and your partner’s safety please keep your private life to yourselves. Number two, you’re off this case until further notice. Emotional involvement in a dangerous case such as this could be detrimental to others. Let alone you or your partner. Is that clear?”
Resolute in her ruling, Cate walked to the office door and opened it. As she showed the young detective the way out, she added, “Go and browse some of the files from the assaults tray from last month. I’ll be discussing your work for the next few weeks in an hour or so. Until then just keep busy.” She tried not to slam the door, but was unsuccessful.
Adam winced as the door slammed shut. A few other staff had arrived since he went into her office, they looked up at the noise. Adam reflected on the past fifteen minutes and wished he could wind back the clock. He regretted his immature and emotional reaction.
Jesus fucking Christ! What a fucking balls up. What the hell am I doing? I can’t have him around his boyfriend when things get hairy. Angry, Cate paced back and forth in front of her desk. She regretted her reaction, but lives could be on the line when things spun out of control. Emotional involvement equals poor judgement and bad decisions in a stressful situation. Goddamn it, now I don’t have a fucking partner! Without a word she slammed the office door shut again as she left her office.
Once outside, Cate took a few deep breaths and decided to walk around the block to clear her head. Things were on the boil, and because she had kept the operation so close to her chest, it would be hard to find a replacement for Adam. Her mobile phone vibrated in her top pocket. She quickly pinched it from her pocket and answered, “Hi, glad you called in.”
“I’m about to go in. I’ve been summoned. Trouble brewing in Rome. Don’t know when I can contact again. I expect gunfire a possibility. Instructions?” The voice relayed in point-form.
“I want you out,” Cate ordered.
There was silence on the other end of the line at first and then he spoke, “What and waste all this last year of investigation? Don’t you think that’s a bit drastic to drop it all now? We’re at the pointy end, let’s finish it.”
“Your life is at risk. I am not prepared to risk a good copper’s life for a bunch of low-life criminals,” Cate defended her decision.
“Isn’t that what we do? We always risk our lives for some fucking idiot’s indiscretion. I could be shot pulling over a drunk driver. At least this risk is measured and predictable,” James countered.
“Not sure, if this is the time for philosophical exchanges, but I guess your point is valid,” Cate conceded.
“I’ll be in touch.” James pushed the end button on his mobile.
Cate paused in her brisk walk. It was time to act. Although furious with a situation that was spinning out of control, she had to pull the show together. At least be prepared for an intervention, or raid, or rescue, or all of the above. Reluctantly and again furious with being pushed into a corner, she realised that Adam had to be part of this. This was her at her best, pissed off, determined to succeed and prepared for closing in on her prey.
She speed-dialled her side-kick. Adam saw ‘Hawk’ come up on the screen. He answered, “Adam here.” As if he didn’t know the caller.
“Meet me out the front, please.” She hung up.
Adam sprang to his feet, grabbed his jacket and flew out the door. Cate was waiting for him on the sidewalk near the bus-stop. He powerwalked his way over and started to open his mouth, but she held up her hand, “Before you say anything, listen to me first. Walk with me.” She initiated the stroll straightaway and he followed.
“It is against my better judgment, but circumstances demand that I use my best resources and you’re on the top of that list. I need you back on deck with me to sort out this mess. So we need to plan our next move and we also need to put a small team together. Your partner does not want to quit the show just yet. Let’s make sure we can keep him safe.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Cate. I will not let you down.”
CHAPTER 80
RABBIT HUNT
Being a light-weight gave him a little edge. Trying to be light-footed was no easy task for Martin because it didn’t come natural. So, with some ineptness, he traversed the scrubby terrain mottled with small rocks, dense and tangled bushes, undergrowth and decayed forest debris, and trees in all sizes ranging from large girth iron-barks to the smaller spotted-gums. He was confident that the track he was following would lead him to somewhere Peter and his mate had been hanging out. The disturbance of the bush was evident where the Land Cruiser had barged its way through. Martin was sure he would catch up with the escapee.
Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead as he neared what looked like the start of a downhill trek. The track through the dense bush carved out by the truck was steep and rocky. An old track – a logging track from earlier times. Overgrown, but visible and good enough for a four-wheel drive to negotiate. Martin’s dislike for being out in nature, his annoyance with insects, heat and scratches from sharp twigs and branches, gave way to guarded excitement as he clambered down the rocky track. He likened himself to a fox chasing a rabbit.
From his halfway point down the hill he could make out a small creek below. In the lull of the breeze, he discerned the faint sound of flowing water. Soon he found himself watching clear water in a creek no more than eight inches deep meandering around small and larger boulders. Deeply rutted tyre tracks in the mud on the other side confirmed his suspicion that Peter had travelled here recently. No doubt Peter had a plantation in this vicinity and Martin guessed that the freshly harvested plants on the back of the truck came from here. Martin hop-skipped from one rock to another and negotiated the waterway without getting his boots wet. Once on the other side of the creek bed, he forged ahead up the embankment eagerly seeking out this plantation.
The plants weren’t his objective, verifying the existence of the plantation just re-enforced his zeal to find the second man. Peter and his associate had deliberately concealed this stash; they had cut the grass from under him. It was akin to treason.
And, of course, the man could identify him. The escapee had to die.
The shade from the tree slowly disappeared as the sun moved further to the west, the later it got in the afternoon. Rafe had rested, but he was parched. Patch had not left his side for the last few hours. Rafe sluggishly got to his feet. In the distance, looking down the hill towards the creek bed he noticed some movement. A person. Martin! He had found his way down to the creek and caught up. Patch’s ears pricked up and a soft growl came from his throat. Rafe put his hand on the dog’s snout and whispered to the dog to be quiet. Frustrated, he realised he wasn’t able to get to the creek for water now. Desperately he sought out the next options for evasion. To go further away from the creek was risky; water was going to be necessary for his stamina, if not for his survival. So running away was not the answer. Somehow, he
had to catch Martin by surprise. Night fall would be his ally and darkness would come in a few hours. Maybe if he was lucky Martin would fuck off back up the hill leaving him and Patch to get some water to drink and tackle another day tomorrow. Wishful thinking!
Martin had gone from view, and last he saw, he was heading towards the crop. This could open an opportunity for him to move down the hill and fetch a drink of water. Could he risk it? If he had been unarmed, tackling Martin would not have been a problem, but Rafe was no match for a man with a loaded revolver. No, can’t compete with a bullet.
Another thought crossed his mind. If Martin was searching around the crop area, he could perhaps circle around and make his way back to the cabin, and the Kombi. No good getting back in the dark, he’d get lost. Dusk would provide ideal conditions. He figured another hour and a quarter before dark. Now was the time to move from the hill towards the creek, but he would go further upstream to lessen the chance being seen by Martin, in case he came back from the crop before he got down and over the creek to the other side.
Rafe took his chances and descended the scrubby hill. Patch followed closely at his heels. The bush growth concealed Rafe’s quick descent from where Martin’s vantage point would be, should he emerge from his reconnaissance. Closer to the bottom of the slope the agile painter slowed his advance. “Good boy, good boy,” Rafe rewarded the faithful cattle-dog with a hug and rub on the dog’s neck. Both man and dog surveyed their surroundings paying particular attention to the crossing spot where Martin would likely come from. The coast was clear, so man and dog slunk off to a large boulder nearly blocking the creek’s water flow. Rafe stopped at the edge and crouched low, he cupped his hands in the water and sipped from the palms of his hands, taking care not to make any slurping noises. Patch drank from the creek silently as if hiding from prey. Rafe lifted his head from the water’s edge and eye-balled his surroundings. They had to go. He whispered, “Come on boy, let’s go,” and they carefully crossed the creek, staying well down, and disappeared into the thick scrub to the side of the old logging track.
It was difficult stepping through the dense bush, climbing up the rough terrain which was treacherous under foot. The anticipation of closing the distance between himself and freedom gave him an energy boost, spurring him to a near sprint rushing the steep terrain. Although his sport-shoes gave him some protection from sharp rock edges and sticks poking up, they didn’t provide much in the way of traction and he frequently slipped as he clambered up the incline. Knees raw from tripping and getting grazed, Rafe ignored the stinging abrasions. All he could feel was adrenaline shooting through his body, fuelling his escape run. He lost his sense of vision of the forest, the smell of the forest, all he could see was the Kombi. He had to run faster. Don’t look back! Don’t look back! Just go!
Martin only caught a glimpse. Two seconds later and he would not have seen them. It was only the cattle dog’s bushy white and grey mottled tail, which just disappeared from sight a little too late. Martin stopped and gave himself a minute before stepping out into the open and leaping over the stones. It was a game of cat and mouse. I got you now! The wiry but clumsy little figure wasn’t as nimble as his adversary, but Martin’s rage gave him an equalising edge; a determination, an unstoppable drive and stamina to prevent his prey’s escape. Rafe was well ahead of him. Martin could see the disturbance of the bush, a hundred metres further up. His heart pumped the extra blood needed to fuel his stringy muscles to power up the hill. The desperate hurry of the chase foiled his chaotic dash up the trail. Martin slipped, his boots failing to connect with firm ground and losing traction. His left leg slid from underneath him, he fell grinding his left knee on the sharp rocky edges of the ground. He’d lost momentum and came to a dead stop. His thin fingers clutched the ground in front of him and found an embedded rock, he pulled himself forward and up on to his knees. Like an animal of prey his vicious gnarl kick-started the rest of his body into action. On the crest of the hill he saw his quarry and the dog disappearing out of sight. Spurred onto his feet and his boots finding grip, he resumed his pursuit.
Having scaled the steep and rocky incline, Rafe found himself on level ground with a clearer path ahead. Now he could really make some ground quickly. The sun had dropped well below the surrounding bluffs. Another half an hour, and it would be pitch-black. Run Rafe, run like the wind, Rafe! Patch ran abreast of the surfer. From a distant vantage point it could have been viewed as a hurdle race. Rafe saw the cabin over the undulating ground in the distance. And he saw the Kombi, his Kombi. He kept up his pace despite starting to feel his heart ache. He was panting and nearly out of puff. Covering the last fifty metres in long, slow leaps, like a long distance runner breaking through the finish line and decelerating, his hands touched the cold metal of the sides of the motorcar. He leaned with his hands on the van, completely out of breath, his head aching, panting and hyperventilating. No, can’t stop, get in the car. Oh shit, the keys, where are the fucking keys! He patted his trouser pockets, his back pockets, he slid both hands in the front pockets. Shit, oh fucking shit, where are my car keys?
He tore the driver’s side door open and threw himself into the driver’s seat. Patch followed him and jumped over him into the back of the Kombi. Rafe dived over the passenger seat and groped around the storage shelf looking for keys. Nothing, oh fuck, oh fuck, where are they? He straightened in the driver’s seat, trying to collect his chaotic mind.
And there they were, in front of him, still in the ignition. His head drooped in relief.
A cannon-like sound echoed through the valley. The bullet ricocheted off the roof of the Kombi. Rafe was shocked into a statue. It was getting dark and hard to see, but there was no mistaking the sight of the .38 four-inch barrel next to his right cheek, in clear view out of the corner of his right eye.
“Might have missed the first time, but I won’t now! Get out of the car, you maggot!” Martin demanded, breathing hard and heavy. He had trouble keeping the .38 steady in his hand. Martin’s thin hair was pasted to his forehead from sweat and grime. The beads of sweat on Rafe’s face had dried but the bleached locks of hair on his forehead were stuck from wetness.
Drained, Rafe stared at the shiny black barrel of the .38, then he looked past the gun into those black lifeless eyes; which sapped the remaining life out of his body. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a sheer cliff. In front of it was nothing, just a bottomless dark space.
Dejected and reluctant, he swung his legs out of the driver’s seat and lowered himself to the ground to stand in front of Martin. He slammed the door shut, locking Patch in the van. “So what now? Are you going to shoot me in cold blood?” Strangely enough posing the question gave him a feeling of empowerment. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not.” And Martin pulled the trigger while pointing the revolver point-blank at Rafe’s head.
Click. Martin pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Patch was on the front seat, his paws were on the door frame, barking and growling, barking and growling. The car window was partially wound down but not enough to allow the distraught dog to leap from the cabin of the Kombi.
Rafe’s arm and clenched fist shot out connecting with Martin’s jaw. The gunman fell back, dropping the heavy weapon to the ground. Martin was momentarily oblivious to what just happened. Rafe had instinctively reacted to the misfire, but now he was in a mind-void, spellbound and rigid. Martin groped for his switchblade and in one synchronised movement he rolled and sprang to his feet and not wasting a second he swiped the stiletto blade across Rafe’s exposed throat. But the cut was not deep enough to kill him straight off. Rafe bent down and snatched a six-inch jagged rock from the dirt next to his running shoes and in one foul swoop he swung his arm up and slammed the rock into Martin’s chin. At the same time Martin planted the stiletto blade into Rafe’s lower abdomen. Martin’s head snapped back from the impact of the rock and he fell back hard, and blacked out with the bloodied stiletto still cl
utched in his fingers.
Rafe blinked very slowly and his body swayed gently from side to side. His right hand was on his stomach, he felt the wet blood oozing through his fingers. The thin red line on his throat was stinging. He had to ring Nick and tell his friend he would not be back; tell Nick he was sorry. Warn him about Martin. Before he lost consciousness.
His knees were tired, and weak; the weight of his body became too heavy and he lowered himself to rest on the cool ground. The square cornered shape of the mobile phone was stretching the front pocket of his blood-stained Billabong shorts. Grimacing from pain he lifted his thigh to allow his hand to find the device. He was on the verge of blacking out. No. No, not yet. Just a few more minutes.
His mind drifted to North Avalon. A beautiful, late afternoon glass-off, the blue and purple-red colours of the sky and the yellow sand on the beach, the warmth of the ocean swirling around his legs dangling in the tepid water while he rested, sitting on his board like Nick, next to him. Rafe could see Nick’s mouth moving, looking at him with hopeful eyes, saying something, but he couldn’t hear him. All he could hear was the ocean, the sound of a wave breaking. His mind floated with the motion of the wave in front of him as it flowed towards the bank, so it could rear up and peak, and push him onto his board for a last ride.
“Rafe! Rafe! Where are you! Talk to me!” The voice on the other end was screaming, pleading.
“It was Martin …” Rafe mumbled and then blacked out, his arm falling next to his side. The mobile phone rolled from his hand with the sounds from a muffled voice still begging for his friend’s reply.
Patch whimpered and pawed at the glass, wanting to get out from his confined space. As the dog retreated his left paw caught the window crank on the driver’s door. The glass window dropped by a few inches. Patch cocked his head sideways and quickly moved his head about the door lining until his snout accidentally moved the window crank again. When the window was half-way down the dog clambered over the glass edge and squeezed himself through the opening until he tumbled out and fell hard onto the ground.
Stealth Page 35
