Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Darren looped the tag end through the noose and tightened it around Martin’s restrained legs. With the determination and strength of a cart-pulling bullock, Darren dragged his prisoner to the mangroves. Here he had no choice but to lift the now struggling captive over some of the gnarly roots. So the gaunt, bony Queenslander grabbed his charge by the shoulders and half threw him over the obstacles. The ground wasn’t dry and dusty anymore. Martin felt the sludge sucking beneath him as he was manhandled towards the creek’s edge. Unexpected, he felt his captor’s fingers groping with the rag tied around his head. He ripped it from his face. Then his captor’s fingers roughly fondled for the cloth in his mouth, it made him gag. Finally, he could breathe from his mouth. Martin coughed and the rage welled up inside him. His face was like a furious baboon. “You fucking arsehole, you cunt, you’re going to ...”

  Darren cut him short and brought his fist down on Martin’s mouth and nose. It shut him up.

  “Out here, you can scream and yell all you like. But no one will hear you, except us. It will be like an ACDC song to us, to hear you scream.” Darren paused. “Did you hear the scream from a sixteen-year-old girl, who very mistakenly fell in love with a disgusting excuse for a living human?”

  Martin’s head reeled from the punch and the revelation that they knew about Rosie’s death. How the fuck does he know about Rosie? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “I’ve got money.” He was desperate to find a way out of this. “A quarter of a million dollars.”

  Darren knew about that one. “Back at your caravan?” Darren enquired.

  “Let me go and I’ll show you.” Martin was hopeful.

  “No need to. I know which park.” Quickly, Darren stuffed the cloth back into Martin’s mouth. “I think we’ll listen to the real ACDC singing.” Parting words to Martin, as he dragged him a little closer to the edge of the creek. “Tide will be coming in soon.”

  At the water’s edge Martin’s writhing movement stirred the attention of some bait fish, causing them to dart off, leaving a couple of soft splashes behind. Then it was completely silent. He lay still. Why has he left me here? Maybe I can crawl up the bank so I won’t drown when the tide comes in. He could hear some rustling from the mangroves. And then voices. Muffled voices. Arguing muffled voices.

  “I can’t do this. It’s not me. I don’t really want to do this,” Nick protested.

  “Think of Rafe. Remember your mate Peter?”

  Nick glanced at the switchblade. It felt heavy in his hand. The blade was gleaming and sharp. It glittered from the light from a making half-moon.

  Martin was curled up on the muddy bank. He heard them. They were close. What now?

  Nick bent over facing Martin.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Martin hissed.

  Nick stood up and tossed the knife aside. Without a word he retreated to the mangroves. He stopped a few steps away from the bank and faced Darren. “Sorry mate. Can’t do it.”

  Darren picked the knife up out of the mud. He flicked the mud from the blade and crouched near Martin. Darren stared the horrified killer in the eyes.

  “That’s my knife. Give it back,” Martin protested.

  “Sure, mate, you can have it back. How’s this?” Darren pressed the point of the blade against Martin’s T-shirt pushing it until the fabric tore. The blade pierced Martin’s gut by an inch. Martin’s eyes were huge. His mouth opened, his face stretched as if someone was pulling the skin from behind. Darren slowly pushed the blade further. Martin gasped and groaned. Horrified. In pain.

  Darren pulled the knife out quickly. “You won’t die just yet,” he said with reassurance. He stood and said, “You going to bleed a little. A trickle of your blood will seep into the water. Then my mate over there, the one who didn’t make the handbag factory…,” And Darren wiped the knife on Martin’s soggy T-shirt, “…Well, he is going eat you. Enjoy.”

  A dark silhouette slowly appeared from the murk. His natural instincts appraised the environment. This one didn’t smell like the others. His deep-olive green eyes just popped the surface tension of the water. Doesn’t look like the others. There was a powerful swirl on the water’s surface from the slow propulsion of his tail. Martin stopped moving. He couldn’t see anything, only darkness, as the water lapped at his body. He heard even less. But Martin sensed something was watching him.

  Suddenly, the night came alive. Nearby birds flew away en masse. The smooth surface of the water burst into an explosion of droplets and in the slow motion of final realisation the vision of Martin’s worst nightmare came to life. Martin’s black eyes were now very much alive. The only noise came from a crushing jaw and the crunch of bones, Martin’s legs were first. The giant crocodile snapped his jaws repeatedly until he had Martin’s torso securely between his teeth; the huge reptile slid backwards into his hide-away. Within seconds, he popped the surface with his prize, the enormous reptile shook his victim violently sending a wild fountain of water far around him. “Nooohhh! Arghhhhh!” Were Martin’s final screams.

  From behind the mangroves Nick’s face felt like it had been electrocuted. The heat and tension grappling his face made him heave. Darren turned around and watched Nick double-over and vomit before quickly turning his attention back to the scene at the creek’s edge. The giant crocodile was half-way out of the water, holding his limp prey firmly in his jaws like a prize-fighter prancing around the ring. Ten minutes later, all calm had returned to the creek.

  In the quiet, Darren sat still on the edge of the creek. It’s done. How did you like that Martin Villier? Darren flicked a pebble into the water.

  “Can we go now?” A whisper came from the mangroves.

  Silence for a moment. For the victims of Martin’s evil deeds. Remembrance, maybe. “In a minute.”

  CHAPTER 102

  THE GHOST

  The taxi ride to the airport was cheap. In fact, it was free. Nick shook Darren’s hand, but Darren pulled him in and gave his mate a short, hard man-hug. “Don’t let it get to your head. You know me, not much on the hugging stuff. But take care of yourself, mate. Keep in touch once in a while, eh.”

  “Your boss is going to have a coronary when he finds all that dog hair in the back seat.” Nick laughed. Patch had his head out of the window, wagging his tail. It was snowing cattle-dog hair in the cab.

  “Reckon you’re going to stay up here, mate?” Nick picked up his duffel bag.

  “Yep. I’ve got unfinished business,” Darren answered. Nick nodded in acknowledgement as he turned and walked off towards the departure hall. Darren observed his friend as he pushed through the glass door. He returned to the taxi and spotted Patch in the back seat wagging his tail. Better get you home first, hair-ball. The taxi drove away from the passenger drop-off area.

  At the traffic lights, an American muscle-car pulled up next to Darren’s cab. A Chevrolet Bel-Air was not a common sight. Darren casually looked over to the two occupants. The driver was closest to him because it was still a left-hand drive Yankee original. The man had a bushy brown beard, a couple of gold earrings and very dark sunglasses. He was minding his own business and looking straight ahead waiting for the lights to change. The passenger was smooth-faced and had very short dark hair, also sporting sunglasses. The passenger was staring intently at Darren. In fact, the passenger seemed to be leaning forward to make sure he had a clear view. At the change to a green light, the Bel-Air lurched forward and the big V-8 thundered into the distance.

  A car behind the taxi politely sounded a horn; just a quick bip. Darren reacted and turned left. Distracted, he couldn’t quite place the face, but why was his heart on fire?

  He kept driving for five minutes, then Darren suddenly pulled over. The penny dropped. Stick a wig on him. Slap a beard on his ugly face. Put a Harley underneath him. Eddie. Darren’s expression changed from confused agitation to an evil smile. Under the seat was a new accessory: a glistening .38 Smith & Wesson snugly wrapped in a soft cloth. At home in his garage behind a storage locker
was a brown paper package.

  He knew how to set a new trap.

  THE END