by Helene Young
Her toast arrived, the smell mouth-watering. He picked up a thick slice and slanted a grin at her. ‘Like you’re going to drink soy and eat butter? Thanks, princess.’ It was gone in three large bites.
She hid her smile behind her serviette as she patted her lips. The stern look was back in place. ‘You need to read the file. She’s been hurt too much before. Don’t waltz in and then waltz out of her life. She doesn’t deserve it and she sure as hell doesn’t need it.’
‘You make me sound so heartless and cruel.’ He clasped his hands together in mock anguish. She didn’t take the bait.
The second slice of toast was even thicker than the first and he licked the butter from his fingers, waiting for her to speak again. The battle of wills went on for several moments while he chewed more slowly. She broke first.
‘It’s not entirely your fault you have an aversion to commitment. However, it is your choice not to face it. You could use that rather extensive brain of yours and work through your issues. Or —’ She held up a dainty finger to silence him as he started to laugh. ‘Or you could just admit that you like wallowing in your own self-deception and simply be well mannered enough not to prey on vulnerable women. This is out of character. It’s destructive.’
‘I don’t prey on anyone, Leila. Kaitlyn’s a consenting adult who is a long way from the “normal” women I pick up.’ He waggled his fingers in the air as inverted commas. ‘Besides,’ he said dismissively, ‘it’s been one roll in the hay, all too brief, and a couple of pecks on the cheek. That’s hardly preying.’
She hit him with a bland look of disbelief. ‘I’m reliably informed you’ve had dinner there, fought fires with her, toyed with her, played with her kid, loaned her your uncle’s diaries and made a great many inquiries about her. If I know you —’
He cut her off. ‘Then if you know me, if you really know me, you’d understand that this is different. Maybe I’ve even listened to you through all those endless quiet sessions. Wouldn’t that be a turn-up for the books, hey? Princess Leila just might have been right after all. Who knew you could look like a doll and still be smart enough to analyse people correctly?’
She looked up at him and he thought he caught a hint of anger. He was being rude as usual. Why would she be surprised? She’d heard it all before from him.
‘You can go and tell Crusoe I don’t need his dirt file to know that this woman is deeply scarred. You can also tell him that for the first time in my life I’ve met someone who’s taken me for who I am, not what I can be or should be.’ His words came out in a rush and he couldn’t stop them.
‘She doesn’t look at me and see a project she can spend her life working on. I’m sure she sees me as a father figure for her son, but that’s because I choose to be, not because she expects me to be. I have never, ever in my life met someone who gives without asking in return. You have no idea how powerful that is. And since I don’t know who the hell I am any more, how can I ask her to trust me, to love me?’ Leila suddenly looked out of focus and he realised his eyes were full of tears. What the hell? He stood, rocking the table and spilling her coffee. ‘You can’t understand that. You can’t know.’
He didn’t wait for a response and stumbled out into the street and across the road onto the beach.
‘Fuck it.’ He kicked off his leather scuffs. Where had all that come from? He never lost control. Never. His feet sank into the sand and his strides ate up the beach. Ahead of him, the coast curved around to a headline, palm trees overhanging the beach and pretty umbrellas dotting the sand. He barely noticed.
His phone beeped. He peered at the screen, struggling to read the text message in the bright sunlight. I always knew you’d make it. You know where to find me. L.
He exhaled and pushed the phone back into his pocket. Right now, it wasn’t him he was worried about. Did Leila think everything he did was a foregone conclusion? What if Kaitlyn told him to move on? He shook his head in disgust. And that brief moment of weakness back there? Shit, he’d almost cried. For the first time in a long time, maybe forever, he’d let someone in and now there was a risk that she’d simply walk away from him. Had his lies done too much damage already?
He sat down on the sand under a wide, spreading tree. The fallen leaves littered the sand around him and he turned one of the large, flat ovals over in his hands.
And if she did walk away from him? If she didn’t want to know the real Ryan?
Then there’d be no second chance for him. He wouldn’t be attempting it again. If this was love, it hurt like hell and he wasn’t going through it twice. It scared him. He almost laughed out loud at that: a soft, motherly woman scaring the big, bad undercover operative. What a fucking riot. But there was no certainty here, no solid footing to help keep his balance. He was no longer in complete control. For so many years he’d made damn sure he was the only one steering his ship.
How the hell had this happened?
His phone vibrated and he pulled it out. Not the hello phone.
‘What?’
‘You’ve got problems. Nemesis are in town looking for you. Seems someone’s given them extra incentive with some folding stuff.’
‘Really?’ Ryan got to his feet.
‘They’re in Atherton. Your mate’s involved.’
‘Kaitlyn?’ Ryan’s heart threatened to break out of his ribs.
‘No, that would be your sweetheart, you simpleton. Speedy. Speedy Jackson.’
‘Speedy’s tied up with Nemesis? Of course I can see that connection.’ His sarcasm was wasted on Crusoe.
‘Just get your arse back up the hill. Leila said the chat went well?’
‘Fuck off, Crusoe, and stop being a bleeding heart.’
‘Not my heart that’s bleeding, bro.’
‘Nor mine. So, what does the boss want?’
‘Up the hill, but stay out of sight. The boys are being mobilised from Cairns. You’ll have more back-up than an army battalion.’
‘Great. I’m heading there now. And Crusoe?’
‘Yeah, bro?’ He knew Ryan hated being called that.
‘Get Kaitlyn Scott and her family out of there.’
‘Working on it.’
‘Just do it.’
Ryan tried Kait’s number as he drove. Still no answer. He’d stop by on his way past and break in if he had to. He had to talk to her before it was too late.
If it wasn’t already too late.
Chapter 41
GRANT McCormack sipped his coffee and glanced over his newspaper. The wire was itching the centre of his chest. He had a good view of the main street but was relieved the undercover cops had his back. Once the private detective had informed him that Chris Jackson had been meeting with members of the Nemesis OMG, McCormack had organised his own protection. Cooperating with the authorities made dealing with Jackson a whole lot simpler. And safer.
There were currently two policemen watching his back. One, the only other occupant of the cafe in the mid-morning lull, was drinking tea at a table along the back wall and scowling at his computer screen. The other lounged on a bus stop up the street. His scruffy hair and tatty jeans blended right in with the local vagrants. Somewhere in a back street nearby was a van full of men with surveillance equipment, listening to him breathing in, breathing out.
Grant was edgy. It was seven days since Jackson had shot at him, and nothing else had happened. He’d been here for almost ten days, and had barely slept at night. He wanted to be rid of Jackson and his threat to burn down the defunct Greentrees plantation.
The block of land did have potential for gold mining. Grant was sure of that, but he was also damn sure McCormack Mines would not be going forward under his father’s way of doing business.
The issue of insurance fraud at Greentrees wasn’t going to go away. Now McCormack had shipped Jackson to the police, MCM as the parent company would be prosecuted. He may not have been party to his father’s crimes, but once he’d taken the reins he’d been slow to act. He’d done a deal wi
th the Feds and the tax office which meant he should escape jail, but Adler wouldn’t. MCM would face massive fines. And that might well be the end of McCormack Mines. The business would be broken up, sold off.
Consequently he’d applied for the mining lease on both blocks bordering the Greentrees land in the name of his own fledgling company. If the government granted them, then he personally would negotiate with the landholders, whoever they may be.
The burble of motorbikes snapped him out of his reverie. Six of them cruised past, turned around the roundabout and crawled back up the other side of the street. The motors shut down one by one as they parked in front of the shops opposite the cafe.
He watched two men remove their helmets and walk towards the pub further up the street. The other four sauntered towards the zebra crossing. Were they coming for him? Still no sign of Jackson. He should have been here by now. He glanced around at the policeman behind him. The slight nod wasn’t reassuring. Two against four? It could be bloody ugly and they needed Jackson on tape discussing the fires to make sure the accusations stuck.
The four burly men crossed the road and headed for the cafe’s front door. He could see the other policeman up the street, shuffling down the footpath and looking aimless. The one at the rear of the coffee shop pushed a chair aside with his foot, the sound scraping on Grant’s nerves, before moving to the front counter. He half blocked access to the cafe, but was shouldered out the way by the first bikie through the door. A scuffle broke out. They were still arguing when the second policeman barrelled through the door, causing a pile-up.
Grant felt the sweat between his shoulderblades trickling around the tape on his back. Where the hell was Jackson? Was this about to go pear-shaped? Had Jackson been lying about the meeting all along, and had no intention of showing up?
Outside, a big ute with a bank of lights on the roof pulled up. Finally.
The first biker had made it to Grant’s table. ‘McCormack?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘None of your fuckin’ business. You’re coming outside.’
‘No, I’m not.’ He stared back into the hard face that leered at him.
‘No, you are.’ The hand that grabbed him and hauled him to his feet was enormous. It felt like multi-grips had locked around his muscles.
‘No. Get off.’ He jabbed with his other hand into the giant’s solar plexus. It almost broke his fingers and Grant couldn’t stop his grunt of pain.
‘Hurt something, mate?’ the giant laughed at him.
Grant was dragged across the table before he realised what was happening. The coffee cup and sugar bowl smashed on the floor. He grabbed the teaspoon and this time he aimed lower, driving the handle into the man’s denim-clad crotch. It worked. The big man dropped to the ground just as Jackson came through the doorway in his RFB uniform. He had to sidestep the heated argument by the front door. Grant figured the cops didn’t want to pull guns on the bikies until they had Jackson on tape.
‘Friends of yours, Jackson? Come to make sure they did the job right?’ Grant asked, putting tables and chairs between him and the still-writhing biker. The waitresses were both cowering behind the counter and he hoped they had enough sense to stay down. He could hear one of them screeching into the phone, no doubt calling the cops. Where the hell was the Feds’ back-up?
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘The word on the street is you paid these arseholes to rough me up. Your mistake; I hired my own thugs.’ He jerked his head at the melee. ‘I’m not standing by while you burn this whole district down.’
‘You were happy enough when it suited you and your fuckin’ father. Don’s pretty pissed with you.’
‘You and Don Adler can rot in a cell together.’
‘No one’s going to listen to you, laddie. Your hands have just as much ash on them as your father’s. It wasn’t my idea to burn the pines. It was his.’
‘You were the one doing the burning.’
Jackson laughed. ‘No way of proving that.’
The fallen bikie was struggling to his knees, still clutching his groin. In desperation, Grant tried another tack.
‘So, tell me how you lit the first one.’
Jackson blinked rapidly. Too late, Grant saw the recognition in his face as Jackson’s hand flashed out and grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting the listening device off his skin. Grant swung at him, hoping it was still recording as Jackson went ballistic, screaming into his face.
‘You fuckin’ set me up, you fuckin’ moron!’ he yelled. He shoved Grant backwards into the bikie who by now was hauling himself to his feet. They went down together, sending furniture flying. ‘I’m not fuckin’ going back to jail. You can all fuckin’ burn.’
The back-up police finally crashed out of the swinging kitchen door, but Jackson was too fast. He fled, his ute careening down the road and leaving the Feds scrambling for chase vehicles and shouting orders.
‘That wasn’t in the plan,’ one of them muttered. ‘Cross, Stoner, get these boys in cuffs. You,’ he said to Grant, jerking his head towards the cafe again. ‘Inside. Let’s get the wire off.’
‘What now?’ Grant asked him as they moved indoors.
‘Better hope we catch him before he does something crazy.’
Chapter 42
FUCKIN’ McCormack had set him up, dobbed him in to the police. Speedy couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he hooked into another hairpin bend. He’d gone past angry. He’d filled the drums in the back of his ute with fuel instead of water. Happy Jack Road would soon be a raging, roaring inferno that would destroy McCormack Mines, Grant McCormack and Ryan. And Kaitlyn. She’d let that filthy man into her home. She deserved to lose everything too.
Dan would be all right. Dan would be at school. He’d be safe.
He saw the turn-off coming up and changed down through the gears. It took him a couple of minutes to open the fire trail gate and lock it behind him. No point making it easy for the team who’d be sent out for this one.
It was impossible to keep the smile from his face. Little Miss Snooty Scott was going to find out what it was like to start all over again for the second time. He knew what he’d seen last weekend, on the day of the Mareeba fires. She’d been kissing Ryan; she was no passive innocent. Made him sick. Filthy scum had his hands up her shirt and she’d let him.
The ute’s engine blew a stream of black smoke as it laboured up the steep incline, loaded down as it was with fuel. There was enough there to light a couple of decent fire lines. If anyone cared to ask him, he was out doing some back-burning. An official uniform bluffed them every time. The wind was going to send this fire raging up Happy Jack Valley and straight through Kaitlyn Scott’s place.
If it got her mother, that was a shame. She was a real lady. But then he’d be Dan’s only living relative. He’d keep the boy safe. He cleared the back of his throat, tasting bile and so much more.
For thirty-five years he’d kept his secret close. He’d hated his younger half-brother Chris from the moment he was born. It was Chris’s fault that his father had a filthy preference for small boys. Chris’s fault that he was the man’s son so he was safe, whereas Speedy, just a stepson, was fair game.
It had taken him until his twenties to kill his stepfather and his own mother. She hadn’t protected Speedy, hadn’t believed him. She had no right to live. It had taken another fifteen years to track down the other scum, one of his stepfather’s friends, who’d preyed on young boys too. Speedy was sorry he’d only managed to burn the man’s house down. He’d wanted to roast him alive, hear him scream as his hair frizzled and his skin fell from his face, but the man hadn’t been home.
That was when Speedy made his mistake and got caught. But in prison they’d treated him like royalty. No one liked kiddie-fiddlers, rock spiders. He’d been a hero for having the balls to do something about it. And he’d fooled them all. He’d done a degree, cleaned up his act, played nicely in the sandpit. All the while he’d kept tabs on
his half-brother. Watching, waiting for him to do something wrong. And he had.
He got married and had a child. Speedy knew where that would lead. It was better to kill him that let him do anything to that boy. He’d be just like his father. He had to be.
Another gate loomed ahead and Speedy got out, leaving the park brake on, still lost in his memories.
His own fuckin’ brother hadn’t recognised him when he turned up at the house, but the bloody old man had. The arson investigator had been doing his own digging into Chris’s family. Speedy hadn’t meant to kill the doddery fool, but he had. Chris was more difficult so Speedy had bashed him before dousing him in so much fuel that they were never going to find any significant remains.
From there it had been easy to take his brother’s identity. He knew everything about him. Just a straight name change, a bit of sleight of hand, and bingo, Speedy with a prison record was gone. Chris, who to all intents and purposes was a dead man, could reinvent himself.
And he had.
Until now.
He’d seen Ryan grooming the kid. He knew the type: loners, easy to get along with, plausible story, nice to everyone. And that gormless mother had done nothing to stop it. For Christ’s sake, she’d probably even fucked Ryan. That made her as bad as Ryan. So they could all die. She was filthy trash as well.
He got to a deep vee in the hill and stopped. A heavy layer of smoke obliterated the sky, from a contained fire burning to the north in tiger country, but he thought he heard the drone of an aircraft engine. Probably one of the water bombers en route from Lake Tinaroo. By the time they saw anything through the cloud this one would be out of control.
The drip torch was on the floor of the ute and he dragged it out, resting it on the ground beside the tray. It was full of fuel already so he didn’t need to lift the covers off the tray yet.
‘Next stop,’ he muttered, touching a match to the spout of the torch. Flame licked and wavered as the breeze caught it. He started to walk up the slope, away from the ute. Had to keep enough clearance to get himself out. He’d walked a hundred metres before he dipped it to the ground, the grass instantly blackening as it ignited. He turned back to the ute and stopped dead. The back end of the tarp was turned back.
