A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  “This arrest warrant for …,” Wilder checked the paperwork again, “Edward Boris Livanescunic, needs to be followed up pronto.” He looked straight into Joel’s eyes.

  “What are the charges, if I may ask. Sir?”

  “Murder. This bastard killed two of ours. Down south. Sydney.”

  “Shit.”

  “A bikie. His background is bikie-related. A leader of a now defunct outlaw bikie gang, … bear with me.” Wilder shuffled a few pages, “Here we go, Devil’s Sinners. They’ve been investigated for possession and distribution of drugs, weapons charges. This Edward’s record is peppered with aggravated assault charges, theft.” Wilder frowned briefly. “He’s in a higher league now. A senior detective, by the name of Cate Hawkins, was executed by him during a botched raid. His evasion from arrest has been traced to here. He’s in town. And I bet you anything he’ll be close to his own kind. Other bikies.”

  “There’s a few of them in Townsville,” Joel commented.

  “Better get on to it then,” Wilder said, and he leaned back in his chair.

  “Official business? Do I team up with Senior Sergeant Gibbs?”

  “Yes. Please brief her, and if she has any questions, send her in.”

  “Sorry, boss. You said he killed two of ours. Who’s the other one?” Joel asked at the door.

  “An undercover officer. The name evades me. This fellow was also killed during the raid, in the line of duty,” Wilder replied.

  “It’s fucked, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it’s one way of putting it. I call it a calculated risk every time you walk out the door wearing a law-enforcement badge.” Wilder cut eye-contact with Joel, resumed shuffling paperwork, as if going into hiding.

  ***

  Joel walked the corridor. His footsteps echoed in the empty space. His head was full of questions. Only two mattered today. How many motorcycle clubs would there be in town? Where would he start?

  Fiona Gibbs was waiting in the canteen nursing a paper cup with the worst coffee brew imaginable. Joel watched her bring the steaming liquid to her mouth, awaiting the predictable outcome. Fiona sipped carefully, her lips curled, and then ended the ritual pouring the vile contents of the cup into the sink. She binned the cup.

  “You are a try-hard.” Joel shook his head.

  “What doesn’t kill us, makes us strong. Although in this case ...”

  Joel’s face became serious. First time, he was on the instruction side. He wondered if Gibbs was going to arc up. After all, he was just a rookie – Fiona Gibbs was his senior by multiple times.

  “Wilder has asked us to follow up on an arrest warrant.” That was a good move, ‘asked us’, Joel mused. “The warrant is for an Edward, with a long Russian-type last name.”

  “Jesus, I hope you don’t say that when you read him his rights,” Fiona said.

  Joel didn’t respond with his usual off-the-cuff comeback. In fact, he felt embarrassed that he couldn’t verbalise the surname.

  “Let me see the paperwork.”

  Joel passed the document to her.

  “Lee-vanee-skew-nick. That’s not so hard. By the way, not Russian, more like Romanian, or Slovakian.”

  Joel nodded, absorbing her insight.

  “Still doesn’t tell me how to say it,” Joel replied.

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

  While they walked to the carpark, Joel briefed her on the details for the arrest warrant. Fiona Gibbs seethed at the news that a female detective had been executed.

  In the car, they scribbled a short list of biker gangs.

  From the list, they scratched off a few of the legitimate clubs, and decided on a short list of three. All three were known to be involved in drug dealing, and selling of stolen car and bike parts.

  They decided on a basic plan of approach, a casual drive-by to survey numbers present at the biker’s known hang-outs sounded safe. Joel argued that large numbers could encourage ‘mob behaviour’ and a subsequent response ending in ‘getting the shit punched out of us’. Better to have a casual chat with one or two of the bikie members. Both agreed to that idea.

  As Joel drove out of the carpark, a thought occurred to Gibbs.

  “The other night at the pub, I spoke with one of the boys in the drugs squad. There’s a club, forget their name, but it ends in ‘Riders’.

  “Riders. Redemption Riders. Over in Glendale. Last one on the list.” Joel looked at her.

  “Worth a try.”

  “Know anything else about this mob?” Joel asked.

  “Not a great deal. The guy I know is in Vice and Drugs. They were chasing up a lead about the missing cab. Which was why we spoke a bit … until we decided that getting pissed was more fun.” Fiona’s eyes popped up over her sunglasses with an evil grin.

  “Bugger me. You got yourself some lovin’ didn’t you?” Joel laughed.

  “Wasn’t too much lovin’ involved.” She smirked with evil eyes.

  “What was the lead?”

  “We never got that far,” she replied.

  ***

  The Redemption Riders Motorcycle Club weren’t new kids on the block, but they kept a low profile. Being a relatively small club, in terms of membership, made them step lightly so as not to piss off larger, more notorious clubs. The Riders dabbled in dealing drugs, rebirthing stolen cars, collecting debts, and occasionally shuffled some firearms and were looking into the benefits of trading in Thai girls. The last thing the Riders needed, was cops sniffing around asking questions.

  Joel stood first at the door. A firm knock on the flimsy door, he decided. A knock that meant business. He heard a noise which sounded like a chair being moved, followed by heavy boots on a timber floor. Next, a key jiggled in a lock, and the door squealed open.

  Joel came eye-to-eye with a grumpy biker. “What do you want?”

  He sized up the irate face, “I got a bit of WD40 in the car. Want me to get it?” Joel put on his ‘stupid’ smile.

  The biker frowned confused.

  “You have a squeaky door, fella.” He spoke with a firm tone now.

  “What the fuck are you on about!”

  “Since you don’t want to fix your door, let’s talk about a fella called Edward. You know a bloke called Edward, don’t you?”

  “Don’t know any cunt by the name of Edward,” the bikie growled.

  “Okay. So, what’s your name? Not Edward I suppose?”

  “Name is Ryker!”

  “Ah. Good. Mister Ryker. Now that we have got that part done, let’s have a chat about Edward.” Joel took another gamble, he moved forward gently pushing past the biker. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast, a few dried-out rashers of blackened bacon were sitting in a layer of fat in a large skillet on the stove. Joel made himself at home and leant against the benchtop.

  “Where’s Edward?” Joel asked. Gibbs eased herself into the kitchen, but chose to remain close to the door. Ryker shifted uneasily on his feet, and the frown on his face turned to anger.

  “I don’t know where fuckin’ Eddie is. He’s no friend of mine.” Ryker blurted.

  “Eddie. Not Edward. So, you do know him. Well, that’s a good start.” Joel smiled and moved away from his spot, inching closer to the big biker. He glanced at Fiona fleetingly. She stood with her arms folded, her fingers were not far from the service weapon, a Glock 22.

  “He used to rent a room behind the warehouse on the other side of the fence. I’m sure he’s fucked off,” Ryker said. He wasn’t going to tell the copper where he went to.

  “Let me tell you something. Eddie is a very bad boy. We have a warrant out for his arrest. If you stand in the way or lie to us about his known whereabouts, you might be hauled in for obstruction of justice.” Joel was making it up as he went, glancing at Fiona on occasion to gauge her approval. She didn’t react and kept her stern eye on the biker.

  “Oh, piss off. Youse are always crapping on about shit.” Ryker rolled his eyes and said, “I got no idea where the fuck Eddie
is, nor do I really care. Go and look elsewhere.”

  “You ought to care. Eddie is wanted for murder. He executed a police detective in Sydney.” This time Fiona intervened, then she hissed, “Killing a fellow copper gets us really fired up, enough for us to break a few rules, arsehole!”

  “Doesn’t change things,” Ryker grumbled.

  Joel and Fiona exchanged glances.

  “As someone once said, ‘we’ll be back’.” Joel signalled Fiona, and she led the way out.

  Back in the car, Fiona gave Joel a swift back-hander to his arm. “You’re a born interrogator. I’m impressed. And you’ve only been with us, what? Eight or nine weeks. You’re fucking scary. I might have to watch my arse.”

  CHAPTER 29

  SHOWDOWN

  The rage burned in Eddie’s eyes as he watched the police car drive off. He never trusted those bastards. Davo was the exception, but his hopes for Davo’s allegiance were quashed after the bail-up in his caravan. From where he was standing he couldn’t see Davo’s Harley, or his Commodore. The Bel-Air was only brought out into daylight for special occasions. None of the above were present. Eddie was hell bent on fronting Ryker. Alone.

  With the stealth of a cat, Eddie approached the timber landing. He lifted his knee waist height and kicked the feeble door in, with the doorknob smashing a hole through the fibro wall. Ryker stood stunned but his face reddened when he saw Eddie heaving his chest in the doorway. Like a couple of bulls in a paddock they rushed each other; Eddie’s sheer bulk shoved Ryker back to the cupboard. Eddie rammed his elbow into Ryker’s chest. Ryker expelled with a deep grunt, he was winded and gasping for breath. Eddie retreated a few steps and kicked the biker in the lower abdomen. Ryker stood wide-eyed, unbelieving. Arms down by his side, stunned and unable to speak, Ryker knew he had lost this fight. Eddie knife-handed the defenceless biker in the throat. Now, the biker folded like a deck of cards, choking, coughing and sinking to his knees, lower and lower. Eddie brought his elbow down on Ryker’s head. The crack was loud and final. Ryker crumpled to the floor. Eddie stood over him, victorious. There was no one in the room to applaud him. A gladiator without a crowd. Still, Eddie was triumphant. He spat on Ryker’s motionless body.

  The exertion had played havoc with his right arm. The tensing of his right hand from the scuffle had strained and angered the cuts. Suddenly, his ears perked to the noise of motorbikes. Fuck! Davo. Maybe not alone! Was it too late to run? The shine from a Chinese meat cleaver on the dish rack drew his attention. Eddie snatched it from the dishrack and flew out the door. He ran to the back of the block. This was an even bet, he could outrun the Riders. The Charade was parked in the next street over, once in the car he could escape. The roar from the Harley was upon him. Eddie bolted sideways, narrowly avoiding the crushing weight of a Harley-Davidson pummelling him. From the corner of his eye he saw Davo laying the bike down in a skid, scraping over gravel it came to rest against the fence.

  “Where the fuck, you think you’re going!” Davo bellowed, kneeling near his downed bike.

  Eddie ignored the roaring bikie and kept running through the maze of scrap metal, oil drums, broken fences and sheds. The car was close. It had to be close. Fucking wrong street! He stopped at the curb. No Charade. For a moment, his head spun, and things went black. He bent over, panting, swallowing, panting and swallowing spit. No. Keep going.

  Eddie’s escape was short-lived, Davo bowled him over, the impact sending the cleaver from of his hand. Hurtling towards the ground Eddie recovered without skinning his face on the road surface. Davo, on the other hand, lost his footing completely and tripped. Unsteady on his feet, Eddie turned to face his attacker, who was still on his knees trying to get up off the bitumen.

  “You fuckin’ cunt, what’d you do to Ryker?” Panting, Davo sprang to his feet, pointing at Eddie, wiping the saliva from his mouth he yelled out, “If you’ve hurt him, there’s no coming back from this.” Davo pulled a large hunting-knife from his boot strap.

  “Hurt him. Don’t think so,” Eddie replied viciously. “Last time I saw him he looked like a sack of cow shit. Green and sloppy.”

  Eddie knew it would be like waving a red rag to a bull, an enraged Davo charged wielding the pig sticker like a Chinese warrior.

  Blind rage was the downfall of a poor fighter. Eddie waited until the last moment and dived slightly sideways sweeping his right leg in a wide arc as he rolled on the road, catching Davo’s legs just above the ankles. Davo went for a short flight and a hard tumble. The stocky biker crashed onto the bitumen coming to rest on his back. The hilt of the large hunting knife stuck out from his round belly. Somehow, the bulky pig knife had wound up in his gut, causing not only extreme pain but a lot of blood spilling on the road. Davo’s eyes fluttered, his breathing was strained. His head lying on the hard road fell to one side and his eyes stared with emptiness at the towering figure standing a few metres away.

  Eddie’s face was with wrath, he stepped closer to Davo writhing below him.

  “Suppose you want a hand with that knife.”

  Eddie grabbed the hilt and pulled the knife out of Davo’s stomach.

  “Not much I can do about your bleeding. You should have left me be.”

  Eddie made a run for the Charade, which he had now spotted down the street.

  Everything now was about getting away. As far away from Townsville as he could get, quickly. The thing was – Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he fuelled the car. But that thought didn’t occur to him until halfway to Cardwell …

  CHAPTER 30

  CARNAGE

  Chatter on the police radio frequency was prolific. Not often Darren listened to this radio band, but news of a bloody battle at the Redemption Riders’ Motorcycle Club’s home turf caught his attention. As far as Darren was concerned, the likelihood of Eddie’s involvement would be not only be high but probable. And that probability warranted at least a drive-by, if not a sticky-beak from a curious taxi-driver who just dropped a fare down the road.

  The only response vehicles left were a couple of squad cars. Darren eased his taxi behind a parked Mazda 626. He got out of the cab to have a stroll towards the clubhouse. Oh shit. Familiar faces under the copper caps emerged from the side of the clubhouse. One tall Aboriginal man accompanied by a short stick of human dynamite, to look at as well as run away from, Darren mused. Was it bad luck? Or a blessing in disguise? Knowing them could be an advantage.

  He decided to meet them head-on.

  “It’s Mutt and Jeff. And I don’t mean that offensively,” he excused right away.

  “Depends who’s Mutt, because I think my middle name is Jeff,” Joel shot back.

  “You are a brave man,” Darren replied.

  “You’re both a couple of wankers.” Fiona walked the other direction after passing Darren.

  “I know why I’m here, but I don’t know why you’re here?” Joel stated bluntly, without a smile.

  “Just curious, heard the news on the grape-vine. Plus, I dropped a fare not far from here.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Joel responded.

  “That’s clichéd.”

  “Expensive word for a taxi-driver,” Joel remarked.

  “Anyone die?” Darren couldn’t help himself.

  “Not so far. Close though.” Joel headed back to the Commodore, where Fiona was patiently waiting her driver’s return.

  Darren watched as the patrol car sped off in a hurry. The other crew hadn’t left, the remaining patrol car was blocking the gravel drive into the property. An idea struck Darren, I could go in, pretend a cab was ordered for here. Thirty minutes ago. Believable? He wasn’t convinced, but it was worth a try. Worse that could happen? Be ordered to leave the scene of the crime. That was alright too, because in the three minutes it would take the coppers to get rid of him he’d have ample time to take in the crime scene. From the years of spending time with complete strangers, he found that even after a few minutes most fares would volunteer their thoughts and experienc
es, if prompted correctly.

  The yellow tape was out already, wound around the patio posts which led into what looked like a kitchen from where he was standing. He ducked under the tape and stepped through the doorway as if invited, and he was late to the party.

  “Hey guys, what’s happening?” Darren announced his arrival.

  Both police officers gawked gobsmacked.

  “You with the OC Squad?”

  “No mate, with TC Squad,” Darren answered with a grin. Fuck, I hope these jokers have a sense of humour.

  “Righto. I’ll run you through what we know.” The younger lad with a caterpillar moustache adjusted his cap and took the lead. Darren nodded with a facial gesture to signal the youthful police officer to get on with it. Bonus. How easy is this?

  “The attacker allegedly kicked the door down and burst in. The victim was found lying against the kitchen cupboards here.” He pointed to the floor. “Neighbours rang it in on triple zero. It’s a bikie clubhouse, always people peeking out between their curtains, I guess.”

  Darren nodded.

  “We haven’t started a full door knock, but it looks like some bikie gang war stuff. The bloke who was seen running from here was described as being the size of a gorilla. He was chased down by one of the bikies through those buildings.” He pointed in the direction of outside.

  The hairs on the back of Darren’s neck were coming alive. To be so close. Darren’s heart was bursting through his chest.

  “We found another one a few hundred metres behind those buildings, been stabbed.” The young copper looked at Darren’s pensive face.

  He finished his verbal report with, “They are both expected to live. At this stage… You alright, mate?”

  Darren left abruptly, without a word.

  Who was he kidding? The whole reason he was here was exactly that: Eddie’s trail, and now his head was consumed with hatred. It was that hatred that would destroy his chance to deal with Eddie. Hatred and bitterness, it spelled failure.

  Darren turned the key, put the taxi into gear and switched off his two-way. If there had been a roundabout large enough, Darren would have driven round, and round it for hours. Such was the state of his mind. Instead, he drove the taxi to Woolcock Road and followed the sign that said ‘Cairns’. A road long enough to get lost in time, or was it to lose the frustration? To help him take his mind off the ball and chain.