A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  They did take the same ferry. Joel boarded first. Darren kept moving himself to the back of the queue as it progressed past the ticket-inspector’s hole-punch. It was easy enough to blend into a crowd of backpackers.

  Once on the island, Darren went to a car-hire to arrange for their transport. Joel proceeded to walk in the Picnic Bay direction. Darren was to pick him up at some point later.

  The Mini Moke Darren had hired was predictably unexciting in performance. The gear stick was long and cumbersome, resulting in few embarrassing gear changes. On the way to Picnic Bay, Darren stopped at a café to grab a coffee. Upon getting back into the Moke his mobile sounded.

  Darren’s heart was pumping.

  He answered.

  “Got the stuff?”

  “Yes.” Darren sipped from his coffee, his heart was thumping in his ear.

  Silence.

  Then, “Go to Horseshoe Bay. I hope you’re on your own. First sign of a fuck-over. She dies. Get it? I got eyes on the island.”

  “I’m by myself. Where in Horseshoe Bay?” Darren tried to sound collected.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Darren sipped the lukewarm coffee, then he pressed Joel’s number.

  “Where are you, mate?”

  “You in that yellow Moke?”

  “Yep. Can you see me?”

  “I’ll walk over.”

  Joel approached casually. He stopped briefly to clean his sunglasses, had a quick scan and resumed his walk.

  Everything appeared to be normal. Whatever normal was supposed to be.

  Joel boarded the hire-car.

  “We’re going to Horseshoe. But no further instructions. He reckons he’s got eyes on us. I reckon that’s bullshit. Still, we should be on the look-out.”

  “You the boss. Lead the way. And thanks for the coffee.” Joel held his hand up, pretending to drink from an invisible cup.

  “You’re not missing much, mate.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were parked at the beach in Horseshoe Bay.

  Phone rang.

  Their eyes crossed briefly.

  “In Horseshoe. What’s next?”

  Eddie gave Darren directions for the meeting place. Darren repeated the instructions so Joel could hear them as well, hoping that would help them both.

  “You telling someone where to go.” Eddie mouthed through the phone.

  “No, mate. I’m a cabdriver, it’s habit. Helps me memorise.”

  Silence.

  “Park at the end of the road. What are you driving?”

  “A yellow Moke.”

  “When you get there, make sure the top is down. Put the package in clear view. Stick it on top of the bonnet. Get back in the car. Sit in the passenger’s seat. Hands on your head, and wait for my arrival.”

  Click.

  Joel proposed they get a better idea of the area Darren was supposed to meet Eddie. The mission wasn’t only about rescuing Ruby, but also to deal with Eddie. Both men also agreed that Eddie wasn’t going to let either Ruby or Darren go. Eddie would kill them without flinching. Joel would need to be able to hide close-by and ambush Eddie. Sounded great in theory.

  “I always wound up killed, playing Cowboys and Indians when I was a kid.” Joel rolled his eyes.

  “Lucky for us, I was the gunslinger who always won the gunfight,” Darren replied with a thin smile.

  Joel sought out a local shopkeeper for information, pretending to look for a particular kingfisher, research for Aboriginal nature studies. Partially successful in his quest for a picture about a streetscape, he returned hastily. How was he to know that the shopkeeper was a bird enthusiast?

  Sweaty, and out of breath from his hurried pace back to the Moke, he rattled off what he learnt.

  “It’s like the end of the road in that part of the area. You go through a residential part and then the street goes through acreage land. There’s a couple of older properties near the end, but the street stops near a creek, bushland all around. He also warned that if you walked the creek bed, it was possible to encounter a croc. Plenty of birds to see.”

  “What?” Darren looked at him puzzled. “Birds?”

  “Never mind. Long story. Let’s go.”

  “Chances are that Eddie will see you. And he knows what you are,” Darren pointed out.

  “Why would he have chosen that spot? I wonder.”

  “He’s been before, no doubt.”

  “So, he’s holed up close.”

  “We haven’t got much time for second guessing, let’s say he is,” Darren replied.

  “He would be watching the Moke go past.”

  “Let’s assume.”

  Silence.

  Then, Darren asked, “How fast can you run?”

  “Not fast. But I have endurance. Inherited.” Joel smiled broadly.

  It was a gamble as to guessing the distance to the end of the street. From the shopkeeper’s description and Joel’s interpretation they came to a point where the cleared properties met with forested land – it was time for Joel to disappear.

  Joel checked his Glock.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. Give me a five-minute head-start.” Joel started jogging, and went ahead pounding the grassy verge on the side of the road.

  He kept a steady pace, dodging some of the taller grass avoiding the possibility of an injury from a concealed rock or other debris likely to cause injury. Although the Glock was securely holstered under his loose shirt, the bounce created from jogging was rubbing against the thin skin over his ribs. He heard the ticking rattle from the Moke’s engine coming up from behind, and soon it passed him.

  In the distance, he spotted some corrugated iron used for fencing off the front of a property. He figured it would be the first of a few properties. He slowed his jog. Another two properties further ahead on the left. He had started breathing faster, not quite panting. No houses on the other side, just bush. Joel paused his run, and powerwalked with a hop across the road. Soon he disappeared into the thick scrub. He stayed well away from the street, pushing his way through the undergrowth and stringy scrubs. His progress was hampered by the density of some of the vegetation. He took care not to break too many twigs or branches for fear of making too much noise. The dry, sharp twigs were leaving scratches and welts on his hands from parting the foliage. Beads of sweat were salting his eyes. The stinging was annoying. Joel also felt his nose starting to run. He crouched lower and breathed very shallow. Shit! What’s that?

  Peering through the vegetation, he could make out an overgrown property opposite. A white sedan was parked deep into the vacant land, clearly looking like it didn’t belong there.

  Flattened long grass had given away a sinister trail where the car had been driven onto the overgrown land. Would he go and look? Maybe, someone gone for a piss in the scrub.

  Whatever it was, it jarred the hell out of his head. Joe even thought, he’d heard a thunk, just before his lights went out.

  Both men stood over the bushwalker’s body, looking down at their heroic effort, after stalking the poor bugger.

  “He is harmless. Just a walker.” The wiry man upended the double-barrel shotgun, inspecting the wooden stock for any blood. His deeply furrowed forehead and sunken cheeks made his thin, crooked nose stand out. Grey hairs projected from his highly arched nostrils. The cold, grey eyes nodded at his chubby companion, signalling him to follow.

  “Is he dead?” the thickset man asked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, his near-black eyes fixed on the Aboriginal man lying on the dirt, motionless. A couple of blowflies circled, landing on Joel’s lips. The tiniest trickle of blood had come from a cut lip.

  The thin man shrugged, slung the shotgun over his shoulder and set his course for the cottage. A few seconds later, his round-bellied companion started on his way, dabbing his forehead near continuously, occasionally stumbling on the rough track through the scrub.

  ***

  Darren sat in the passenger seat of the Moke with his hands
folded on his head. He had put the brown paper package on the bonnet a few minutes earlier. Shielded from any ocean breeze, from being behind the large sand dune which separated him from the water, he was grateful for the shade from the gumtrees surrounding the cul-de-sac. The waiting game was grating at his nerves, and tiring his arms. Not long after, the sound of crunching gravel alerted him to someone’s approach. Eddie.

  Within seconds, Darren felt the cold barrel from a gun pressing hard against his neck.

  “Get out of the car. Slow ... and easy. And, fetch me that package.” Eddie’s deep voice sounded hoarse.

  Darren eased himself out of the seat. Hands still clasped on his head, he stepped next to the bonnet, his eyes signalling a question.

  “One hand. Leave the other on your head.”

  Darren bent over and grabbed the brown paper brick.

  “Now. Head down that way.” Eddie pointed with his weapon.

  Darren complied without a word, and was directed through the thinly vegetated scrub, a rough prod in his back from the barrel of a PPK, reminding him of why. Darren’s bare legs felt the prickly growth, some leaving more than a scratch mark as they crossed through the weed covered block of land, eventually leading to the back of a weatherboard cottage. Eddie shoved him through a back door. Ruby’s face lit up immediately.

  Darren’s heart fluttered and thumped at the same time. She was okay. So far. He could see she was about to say something. He shot her a negative signal. Where are you Joel? Darren clenched his jaw.

  Eddie changed his aim from Darren’s head to Ruby’s. He brought the barrel against her cheek. Darren turned to face Eddie.

  He nodded to the package.

  “Now you unwrap that parcel. I’d like to taste the contents. Make sure it hasn’t gone off.”

  Darren locked his dirty gaze on him briefly, placing the package on the kitchen table, and slowly he started tearing the tape from the paper. Jesus, Joel. Where the fuck are you?” He could only drag this out for so long.

  Eddie’s eyes were mesmerised, drawn to the package. Tightly wrapped in clear plastic, just as he remembered it. He moved closer, gun still trained on Ruby.

  “Open it. I want to taste it.” And he handed Darren a small pocket knife, without thinking.

  A knife. Last chance. He’ll kill us both. Right here. As soon as I cut that plastic, we’ll be fucked. Gotta do it now!

  Darren took the knife and unfolded the blade. Eddie gazed at him, his arm was stretched out pressing the .32 calibre gun against Ruby’s cheek. Eddie’s wrist was exposed. Darren hovered the knife over the package and changed his grip to stab the plastic. Darren delayed for a few seconds, sensing Eddie’s anxiety. Now Eddie was getting impatient, and he pulled the gun back a fraction, ready to explode into a rant.

  Without warning, Darren swung his arm in an arc, the blade catching Eddie’s lower wrist, slicing across the soft flesh nicking his veins. Instantly, blood started to leak. The PPK went off with an ear-blasting bang. Ruby felt the bullet zing past her nose. She pushed with her feet and sent herself, chair and all backwards to the floor. Her head impacted with the wooden floor.

  Eddie had instinctively grasped his wrist to stem the flow of blood, still holding the gun. Darren threw his body weight into Eddie’s brief stagger causing the big guy to lose his balance and crash into the kitchen table. Darren snatched the partly opened parcel and ripped it open, dusting some of its contents over Eddie, who was desperately scrambling to get up. Darren held the package and then smashed it into Eddie’s face, creating a dust bowl of cornflour, and white pepper. Although Eddie was briefly blinded, his gun remained clinging to his hand. Arms swinging, legs kicking wildly, he let off two rounds. Then he sneezed uncontrollably for a good ten seconds.

  It was a window of opportunity.

  It could have all been over.

  Instead, Darren found himself staring at the pointy end of a double-barrel shotgun.

  “My friend, drop the knife.”

  Darren let go of the pocket-knife, staring into the grey eyes of an elderly gentleman, the man brandishing the double-barrel.

  It was then that Darren heard an almighty thud.

  His reaction was to find Ruby. She was lying on the floor, on her side still bound, a broken wooden chair next to her. Equally confused, their eyes met and held each other’s gaze for a moment.

  “Get up.” The elderly gent waved the shotgun, urging Darren to stand.

  Darren did as the man ordered, at a glance he saw that Eddie was bleeding from a wound to his forehead. It was a weird sight, his face looked like a battered piece of chicken, blood and corn flour.

  Another voice sounded, it came from the corner of the kitchen.

  The grey-haired man replied in Italian.

  Darren brushed off some corn flour and took a step back from the grey-haired man with the shotgun.

  The man who came out of the corner was grey, balding, chubby, and looked to be in his sixties. He was sweating profusely and had his handkerchief ready in one hand, in the other he held a short length of 2inch water pipe. He wore dark trousers, his white shirt was wrinkled, shirt-sleeves rolled up and to Darren he looked like he’d come straight from a Godfather movie-set. Only this wasn’t a movie-set – surreal, maybe.

  “Who are you?” Mildly accented, the ‘movie star’ stepped in front of Darren.

  “Just a bloke who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

  Darren nodded towards Ruby, “My wife and I were visiting the island and we…”

  The fat Italian raised his chubby hand and backhanded Darren.

  Darren’s face reddened.

  “Like slapping my children when they lie,” the Italian huffed, then he stuffed his hanky in his shirt pocket.

  Mister Shotgun moved his double-barrel towards Darren.

  “Please. Please don’t harm him. We can explain. But please, we are not the villains. He is,” Ruby spoke, then spearing her fury at Eddie.

  “And why do you know this villain?”

  “Business gone wrong,” Darren replied instantly, before Ruby could.

  There was another exchange in Italian. Both men appeared to be discussing the stuff which had been thrown all over Eddie.

  Mister Shotgun stepped closer to Eddie, who was making grunting noises by now. Ignoring Darren, he prodded the shotgun barrels in Eddie’s groin. Eddie reacted by swearing a profanity. Mister Shotgun stuck the gun before Eddie’s face. The brute suddenly realised his predicament, as he came to his senses. Mister Shotgun ran his finger over the white powder left in the torn package, tested it on his tongue. Then he laughed, turned to his boss and said, “Cornflour. Some pepper.”

  “You, help him up on his feet.” The ‘Godfather’ man ordered Darren. “You empty his pockets. Give him the chair.”

  Darren was hoping the PPK would still be lying near Eddie. He was too late, Mister Shotgun had stepped over Eddie and retrieved the .32 calibre from within Darren’s grasp. The wad of black cable ties had slid out of Eddie’s pocket. Mister Shotgun poked the weapon at Darren then at the cable-ties.

  ***

  Where the fuck is Joel? God, I hope he’s alright, otherwise we are fucked. Who are these guys? Darren was thinking as he tightened the cable-ties around Eddie’s wrists. One of his wrists was still bleeding; to stem the bleeding he tightened a single cable-tie. Eddie’s eyes were red with fury watching Darren restrain him.

  Seated on the one remaining wooden kitchen chair, Eddie was still a picture of defiance, an ugly brute about to explode. The double-barrel shotgun trained at the side of his head convinced him to abide.

  The Italian, who was calling the shots spoke, “You killed my nephew.”

  Eddie’s eyes widened in shock. Fuck! It’s the old cunt from Melbourne.

  The Italian, Salvatore, death-stared Eddie.

  “Matteo needed to be killed, because he was not loyal to me. But it was not your job, your place to do so. You are Eddie from the Devil motorcycle gang. You also
killed my other nephew, Luigi, last year in Manly.” Salvatore paused, and made a cross over his heart. “My emissary sent here by me to deal with my nephew, Matteo, is missing. Maybe, you killed him too. I don’t know.”

  Salvatore had spoken slowly, ensuring his English was clear.

  He had kept his infamous temper under control – it meant that he was now at his most dangerous.

  Darren’s ears were burning. A few things were starting to come together. He glanced at Ruby, she was sitting on the floor still tied up, allowed to lean against the kitchen cupboard. Ruby frowned briefly. Darren acknowledged her expression with a slow blink. His hands were bound but the cable-ties were far from tight. He’d purposely kept his wrists firmly separated to allow some freedom of movement. Mister Shotgun was too preoccupied with training his shotgun on Eddie while putting the restraints on Darren. This could turn into a seriously bad situation for him.

  Putting two and two together, the bastard calling the shots was the same bastard who’d arranged Simon’s murder. It was that package of coke that linked everything to this moment. But there was one salvation. Eddie. As long as he kept his mouth shut, Ruby and him might still have a chance to escape a certain death penalty.

  “Feliciano. Please bring the bucket.”

  The stringy, grey-haired man passed his shotgun to the Mafia boss, disappeared from the kitchen briefly, and returned holding a dark blue bucket. Water was swishing around in the bucket. Salvatore signalled to put the bucket down.

  The Mafia boss handed the shotgun back, and picked up the length of waterpipe from the benchtop. Without any warning, he raised the metal pipe and smashed it into Eddie’s left knee. A split second of horrific shatter of cartilage reverberated through the kitchen followed by a roar of curses. Feliciano snatched a tea-towel and pulled Eddie’s head back by his hair, stuffing the rag into his mouth. Then he picked up his shotgun and slammed the butt into Eddie’s jaw. Another bone-jarring crack.

  Ruby looked away, tried to bury her head, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She dared not make a sound.

  Although Darren winced at the torture meted out to Eddie, he was wondering what the significance of the bucket was. And where the bloody hell was Joel?