Unfinished Business...
“SARGE! SARGE!”
Elliott’s voice penetrated through the pain and darkness. Somewhere, way above me, there was light, and I willed myself towards it. I had to get there. If I failed, I’d never get another chance. I put in the hard yards, ignoring the agony in my chest and trying to ignore the slow, erratic thumping that was my heartbeat.
Please, don’t stop now, I told it.
Gradually, the darkness turned grey, then evaporated. Elliott’s worried face swam into focus. I was slumped in the armchair and he was crouching over me, about to slap my face, presumably to focus my attention. God knows why people do that.
“Are you all right?”
If that wasn’t the silliest bloody question… I ignored it and tried to sit up. Instantly a bolt of pain lanced through the centre of my chest. My head swam.
“Easy,” Elliott said, helping me into a sitting position. “Jesus! I thought you were a dead-set goner.”
He wasn’t the only one.
After some cautious stretching, I found I could keep the pain bearable by breathing shallowly and avoiding sudden movement. I eased off my jacket and shirt to examine the damage. As I thought, my ballistic vest had stopped the bullets. I could see their arse-ends embedded within the layers of kevlar. But only just stopped them. When I peeled the vest off, the business end of the bullets had almost made it through. Two ugly overlapping bruises were spreading across my chest and, if I were any judge, I had two cracked ribs. Plus an iron hand squeezing my heart.
Mind you, I was better off than Smith, his front a bloody mess from Elliott’s .38. Unlike me, he wasn’t wearing a vest. His eyes were wide open in surprise which, given the circumstances, was understandable. I raised an eyebrow at Elliott.
“It was him or me,” he said. He saw my grin, and he knew that I knew. “He was a bastard,” he added, as if that were exculpation. As far as I was concerned, it was. Elliott and I now understood each other.
He began to tremble. It might or might not get worse when he had time to think about it, but right now I needed him alert and functioning. As I struggled back into my shirt and jacket and recovered my weapon, I told him about Sandra being held hostage.
“Where?”
I grabbed Smith’s mobile and checked the last number dialled. I’d been right not to reveal my knowledge of the safe house. I flung my car keys to Elliott.
“Bundoora. You’re driving.”
Bundoora was a good half hour away for the lawful driver. Elliott made it in fifteen minutes. Even so, with my imagination conjuring up awful possibilities, it was an agonising quarter-hour. Questions worried me all the way. The bastards holding Sandra were an unknown quantity. Were they as ruthless as Smith? Did they have some arrangement with him, such as to dump her once I’d coughed up the tape? What would they do when Smith didn’t call back? And what if Sandra had seen their faces? Too many imponderables, and remembering what had happened to Connie...
Elliott coasted up to the house, a two-storey, double-fronted brick veneer set well back in a garden that was mostly lawn. It was enclosed by a six-foot paling fence with two electronically controlled gates, one for cars and one for people.
“What now?”
“Crash it.”
The Ford leapt, tyres shrieking as Elliott wheeled it hard right. We collected the double gate at about forty. There was a sickening crunch, the headlights exploded and the gate hinges screeched as they were ripped from their posts. The gates flew aside like bags of straw. The car barely slowed. Elliott reefed it off the driveway and headed across the lawn, aiming at the front verandah. We hit the concrete step with a din that was appalling. The Ford’s nose leapt up as it drove forward, taking out the nearest verandah post. A fraction later, it ploughed into the front door, simultaneously destroying about two metres of wall and window in an explosion of bricks, wood, glass and plaster.
As the debris slid off the miraculously unscathed windscreen, I saw a bloke on the stairs. He was frozen in shock. Before he could recover, Elliott leapt through the dust and debris, took the stairs three at a time and collared him. He jammed the muzzle of his .38 under the bloke’s nose, at the same time relieving him of a belt-holstered 9 mm semi-auto.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
The bloke goggled. He was still frozen, this time in fear. But a face appearing at the top of the stairs answered the question. This bloke I knew, not by name but from seeing him in Internal Affairs. He was more self-possessed than his mate. He took in the destruction, me and Elliott, then turned and bolted. Elliott took after him.
The first bloke thought here was his chance, but I’d already made it to the stairs. He hesitated, considering his chances. I willed him to try it on but he chucked in the towel. Pity. I motioned him to follow the others.
“Move it!”
On the top floor, a corridor gave access to four rooms. Only one had a light showing. An angry voice, Elliott’s, came from it.
“Take it off! Take that bloody thing off!”
The room was spartan – bed, bedside table and chair. Sandra, her face hooded, was manacled to the chair by one wrist. Elliott, with yet another pistol stuck into his belt, was prodding the second bloke with his revolver.
“Come on! Move! Move!”
Sandra was sweaty, her makeup had run and her hair was all over the place. But she had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes exuding defiance, she gave me a small smile of relief, then waited calmly for the handcuff to be removed. Then she stood and moved towards me. I shoved my captive out of the way and took her in my arms. She was trembling, but only I would notice.
“Thank you, Mark,” she whispered.
I led her out of the room. “Are you OK?”
“I think so.” She stretched gingerly. “Nothing too fatal.”
That reminded me. “When they put you on the phone, which one hurt you?”
Her left hand went to her right arm, to the area that gets hurt when your arm is twisted up your back. “I’m not ever sure how many of them there were.”
“Wait here, “ I commanded. I went back into the room and fronted the two IA blokes.
“Which one of you hurt the girl?”
Number Two was the first to respond. He looked at Number One with an expectant look, the one that says “C’mon...own up.”
That was good enough for me. I grabbed Number One by the lapels and put my face in his. “You scummy bastard,” I told him. Then I kneed him in the balls. He gasped and bent double, clutching at the abused items. Before he could groan or scream or whatever, my knee smashed his nose. He collapsed in moaning heap, spraying blood all over the place, including me. Then I turned to his partner.
Number Two went pale, as well he might. It occurred to me that perhaps his expectant look had been a quick-witted ploy to get himself off the hook. Perhaps, perhaps not, but in my view, they were equally culpable. He looked pleadingly at Elliott, but Elliott was suddenly engrossed by the view from the window. Two saw my fist cock and his hands went up in defence. Too late. I hit him square in the right eye, the pain in my knuckles ameliorated by the cracking of his cheekbone. I hauled off to give him a repeat, but a stentorian order put me on hold.
“That’s enough!”
It was McDowell, flanked by Heckle and Jeckle. As usual, Heckle was waving his gun around. One day, I thought, he really will get to use that thing.
McDowell arrested the lot of us.