She wanted to find somewhere to hole up for the night, to hunker down and close her eyes and try to work through everything that had changed so rapidly and violently. Or if not changed, then just revealed itself for what it really was. There was a flood of bitter emotion that was close to overwhelming her, but she had to fight that with everything she had, just like she had to fight off the sneering voice telling her that she should have guessed Cooper couldn’t be trusted, that there was more going on than she had let herself believe. She had been wilfully blind, wanting so much for him to prove himself the heroic good guy she had so desperately wanted him to be as a kid.
Through all of this a couple of things gnawed at her. Byrne and the bikies, for one – Maggie was now almost certain that whoever her father had evidence on must have been from among their ranks. But then how did Cooper come into it? Was it as simple as longstanding corruption, or something else? And beyond that, what had been her father’s relationship to the gang?
The water on the ground, the grime on the walls, the voices from inside – everything was heightened, more, brought to vivid life by whatever this current running through her was. She needed to get away from here and fast, but there was some small, strange urge telling her to get back out there and take them all on – the police, inspectors, bikies, anyone stupid enough to try to fuck with her now.
She shook it off and hurried into the rainy dark.
Sticking to the shadows and the alleys, she took the long way back to her car, never straying too far from Smith Street, always listening for the rumble of a bike or shriek of a siren. She kept the hood up and her hands buried deep in her pockets. Caution was what would keep her alive.
If Cooper or Darch had survived the shootout, then the police would know about her. This meant that for now her job was to stay ahead of everyone. If she could get back to her car and her money, she could be on the road and out of Melbourne before the morning. It stung to think that she couldn’t go after the hard drive, but there was nothing to be done about that. The storage unit would be watched, and besides, she had no clue where it even was.
It took a couple more turns down dark, empty streets to work her way back to where she had left her car. There was still no-one in sight. She paused as she neared it. Nobody, as far as she was aware, knew where she had parked. But still. She approached slowly and checked through the windows then under the car. Nothing out of the ordinary. She opened the boot and found her spare licence plates. After a quick look around, she got to work swapping them over. Still no sign of anyone nearby. Breathing slightly easier, she slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.
Nothing.
She tried again, then again. She stopped. Looked at the small panel under the ignition. She went to open it just as the back door opened and she heard the click behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
Maggie looked in the rear-view mirror. Green eyes in a haggard face.
‘G’day, girl,’ the harsh voice said. ‘Do me a favour and keep calm, would you?’
‘Do I seem not calm?’
‘You figured out the fuse quickly enough.’ The eyes in the mirror flicked downwards. ‘Now, how about I give it back and we take a drive? There are a whole bunch of cops out looking for you.’
‘I’d rather end up in their hands than Len Townsend’s.’
His laugh was harsh. ‘Jesus, is that the impression I’m giving off? I’m not taking you to Townsend. Or the cops, for that matter. I want you to drive so we can get clear of the bastards and talk somewhere safe. Let’s go with whatever shithole motel you’ve been holed up in.’
For a moment, Maggie didn’t move. She held out her hand and he dropped into it the small piece of plastic with its two protruding metal prongs. Maggie opened the panel and, replacing the missing fuse, started the engine and pulled out on to the road. ‘Have you been following me?’
‘Just putting two and two together. Old Cooper went home without you before and I was fairly sure you weren’t going to hide out anywhere that would require online booking. It had to be a cheap motel that would take a fake ID and cash in hand.’
‘Who are you?’
In the rear-view mirror, Maggie caught a glimpse of a crooked grin. ‘Jack Carlin, love. I knew your dad way back when.’
‘He arrest you?’
‘The bastard wished. We did the arresting together, back in the halcyon days of yore.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘We’ll get to that. Stay off the main roads, will you? Don’t wanna risk some trigger-happy cop seeing us together.’
Maggie pulled onto a side street. She figured she was heading in the direction of the motel, but it was hard to focus.
‘You’ve managed to piss just about everyone off,’ Carlin went on. ‘Got the attention of my old police comrades, of the most dangerous bikie gang this side of, well, anywhere, and on the wrong side of Len Townsend right after he started wearing his big-boy pants. In my best years, I’d have been happy with one of the three, but the lot is just asking for a metric fuckton of trouble. You’ll need to be very, very lucky to get clear of Melbourne.’
Maggie didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘Would you mind telling me what the fuck you want?’
‘Sensing your father’s temper there, love. That’s not a good look on anyone.’
‘I don’t have the key. If that’s what you’re after.’ Maggie glanced in the rear-view. Held Carlin’s gaze for a beat. ‘Are we done?’
‘Not quite. Where’s your motel?’
Maggie turned down another side street; they were almost there and she figured she was better served parking away from it. Especially if she had to work out a way to get rid of this prick. She pulled over.
‘Alright,’ Carlin said. ‘The one across the road, yeah? We walk there nice and calm. Just going for a stroll. Don’t try to run or pull any other bullshit, alright? I promise it won’t be worth your while.’
She got out of the car. Seeing him fully now, Jack Carlin looked something like a rangy, matted old wolf. He was tall but slightly stooped. His tangled mane of grey hair sat back from his thin face. He wore an old leather jacket and ripped jeans. He looked one step from homeless, but there was a keen intelligence in those green eyes that Maggie didn’t like at all. Nothing about him indicated ex-cop.
Carlin gestured. ‘Shall we?’
It was less than a five-minute walk to the motel, but it felt a lot longer. Every step Maggie was aware of Carlin’s calculating gaze, of the weapon he had concealed and just how easily he had managed to get the better of her. He might not have been one of Townsend’s goons, but Maggie almost would have preferred that.
The moment they were through the door of the motel room, Carlin lit a cigarette and offered one to Maggie.
‘It’s a non-smoking room.’
‘Well, God forbid you should ever bend the rules.’ He sat in an armchair facing her.
‘What do you want?’
‘Those keys in your pocket would be a great start.’
‘Fuck you.’
Carlin whistled and leaned back in his seat. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth?’
The amused glint in his eye told Maggie that the pointed jibe was very deliberate. It also told her that Jack Carlin knew more than she was comfortable with.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘I thought we’d been through the introductions.’
‘A name doesn’t count for much. Who are you working for?’
‘You reckon because Cooper’s in the pocket of the bikies everyone has some hidden agenda?’
‘Given that you’re yet to tell me your agenda, hidden seems like the right word.’
‘My agenda is my own,’ Carlin said. ‘Suffice it to say I’m not working for Townsend, or the bikies, or the cops. Which right about now makes me your best friend in this city.’
‘Alright, friend,’ Maggie leaned forward. ‘How about you shed some light on this whole mes
s. What’s on that hard drive?’
‘Evidence.’
‘On who?’
‘You survive a shootout with bikies and you’re still wondering that?’
‘So my father knew something about the Scorpions.’
‘More than something, but more than he should have about one Scorpion in particular.’
‘Somebody important?’
Carlin took a long drag. He seemed to be weighing her up. ‘How much do you know about the criminal underworld?’
‘More than most.’
‘But not enough,’ Carlin said. ‘The truth that people fail to grasp is that it’s an ecosystem the police are very much part of. In a perfect world, they’d be stamping out gangs left right and centre, but that’s neither realistic nor profitable.’ Another drag of his smoke. ‘Yeah, you have your hero cops here and there, but ninety percent of the time they don’t last very long. Not without compromise. Not without the understanding that gangs are like hydras – cut one down, see five more sprout up in their place. Five that might not be as predictable as the one they replaced. So as counterintuitive as it might seem, there’s often good reasons certain major players don’t get taken down.’
Maggie wasn’t sure corruption counted as a ‘good reason’, but she didn’t bother pointing it out.
‘But,’ Carlin went on, ‘let’s say that along comes one of those crusading hero cops who reckons that whole approach is bullshit. Say that rockstar Detective Olivia Dean doesn’t give a fuck about the policy of vague tolerance adopted by her colleagues towards a hydra head that’s a bit more reasonable than the others. And say there was proof, proof that could not be ignored, that a rogue member of that group had done something really fucking bad. Something that nobody could hand-wave away. That member wouldn’t have to be important. They’d just need the patch.’
‘So a bikie, what, moonlights as a serial killer and—’
‘Moonlighted,’ Carlin said. ‘He’s been dead a while.’
‘So why—’
‘Think,’ Carlin said.
‘Yeah, okay.’ She was tired and pissed off and wished she’d stayed in Port Douglas. ‘Bikie gangs are careful never to give the cops anything actionable. All your detective needs is proof of one being a killer and she can tear the whole operation apart. But given what happened tonight, I don’t understand how the cops don’t have grounds to take them down.’
Carlin smirked. ‘You think Rook Gately and his boys got this far without ever having a run-in with the boys in blue? I’m reckoning they dropped their weapons and politely pressured that lawyer into backing up whatever absolving story they came up with. Might cop an illegal firearms charge or two, but that just doesn’t pack the same punch, legally speaking, as serial murder. Just watch. Now’ – Carlin brought his hands together in a single loud clap – ‘let’s talk mutual benefits.’
‘I don’t have the key,’ she said.
He stubbed his cigarette out on the arm of the chair. ‘Problem is, girl, you’re lying.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Almost lazily, Carlin drew a pistol with a screwed-on silencer from inside his jacket and pointed it at Maggie. ‘Turn out your pockets.’
Maggie didn’t move.
Carlin grinned. ‘Yeah. Lying.’
‘You’re not going to shoot me in a motel.’
‘Try me.’
Maggie held Carlin’s gaze. Any amusement was gone from it. And watching him, Maggie knew that for all that he was an unknown quantity, one thing was certain: he was a killer. Whether he would hesitate to shoot her or not, banking on the latter was a gamble Maggie wasn’t willing to take.
She reached into her pocket, withdrew the keys and tossed them towards him. Carlin caught them without looking, then lowered the gun.
He stood. ‘Now, here’s what’s happening. I’m gonna go have a dig around at this storage unit. See what I can find.’
‘You know it’ll be watched.’
‘Not an idiot, girl. Meanwhile, you’ll stay right here and try not to kill anyone. Before you tell me to get fucked, consider two things. One, I have eyes everywhere and will know if you try anything. Two, I can help you out of this. All you have to do is nothing. Reckon you can manage that?’
Maggie said nothing.
‘I’ll take that as a grudging yes,’ Carlin said. ‘See you soon, Maggie.’
The door slammed behind him. Maggie stayed put, her eyes on the cigarette butt, still smoking, bent and twisted on the arm of the chair.
Every instinct in her body was telling her to give Jack Carlin the middle finger and walk out the door. She hated this too-small room. She hated the sound of the shrieking baby a few doors down. She hated that she was trapped here by the fact that she had no idea whether Carlin was capable of everything he had threatened.
She got to her feet and paced the room.
What would Carlin do if she left? That depended on his reasons for wanting the evidence. If his aim was to get his old job back, then chances were there was only so much he was willing to risk. If he wasn’t after reinstatement, then that made him far more unpredictable. Which meant the only option was to get as far away from him as possible. She didn’t want to leave Melbourne without the hard drive, but it seemed like that ship had sailed and at a certain point survival had to come first. Whatever Carlin said, the motel was a public place and any attempt to harm her risked witnesses. His scare tactics might have worked on petty crooks and burned-out junkies, but this was far from Maggie’s first rodeo.
She snatched up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She crossed to the door, took hold of the handle and leaned against it, listening. Distant trams and beeping cars.
She could move fast and she could move quiet. Get away from the motel and down the side streets. If Carlin was bullshitting, then she could be back on the highway in under an hour. By morning, she could be anywhere.
She opened the door and stepped out on to the balcony.
The rain was still falling, but lighter now. There was no-one else in sight; all she could hear was the still crying baby. Low light shone from beneath a couple of the doors across from her, but otherwise the motel sat in darkness. She looked to her left; the staircase down to the ground was just a few metres away. She looked to the right. Nobody was waiting. She turned left and started to move, just as a figure came up the stairs.
For a second, for one strange, mad second, she thought it was a ghost. It was tall and thin, with no discernible features, and so dark that it blended into the night and only snatches and slivers of light from the rooms cast it into relief. The face was an inky extension from the body and yet Maggie felt the eyes on her. Involuntarily, she stepped back as the figure slowed, surprised.
Reality snapped into place. A man, all in black, face covered by a stocking. And in his hand . . .
He raised the machete as he started towards Maggie.
She turned and ran. She heard heavy, pounding footsteps and knew without having to look that he was close, that he was fast enough to cover the distance. She felt air across the back of her neck as he swiped the machete and a renewed rush of panic made her try to run faster, even though she knew she couldn’t, even though she knew he would be on her in seconds. She careened around the corner and bolted along the balcony, her eyes finding the staircase on the opposite side. It was less than two hundred metres away and yet it might as well have been on the other side of the world.
The swish of the machete came again and she felt something snag and pull her back. A snarl of tearing fabric as her backpack gave way and hundred-dollar notes were caught by the wind and thrown up around her.
It didn’t matter. She ran.
She rounded another corner and the staircase was just metres away. She lunged for it just as something hit her back and for a moment there was only the feeling of dull collision and then the pain slammed into her as something hot and wet drenched her jacket and, with a yell she couldn’t help, she fell forward and tasted concret
e. The baby was still crying, the noise louder now. The stairs were ahead. She tried to pull herself forward. She sensed movement behind her, the raised machete. She pushed herself up despite the feeling of her skin being torn apart; a foot took her hard in the stomach and she was thrown forward. She hit the edge of the staircase, went over and then concrete edges pummelled her from every direction, blows glancing off her head, arms flung up to protect herself as she went over and over again until she hit the bottom.
She saw night sky. She saw clouds. Then the glint of metal. She rolled as the blade glanced off the pavement. The figure dragged it back up, coming towards her again. The letter opener was in front of her, fallen from her pocket. She grabbed it. She knew, distantly, that she was bleeding and battered, that she was in pain and needed help. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the machete and the shadow wielding it.
It came down again. She got clear, just, the tattered backpack swinging from her shoulder. She snatched at it, threw it at him. He faltered as the machete went up.
She rammed the letter opener through his foot. He yelled out in pain, and warm, spurting blood coated her hand. She rolled away as he staggered and fell to his knees, just centimetres from her. The machete hit the ground with a clatter. The man was breathing heavily, groping for the weapon.
Maggie snatched it clear as she stood. She swung the machete up, then embedded it in his skull.
He didn’t make a sound. He swayed, half-raised a hand, then toppled and was still, the blade wedged in place.
Maggie looked up at the motel. There was no commotion, no doors opening or people investigating. The attack, for all the time it had lasted, hadn’t made much noise. The baby was still crying.
With some difficulty, Maggie picked up the heavy machete. For a moment, she considered making straight for her car. The pain told her she needed to at least bandage her back, and she needed to be away from here to do it.
And yet.
She gathered up the remains of her backpack, what notes she could. Then she was back up the stairs, tripping and faltering. The notes from her bag were spread around the landing; plenty had blown away, but she had to salvage what she could. It was all she had.
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