by Luke Preston
Crown Casino.
Chapter Seven
The anger of the engine and the smell of burnt rubber pushed their way up through the floor and flooded the cab. Bugs hit the windscreen like machine gun fire as trees whipped past in the silhouetted night.
He pulled his phone, dialled blind and listened for the faint ring. Ellison answered, on shift, half asleep. He told her to put him through to security at Crown Casino. A few moments later, Bishop was talking to the guy in charge. His name was Rodney Doolan.
‘This is Detective Bishop. I’ve got a strong lead an armoured truck pick-up you’ve got scheduled is going to be hit.’
‘Eh, man, relax. This is a casino. The 5:30’s safe. We’re equipped for that type of thing. My boys are tooled and trained.’
‘I’m sure they are, but you need to put on extra guys and stop the 5:30 until it can get an escort.’
‘You telling me what I need to do? Huh? Who the fuck are you?’
‘Mr Doolan, it’s a precaution. Put some extra—’
Doolan hung up.
Bishop called Ellison and she tried again, but Doolan wasn’t answering. He buried the pedal into the floor, the engine roared. The fleet barely hung onto the road. Out of the corner of his eye, Bishop saw the needle pass 120 km/h. The trees turned into traffic lights and buildings. The sky broke blue in shades that brightened like a slow-burning fuse toward 6 AM.
The roads were dead. Three blocks out from the casino, his phone rang.
Ellison. She had found out the pick-up point for Crown. Loading bay 9.
Bishop swung the fleet around a corner and aimed toward the complex. The bottom of the car scraped a speed hump as he floored it into the underground car park. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he scanned each of the loading bay doors as they blurred past them. Each was numbered in yellow paint. He pulled a right and came to a sliding stop outside bay 9.
The clock on the dash read 5:33 AM.
Bishop climbed out of his car. Three heavyset guys in cheap suits and fake tans were dragging down the roller door.
‘Hey,’ he called.
They straightened and grew a foot in the process. ‘Hey yourself,’ one of them grunted.
Bishop showed his badge; their attitude changed.
‘How long until the 5.30 pick-up?’
‘You just missed it.’
‘What?’
‘Came early.’
The roller door yanked up from the inside and a man with short legs and an even shorter body stepped out. ‘What the fuck is going on out here? Lock it up, lock it up.’
‘Are you Rodney Doolan?’ Bishop asked, his phone already in his hand.
‘Yeah, so what?’
‘How long ago did the Armaguard pick-up leave?’
He was about to mouth off when he saw the badge on Bishop’s belt. His mind worked overtime until he realised who he was. ‘Told you the pick-up would go off without a hitch.’
Bishop punched in the number and held it to his ear while he measured Doolan up. ‘It was never getting hit here. It’ll be taken on the road.’
Doolan looked like he had just shit a brick.
‘How long?’ Bishop demanded.
‘Three, four minutes.’
‘How much was it carrying?’
‘Fifteen million, maybe more.’
Ellison answered. ‘Bishop?’
‘The truck has already left. Alert all patrols in the area, and I need to talk to a dispatcher at Armaguard Security.’
A few moments later, a woman with a brash voice came on the line. ‘What can I do you for, detective?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Daphne.’
‘Daphne, we’ve got good reason to believe one of your armoured trucks is going to be hit this morning. I need you to patch me through to the driver of the truck that just left Crown Casino.’
‘Yes sir.’ He heard the click as she put him on hold.
Bishop headed back to his car, pulled his shotgun from the boot and loaded it. Doolan watched him from the loading dock, a fool’s look across his face and a lump in his throat.
The line clicked again. ‘Detective? I can’t raise him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not answering the radio.’
‘Is there GPS on that truck?
‘Um, ah, yes’
‘Find it.’
Bishop heard her attack the keyboard, and when she was finished she said, ‘It’s moving.’
Bishop climbed into the car. ‘Where?’
‘Heading down City Road. Just turned left on Moray Street.’
He turned the key. Floored the pedal and let the door close itself as he took off and skidded out of the car park. Sunlight blasted the streets. Swerving around a garbage truck on the wrong side of the road, he pulled in front of it and sped forward.
‘Daphne, I’m going to need you to give me real-time updates, can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it at now?’
‘Still on Moray Street, heading north.’
‘How far up?’
‘Just past Park Street.’
Ten blocks ahead of him.
He accelerated toward the intersection. Green light. Tapped the brakes. Traffic backed up. He yanked the wheel and bounced the car up on to the gutter and made it through the intersection.
‘Just turned left on Albert Road.’
Bishop sped up. Pulled a hard right on to Albert Road. It was two lanes each way, traffic was light but slow. Bishop bobbed and weaved through the early morning commuters. A horn blasted, but by the time he clocked it in his rear-view, the car was a speck behind him.
Daphne was panicking. ‘He’s taking a left on St Kilda Road.’
Four blocks later, Bishop pulled a hard left.
‘Are they still on St Kilda Road, Daphne?’
‘Yes, sir. Just crossed over Commercial Road.’
Bishop could see it up in the shaky distance. The armoured truck was little more than a dot on the horizon, so far away that his eyes would lose it for a split second in the glare of the sun, only for it to reappear a moment later. Then it disappeared altogether. Bishop clamped his eyes shut, opened them: nothing.
The intersection came up fast.
The light green.
One foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake. A yank of the wheel.
Too fast: the vehicle’s arse kicked out and dragged against a row of parked cars. Bishop eased off, got control and floored it.
Up in front: the armoured truck, closer now. No other vehicles between them. He closed the gap. Only a few hundred feet. The truck cleared an intersection. Bishop sailed in behind it and through a red light.
The sun was in his eyes. He barely registered the gleaming windscreen of the Ford as it ploughed into his passenger-side door.
Bishop tasted blood.
The sun went black.
*
A sharp pain pushed through the side of Bishop’s head. It had taken out a window in the crash. People ran forward to assist. A bus driver had pulled over and was directing traffic around the scene. Within seconds, everything came back.
The truck.
The robbery.
Six AM.
His vision blurred, Bishop fumbled for his phone. Found it on the floor. Cut himself on a piece of broken glass as he raised it to his ear. Daphne was screaming.
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s stopped. It’s stopped.’
He pulled himself out of the wreck and yelled into the phone: ‘Where?’ His legs were shaky, but a couple of good Samaritans kept him on his feet.
‘Moubray and St Kilda Road.’
It was two blocks away. Bishop staggered off.
A woman called after him: ‘Sir? What are you doing? Sit down.’
He pointed to the Ford with its crushed front end and water spraying out of the radiator. ‘Go see to them.’ Movement inside: the driver, aliv
e.
He dragged himself forward. His boot scuffed the asphalt. With each step, he could feel his coordination returning and he broke into a jog. As he neared the end of the block, Bishop heard a crack and the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons. A blast echoed off the surrounding buildings.
He pulled his weapon. Took the corner.
Smoke hung in the air.
It was all over.
Chapter Eight
Eight months ago
Alice wasn’t there when Tom Bishop got home. At first he wasn’t worried, but as the hours passed he grew anxious. He paced the apartment, made coffee and turned on the television, but none of it put his mind at ease. Eventually he called her mobile phone only to find that she had left it in her room along with her purse.
All he could do was wait.
Everything was new to him. In the beginning, it hadn’t been easy. As Bishop had inherited his father’s temper, so had Alice, and sometimes their fights would last days. After each fight Alice would run to her room and pack the few possessions she owned. Then she would sit on the bed and wait for the bad news, the word to move on. Finally a knock at the door would come, Bishop would sit next to her and bumble his way through an apology. He hadn’t made many of them in his life up to that point; he wasn’t good at them, and most of the time he didn’t know what he was apologising for, only that it was important that he did. The words would come from his lips, strained and confused and rambling, but in the end Alice knew he never had any intention of putting her out onto the street.
Stacy hadn’t been much of a mother, and Bishop hadn’t been there at all, so in making up for lost time they went to all the places she’d never been taken as a child. Trips to the zoo, the movies, the beach; it was like a second childhood for both of them.
But, inevitably, Bishop had become what every father of a teenage girl was: a worrier.
He sat at the table and smoked half a dozen cigarettes before the detective in him had had enough. He pulled his leather jacket on and was halfway down the hall when he heard a sound that made every muscle in his body immediately relax. He looked over his shoulder to find Alice holding the old hand of Dory McHale, their elderly next door neighbour.
‘I was just being silly,’ the old lady said.
‘Mrs McHale fell,’ Alice said.
‘I was just being silly.’
‘You should have asked me to do it.’
‘I don’t want to hassle you.’
‘She was trying to change the batteries in her smoke detector,’ Alice said as Bishop helped them into Mrs McHale’s apartment.
Alice made her a cup of tea while Bishop changed the batteries in her smoke detectors along with all the light bulbs in the flat that had blown which she couldn’t reach.
Before she left, Alice leant down and gave the old lady a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be by tomorrow to check on you.’
For the next week, Alice visited the old lady every day. She sat with her, made her tea, listened to her stories and brought meals around at dinner time. Alice began to remind Bishop of the vague and faded memories he had of his mother.
A week later the telephone rang and everything changed.
*
When Tom Bishop and Patrick Wilson arrived on the scene, the show was already in full swing. Patrol cars blocked both ends of the suburban street and flashing red and blue bounced off the faces of those with nothing better to do than watch the six o’clock news unfold in front of them. They parked by an ambulance in the safe zone and ducked under the tape. Two steps later, gunfire cracked through the air. Everyone hit the deck and held their breath.
Wilson gave Bishop a wry grin. ‘Where the hell did they get automatic weapons? We can’t even get automatics.’
After a couple of moments of silence, they rose to their feet and holstered their weapons. A pimply faced uniform hustled over. ‘Chief Inspector Wilson,’ he said, equal parts formality and eagerness. ‘Constable Leary, sir. I’ve been—’
Wilson cut him off. ‘You first on scene?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wilson led the way though the blockade of patrol cars, ambulances and uniforms. ‘What have we got?’
Leary read from his notebook. ‘At 7:46 PM we received complaints about what appeared to be a domestic dispute. At 8:14, officers Schapiro and Bolden conducted a doorknock. A Middle Eastern man in his mid-thirties refused them entry. When Schapiro persisted, he was shot twice in the chest at point blank range.
Bishop looked at his watch: 8:46. ‘You isolated this area in thirty minutes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good job.’
‘How’s Schapiro doing?’ Wilson asked.
‘Not looking good, sir.’ Leary motioned with an uncertain hand. ‘Every time we go near the building, they fire into the grass.’
‘Any idea what’s going on inside?’ Bishop asked.
‘No sir.’
‘How many shooters?’
‘At least four.’
They reached the wall of patrol cars that lined the front of the building and crouched down behind one. Bishop pulled a rifle scope from his pocket, leant on the bonnet and took a closer look. The Oak Park Apartments was a three-storey block with large windows that were mostly obscured by heavy curtains. A red light flowed out of one of the rooms on the top floor; every once in a while, Bishop would see a curtain shift for a moment before it settled back into place.
He dropped back behind the patrol car and leant against the door.
‘What do you see?’ Wilson asked.
‘Whorehouse.’
‘Hostages?’
‘I’d say more than a few.’
‘Call SOG,’ Wilson said to Leary. ‘We need a couple of snipers and a storm crew.’
Leary got on the blower and called it in. A moment later he said, ‘Fifteen minutes.’
Bishop lit a couple of cigarettes and passed one to Wilson. The pair of them got as comfortable as they could on the concrete.
‘What do we do?’ Leary asked.
Wilson eyeballed him for a moment. ‘We wait.’
Anxious. Eager. He couldn’t keep still.
‘Relax, kid,’ Bishop said with a smile that he meant to be reassuring. ‘It’ll work out.’
‘Call for Wilson or Bishop?’ a uniform yelled from a hidden position.
Bishop called back and somebody threw him a radio. He held the receiver to his mouth. ‘Bishop here.’
‘Detective, are you on-site at the Oak Park Apartments?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a young lady on the line who claims to be inside.’
Bishop flicked his cigarette and sat up. ‘Put her through.’
The next thing he heard were the whispers of a scared teenage girl. ‘Are you a police officer?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m outside. My name is Bishop; what’s yours?’
‘Chloe,’ she whispered.
‘Chloe, can anyone hear you talking to me?’
She took her time answering. ‘No. I mean, I don’t think so.’
‘If you hear somebody, I want you to drop the phone. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
Bishop jammed the radio between his ear and shoulder, took out his notebook and pen. ‘Chloe, sweetheart, how many men are inside?
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are they all armed? Do they all have automatic weapons?’
‘I think so.’
‘Do you know any of their names?’
‘I don’t …’
She fell silent. Bishop held his breath. He murmured, ‘Chloe, are you there?’
A breath. Then, ‘There’s lots of girls here, maybe fifteen or twenty. I don’t know them all.’
‘You’re doing good. Where are you right now?’
‘In the basement.’
‘Does anybody know where you are?’
‘I don’t want to be here anymore,’ she said.
‘I know you’re scared, sweetheart. You’re doing re
al good.’
‘I want to go, I want to go, I want to go …’ She was cracking, her voice breaking.
‘Chloe, listen to me. I’m going to get you out. I want you to say it with me: I’m going to get out.’
‘I’m going to get out,’ she said.
Muffled thumps leaked from inside the apartment building. Every badge recognised the sound: gunfire.
‘Chloe?’
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t there, that she had hung up. Then he heard her whisper, ‘I’ll be a good girl.’
The thumps grew louder.
‘I’ll be a good girl. I’ll be a good girl.’
‘Chloe.’
Bishop covered the phone, called to Leary: ‘How long to SOG?’
‘Five minutes.’
Fuck.
‘I’ll be a good girl …’
The thumps stopped. The line went dead.
Bishop threw the radio aside and pointed to a uniform. ‘You!’ he yelled. ‘Shotgun.’ The uniform tossed it to him. Bishop racked it.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Wilson said, but he was too late. Bishop was already off and running.
For a moment, it appeared as if the shooters hadn’t seen him. Maybe they didn’t believe what they were seeing. When their minds caught up, they opened fire. Dirt and grass bounced up around Bishop’s feet. He aimed at the front door, squeezed the trigger and blasted a hole through the upper hinge.
Racked.
Blasted another hole through the lower hinge.
Racked. A third blast took out the lock. Then he dived through what was left and into hell.
*
The first shooter stood at the end of the hall. Bishop put a shell in his chest. Shifted his aim to the second shooter, off to his right, in a doorway. The force of the shotgun blast sent him through the wooden door. Dropping to one knee, Bishop tossed the shotgun, pulled his pistol and squeezed off a round, putting a third scumbag to sleep with a shot that took out the back of his skull.
His ears were still ringing from the gunfire so he didn’t hear the footsteps, but he felt the cricket bat slam into his back. The pain shot down his leg and up his neck at the same time. He fell to his knees. Dropped his weapon. His body was in shock. He needed a moment to push through the pain. The next blow would be coming at his head, he knew that much, and drew his elbows to his ears. The bat smacked into his forearm.