Terror Stash

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Wrong words. Wrong response.

  Popowich began to shake with fury. “You do not know anything about me! Nothing. You asked nothing of me. I want to speak to someone who knows how to talk.”

  Montana didn’t realize she was moving forward until Nelson’s hand on her arm tried to hold her back. She shook it off and crept to Crystal’s side. “Back up,” she told her softly.

  Crystal glanced at her. “You sure?” she whispered.

  “No, but back up anyway.”

  She eased away from Montana, moving slowly, until Montana stood alone in the middle of the floor, facing the Papua New Guinean. She focused on the security guard. The girl’s eyes were big, but she seemed calm. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded minutely. “He’s not hurting me,” she said. “But if I move, his grip tightens.”

  “Don’t move then.” Montana looked up at the man. “Mr. Popowich, right?”

  “That is me.”

  “I’ll listen to you. I’ll listen, but you’ll have to start at the beginning because I don’t know anything about you. Were you applying for residency in the United States?”

  He scowled. “My fambly. All of us.”

  “Are you a resident of Australia?”

  The scowl deepened. “They won’t let us stay.”

  “You’re here on a visitor’s visa?”

  “Half of a year. But that was last year.”

  Caution flooded her. “You’re in this country illegally?”

  “I’m not going back.” His voice held a note of warning.

  “Why not?” she asked, keeping her voice softy, empathetic.

  “I is Mekeos. My boy, too. The Kuku Kukus, they kill me, my boy, so there be no more Popowich.” Amazingly, his eyes filled with tears. “My woman, she be with child and they kill her too, so there be no more Popowich.”

  Tribal wars. Suddenly, she understood. “Sir, you can file for refugee status. Didn’t anyone tell you about this?”

  “For what?” he said, frowning.

  “Refugee status—”

  “This is Consular Security!” The voice was tinny, vibrating through a bullhorn. “Put your hands in the air and no harm will come to you!”

  Popowich glared at her. “You are a mean woman. You tricked me.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The four security guards on this shift had donned riot gear and were now shuffling into the reception area behind Plexiglas shields, holding stun guns.

  “No!” she cried. “Stay back!”

  “Damned woman!” Popowich roared. He thrust the security woman aside with a casual fling of his arm and came striding for Montana, his hands held out for her.

  The security force rushed forward, yelling, trying to get his attention.

  “Montana!” It was Caden’s voice, coming from her left, where there could not possibly be any people.

  She had time to turn her head to look and when she did, he was already in mid-air, flying towards her, one arm outstretched like a quarter back.

  The thick part of his upper arm slammed into her stomach, lifting her off her feet and folding her over his arm. She flew through three feet of air with him and bounced into something soft and yielding. They were still moving.

  He’d pushed her into one of the low leather reception chairs. They were throwbacks to another age, complete with pleats and studs—and wheels. Caden’s knees were on either side of her thighs and his hands were clamped onto the back frame.

  He looked down at her. “Tuck your legs up, we’re going to roll.”

  She pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her head in tight. She could already feel the chair tipping—it was too tall and unbalanced for such speed and the wheels too small.

  The center of balance shifted and they tipped suddenly. Like water from a bucket, they spilled out over the back of the chair as it slapped into the floor. Montana rolled once, twice and came up against the elevator wall.

  She picked herself up fast and looked over the seat of the chair.

  All five security guards and three of the biggest men in the office were piled on top of Popowich, holding him down. They weren’t using anything more than body weight to hold him there. No batons, no stun guns.

  Caden was sprawled on his back, his head about a foot from the back of the chair. He lifted himself onto one elbow as she got to her feet. Someone had found him a tee-shirt, but he was still barefoot.

  “You’re not supposed to just stand around and take it in the jaw when someone that size comes at you,” he said.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” she demanded. “You were locked in an interview room.”

  “Funny thing, that.”

  She glanced at the morass of bodies writhing in the reception area. Popowich was fighting back. No one was taking any notice of them. Montana grabbed a bunch of Caden’s tee-shirt in her fist and hauled. “Get up, Caden. Move it.”

  He looked up at her and his eyes lit with warmth. “You used my name. Finally.”

  She tugged on his shirt again. “Prioritize, Rawn. Come on.”

  He glanced at her fist in his knotted shirt. “There’s no going back if you do this.” His eyes were very black now and his expression grave.

  “Maybe I don’t want to go back.”

  He caught her face between his hand and lifted himself up enough to kiss her hard. When he let her go to flex and rise to his feet, she frowned. “I wish you’d stop doing that.”

  “I thought you liked cricket?” He grinned.

  “Sure, when I don’t have to do other things like save my ass and yours and I can afford to have my concentration scrambled.” She tugged on his shirt again, pulling him down the corridor.

  “Nice to know something rattles you. Even nicer to know it’s me.” He sounded inordinately pleased and as calm as if they really were watching cricket.

  She pushed on the emergency stair door and almost staggered through, so fast was she moving.

  “I’m with you,” he growled. “You can let go. I’m right behind you.”

  “Good.”

  Her feet slapped the cold, painted concrete of the stairs, as she hurried down them.

  “Short cut,” Caden called.

  She looked over her shoulder, as he vaulted over the rails, down onto flight of stairs beneath, landing sure-footed like a cat. “Watch for where to put your feet,” he said, stepping down another three steps and vaulting over that railing.

  She mimicked his movement and realized that by using her arm as a vaulting pole, it gave her time to spot her landing and get her feet down.

  She landed, pattered down four more steps and vaulted again.

  They dropped the twenty-three floors to the basement in about forty-five seconds. Her feet hurt from the constant impact and her shoulders throbbed, but any possible pursuit was minutes behind at best.

  Caden paused with a hand on the door out to the parkade. “They may not have figured we’ve gone, yet.”

  “Out the door, to the left,” she told him. “There’s a small side door out into an alley. It leads to the bus terminal next to the river.”

  Caden hesitated and she saw him swallow. He shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it. “We need to hole up somewhere.”

  “There’s taxis at the bus terminal all hours of the day. It’s a hundred yards, right across the road. It’s almost knock-off time. It’ll be busy.”

  He thought about it. Nodded. “I wish we were dressed better. The taxi driver will remember us. So will others.” He shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Have to get out of sight fast.” He licked his lips again, then pushed the door open, checked around and held it fully open for her to slide past.

  They emerged into the lane unseen and ran to the end, where it emerged onto the little-used road that gave access to the bus terminal. They walked down the pavement to the nearest traffic lights, where they could cross the busy road, hurrying but trying to make it look casual. Montana looked at her watch. “Screw this,” she said. “Le
t’s run. People will think we’re running for a bus.”

  Caden shook his head. “Can’t,” he said flatly. He was holding his side, like he had a stitch.

  “Are you alright? Did you get hurt back there?”

  “I’m alright. I just need to get tucked away somewhere and take a moment.”

  They reached the lights and she hammered at the crosswalk signal button with the side of her fist. Caden kept his gaze on the terminal building and the big clock out in front of it. “Four-thirty,” he muttered. “Shit.”

  She stayed silent, but suddenly wished she had her car, her handbag and her belongings. Being on the run without resources was severely limiting her choices.

  The light clicked on, halting traffic. They hurried across the road and over to the taxi stand. There was a Swan taxi at the front of the line and they slid onto the back seat.

  “Head for Lesmurdie,” she told the driver.

  He looked at them over the back of the seat. “That’s going to be about fifty. You got the cash?” It was a fair question. She was still wearing the salt-stained jeans and shirt that she’d been wearing for the last forty-eight hours. Caden’s jeans were just as stained and the tee-shirt he wore was too small by several sizes. They were both barefoot.

  She smiled her most reassuring smile at the driver. “We’ll have it at the other end. It’s my house. I have two hundred in cash in the house and I’ll add an extra fifteen percent to the fare just for the inconvenience.”

  He looked skeptical, but he put the car in gear and nosed out into the busy lanes of Riverside Drive.

  “Not your house,” Caden said in an undertone.

  “There’s cash, food, clothes. You need somewhere fast.” She kept her voice down.

  Caden closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was sleepy. He licked his lips again, swallowing hard. “We need to hurry.”

  He sagged against her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They drove in Borelli’s cruiser and no one took any notice of it at all. Half the area’s population was law abiding, the other half leery of authority. Both had no reason to study the men inside the vehicle, or meet their eyes.

  Borelli drove. Steve was seated in the back with Chris Goonewardene right next to him. Steve had contrived to sit on Chris’s right and his hand was still in his pocket.

  Moving at a sedate five klicks under the speed limit, they cruised out of the town, heading for the river mouth along the south road. It was nearly five p.m. and the surfers would be heading out for their evening waves.

  He would have liked a chance to try surfing. Just once. Or windsurfing. Montana made it look so easy, so joyful.

  No one in the car spoke. Borelli kept the air-conditioning on and the windows up, so that Steve would have no chance to call out, or throw anything out.

  Whenever he could get away with it, Steve would press another button on his phone, dialing purely by touch, guided by the pinpoint bump on the number five button. He used that as his base and counted out the numbers by feel. As they left town he completed the last of the numbers he’d memorized in the last three days and hit send.

  He was sweating freely despite the air conditioning.

  “I think I’m entitled to a last request,” he said, masking the tiny electronic beeps and warbles as the phone connected.

  Borelli looked in the rear vision mirror. “What would that be, then?”

  “An aerial this big, you should be able to pick up the classic rock station in Perth.” He held Borelli’s gaze in the mirror until the man sighed, reached for the radio and dialed. Def Leopard screamed from the speakers and Steve was relatively happy when Borelli made no attempt to turn it down.

  By the time the cruiser came to a halt at the top of the cliff-side lover’s lane turnout, Steve had all but one letter left to go. He managed to keep his hand in his pocket as Chris hauled him out of the car and force-marched him to the edge of the cliff. He looked around. “I was here this morning,” he told them.

  Borelli smiled wolfishly. “We know.”

  “No final cigarette?” Steve asked hopefully.

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Right.” He looked over his shoulder and down to the sea swirling around the base of the cliffs. It had a boiling, impatient look. “I can’t swim, by the way,” he informed them and thumbed the “send” button on his cell phone.

  The deed was done.

  “Swimming isn’t a life skill where you’re going.” Borelli looked at Chris and nodded.

  Steve heard the cosh whistling through the air, but he didn’t feel it hit. Bright sparks. Then blackness reached for him.

  * * * * *

  Chris rolled the body over a few times until it dropped over the cliff, wiped the cosh carefully on the rag he’d thought to bring with him and dropped the rag into the sea, too.

  Borelli leaned over the cliff and spat, his arms crossed. “Two to go,” he said. “We need to round them up fast. I don’t need Ligurio pissed off with me any longer than necessary.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The taxi driver was suspicious enough that he got out of his taxi to watch her dig up the spare key out of the garden and unlock the door. That belayed his concern enough that he hovered by the front door until she came back with the promised cash. He went away happy.

  Caden moved inside, reeling like a drunk. He headed for the bathroom.

  “I’ll be a few,” he told her.

  Montana watched him close the door, a thousand questions at her lips. She had no chance to voice any of them. The lock was turned with an audible click, prompting even more questions.

  She paced the common room for a few minutes, worrying. Then she heard from the bathroom the sound of something heavy falling against the cabinet.

  She hurried to the door and rapped on it. “Caden?”

  Silence.

  “What’s happening? What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m...fine.”

  It was a lie. She knew it absolutely. Even through the door, his voice was broken and croaky. She pushed on the door, despite knowing it was locked. “Let me in, Caden.”

  Silence again.

  She raced through to her bedroom, picked up one of the five-cent pieces on her side table and hurried back. The lock was a safety lock. There was a flat panel on this side of the door, with a groove that something like the edge of a coin could fit. It allowed the lock to be turned. She fought with the tiny coin, her hand muscles cramping, and finally turned the lock. She pushed her way into the bathroom.

  Caden sat on the floor, his head lolling in the corner made by the cabinet and the adjoining wall, his eyes closed. Sweat beaded his temples. His tee-shirt was rucked up under his arms, exposing the flat abdomen, rippled with muscles, punctuated by the square of white gauze. There was a pinprick of blood about two inches below it.

  His hands lay loose by his side and in one of them was an empty hypodermic.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered.

  She felt like the top of her head was coming off and her brains were swirling out. “What the fuck is going on, Caden?” His little black leather pouch was sitting open on the counter. There was another hypodermic in it and three little rubber-stopped bottles. A fourth was on the counter beside the bag, on its side. It was half full of clear liquid. “What is this?”

  “That one’s glycogen.” His voice was bodiless.

  She stared at him. Glycogen? What was that? Some esoteric form of cocaine? Heroin? She licked her lips. “Was everything that Nelson told me about you a lie?”

  He lifted his head with effort and cracked open an eye to look at her. “The other bottles are insulin,” he said. “Check the labels, if the seawater hasn’t ruined them.”

  This time she really thought her brain had called it quits. For several heartbeats she could barely form a thought. Then she found her tongue. “You’re diabetic?”

  He shifted, moving himself into a better sitting position—one not quite so sprawled and uncarin
g. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he said dryly. “One of the few diseases where western medicine actually has an edge.”

  She found herself sitting on the toilet cover and didn’t remember getting there. “That’s why you head back to Western Australia on a regular basis?”

  He grimaced. “I come for the people and the beaches. But yeah, I also stop by and get blood work done and stock up on the latest treatments.”

  “What’s the glycogen for?”

  “Severe hypoglycemia.” He carefully capped the needle and tossed it so it landed in the open pouch on the counter. “I didn’t get a chance today to eat properly or take my shot. I’ve been busy.” He shrugged. “It’s been one of those days.”

  “But don’t they...I thought you could drink orange juice or eat candy to offset hypoglycemia.”

  “If you deal with it as soon as the first symptoms show up. If you leave it too long, then you have to use the glycogen.”

  “That can’t be good for you, leaving it so long.”

  “I told you, I didn’t get a chance to deal with it earlier.”

  “But anyone in their right minds would have let you...” She caught her breath as his meaning registered. “You’ve never told anyone, have you? No one at all. That’s why you left it for so long. You were trying to hide it from me. You weren’t going to inject yourself in front of me.”

  “Yeah, well, now you know,” Caden drawled, hoisting himself to his feet.

  His drawl, the casual shrug, didn’t distract her. “Are you ashamed of it, Caden?”

  He leaned against the counter with both hands, hanging his head. She thought he was going to ignore her question, or shower his fury upon her and avoid it that way. But he took a breath and let it out noisily. “It’s like my body has let me down.”

  She shook her head, amazed. “So you compensate with physical strength, speed, stamina. But Caden, millions of people have diabetes and the conditions you grew up in were hardly conducive to good health. It’s not your fault.”

  He caught her gaze in the mirror, his eyes narrowing. “Nelson didn’t even spare me that, huh?” He sighed and started packing the pouch again and zipped it closed with a forceful tug.