Five Fights

by Belle Brooks

  “And this is what we’ve learnt from Morgan and the GPS PING in place. She’s in bushland, land at Corbet’s Landing. The GPS has narrowed this vast landscape down to a radius of one hundred hectares. We’re looking specifically for a large rock wall that has a huge boulder on at least one side. During the last contact I made with Morgan, she informed me this was where she was hiding. However, that was more than eighteen hours ago now, and due to the weather, she most likely repositioned. We’ll have four teams in total moving through this scrub. Two that are already in position, and the two teams we'll form here this morning.” I scan my eyes over the many stern faces. “Your mission: to tackle each direction of this land mass, and continue inwards until we’ve covered all ground.”

  Gleaton steps forward. “You all know the team you’re assigned to. Let’s gear up and meet out back.”

  “Let’s get this done. Four teams. Blue and red are our two teams. Yellow and green are the two teams squatting in wait. You’ll respond to these colour codes only for radio contact. Turn your radio station off the main dispatch channel and switch to station ninety-one.” I pause, looking at the many nodding heads. “Move out.”

  Eager feet march down the ramp and towards the police vehicles.

  “You all know where you need to go. Remember, team blue, you’ll be searching the house, vehicles, and the other two teams, currently lying in wait, searching the surrounding property. Team red, you’ll stop on the way out and come in through the bush, make sure to approach with caution. After this task is complete, we’ll break into our four teams and cover the PING location from the GPS. No stone, rock, or fucking blade of grass gets left unchecked. We find Morgan. This ends today,” I shout.

  “Yes, sir,” they reply in unison.

  I slide into my car just as Roland does, and without a minute to fasten my seatbelt, I shift the car into gear and pull out in front of all other vehicles. Roland leans forward, flicking the switch that controls the siren, and as the noise wails into the dead of the night, I press my foot flat on the accelerator.

  I will find Morgan. I will bring her home.

  She will be alive.

  Reid

  Over an hour has passed and still no word. I can’t fucking breathe.

  “Your coffee’s gone cold.” Cruise presses his lips into a hard line.

  “Can’t stomach anything.” I sigh.

  “That’s the sixth cup I’ve made you since I came downstairs. I think I’ll just tip this down the sink and give up on the coffee-making.”

  I shrug. “Yeah.”

  My yellow surf tee, the one Cruise now wears, tapers at the back when he carries the mug into the kitchen. There’s no doubt he’s more muscular than I am, the T-shirt at least one size too small. His waist narrows like my own, yet the boardshorts he’s borrowed suction to his larger thighs. Linda’s right—Cruise and I do look very much alike, apart from this slight size difference, and there’s no mistaking us for siblings. I guess it’s only natural. Siblings do often look alike …

  Wait.

  What if Winston isn’t Winston?

  What if his brother Falcon has been masquerading as him this whole time?

  My mind races. Cruise and I could pull off a stunt like that if we ever needed to. Linda said Winston and Falcon had many similarities, and the two resembled each other. It would give him motivation.

  And if my theory was right, it meant he’d killed before—likely his own flesh and blood.

  Wait, what am I thinking? I’m jumping to conclusions.

  What if Morgan was dead.

  Did any of it matter?

  Water dripping from the tap onto the metal sink gives me the urge to pee, so I pull myself up from the stool and make a beeline for the hallway leading to the downstairs toilet.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I back pedal at the soft sound of tapping coming from the back door.

  The automatic porch light is on.

  I hesitate in my approach and shuffle until I see her.

  Grey hair wraps around curlers. Thin-framed glasses sit on the bridge of her nose. A purple shawl hangs from her shoulders. Shirley. Oh shit. Are the kids okay?

  I fling the door open and rush towards her as she stands on the back patio. “Shirley, are the kids okay? What’s wrong? Where’s John?”

  Her finger is pressed against her lips. “Shhh.” She looks frightened. Her finger trembles against her mouth. “Inside.”

  It’s all she says.

  I take her hand, helping her in from the dark.

  “Who’s here? Are they awake?” Shirley’s eyes move in every direction.

  “Cruise is awake. He’s the only one apart from me. Shirley, what’s wrong?” My heartrate accelerates, and my hands are instantly clammy.

  Shirley steps away from me.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Oh, Reid.” Her lips quiver as tears leak from her eyes.

  “Shirley.”

  “John … he … There was … Reid.” She drops her head.

  It takes every ounce of strength I have to stop myself from marching the small gap between us and clutching her arms. I want to shake Shirley. I'm so frightened I want to shake whatever it is she’s trying to tell me out of her mouth.

  “You need to get the detectives here. I know where Morgan is.”

  I stumble. I stumble backwards. My legs weaken until I almost fall on my knees. I clutch the material of my T-shirt between my strained fingers, over top of my heart. Morgan. Shirley knows where Morgan is.

  “Please,” I beg her to put me out of my misery right here, right now.

  “You need to tell the police. I’m sorry.” Shirley shakes her head as she wraps her hands around herself in what I believe is protection.

  “How? Where? How do you …” I can’t spit out what I need to say because I’m in shock, so much shock.

  “I heard John on the phone, Reid. Oh my God, what has he done? I don’t know what he’s done.”

  I puff out my chest when anger rips through my body like a cyclone reaching land. “Tell me everything,” I snap. My temper is clutched behind my teeth, barely trapped, about to break like a thin thread held above a flame.

  “She’s dead.” Shirley’s tears fall rapidly as her shoulders shake. “I heard John say Morgan’s name when he was on the phone. I heard him ask about where her body would go. Reid, I don’t know who he was talking to, but he told whoever it was to burn down the cabin because he couldn’t be traced back to Morgan’s abduction.” Shirley whimpers as she uses the back of her trembling hands to wipe her tears away. “He said, if you don’t do it I will. Reid, John knew who had Morgan and where she was the whole time. I heard him. I heard him.” Her voice rises.

  Every pound of my heart has me panting. The kids. Holy shit! I’m seething—seeing red. I want to march across the grass between our two properties so I can grab that backstabbing prick John, and throw him up against the wall. I’ll beat him within an inch of his life to get the information needed to get to Morgan. I must also keep our children safe.

  My fingers fold inwards until my fists squeeze so tightly they shake.

  “She’s at Corbet’s Landing. She’s at the cabin you’ve been to with John when you helped him build that extra carport we needed.”

  “Where are my kids?”

  “I promise they’re fine. They’re sound asleep. John doesn’t know I heard him. I promise you, he doesn’t know.”

  “John.” I spit his name from my tongue like venom that’s invaded my mouth.

  “He’s asleep,” she cries. “I waited until he went to sleep.”

  “What’s going on? Shirley, why are you crying? Reid. Brother. Oh no. What’s happened?” I didn't hear Cruise’s approach, but when I glance to my right, there he is. “Don’t do anything stupid, brother. Relax. Just relax.”

  I give Cruise a murderous glare. The light from the patio brings some light into the open area.

  “Shirley, go home. Climb into bed and do nothing.�
��

  “I can’t,” she sobs softly.

  “Climb into your bed and pretend to be asleep. You need to act as if everything’s normal.” I’m still glaring at Cruise. I don’t shift my eyes from his. I need Cruise, more than I’ve ever needed him in my life, and he’s here, beside me, about to be the only person I can count on to do the right thing—to go find my wife.

  Detective West

  A convoy of flashing lights fills my rear-vision mirror. I don’t say a word, and neither does Roland. I’m focused on the white lines dotted along the bitumen in front of me.

  Before long, I’m indicating to turn onto the main highway, and as trees flash by in a blur under the shine of our headlights, I’m thankful for the cloak of darkness we travel within. The roads are empty, and we’re gaining momentum without disruption.

  I rotate my head to the right, completing a shoulder check as we speed towards double lanes. A tug on the steering wheel has the lane change complete.

  An hour and a half—that’s how long we race along the bitumen before radio silence is no more.

  “This is team red. We’re taking our allocated turn-off. We’ll be in contact once we achieve our positions.”

  “Team yellow. We’re maintaining visual on the cabin. No movement. We're awaiting instruction to approach.”

  “Sirens off,” I say, twisting my neck in another shoulder check to my left. I coast over the white lines dotting the centre of the road and hold my position in the left lane.

  Another ten kilometres pass.

  “Team green. We have visual on a white off-roader approaching the cabin. A white four-by is approaching the property.”

  “Shit,” Roland mutters.

  “Hold your position. Do not approach,” I command.

  “Team green, holding our positions.”

  “Team yellow, holding our positions.”

  “Team red, heading into the bushland now.”

  I flick my eyes to Roland.

  “Looks like Winston might have returned,” he says.

  I take a deep breath, staring down the white lines. “We just have to get there.”

  “Team green, we have a male, approximately one hundred and ninety centimetres tall, exiting the vehicle.”

  “Get eyes on him. Give me a positive identification.” I’m calm. Focused. I hope this is Winston.

  Minutes pass.

  “Team yellow. We have visual. White male, match is positive to the description given and photograph supplied for our prime suspect.”

  “Hold your position. Do not approach," I say.

  “Team yellow, holding our positions.”

  “Team green, holding our positions.”

  I take another deep breath. “We’ll come in on foot. I repeat, we will come in on foot. Expect a fifteen-minute delay on our expected ETA. I want to take this prick down myself. Nobody approach.”

  “Team green, your instruction has been received.”

  “Team yellow, your instruction has been received.”

  “Team red. We’re now approaching through bushland on foot.”

  “Slow and steady. No sudden moves, team red,” I instruct.

  “Team red, your instruction has been received. We’re slowing our pace.”

  Another ten kilometres pass before I shift the indicator to the left and slow until I’ve come to a dead stop on the shoulder of the highway. The vehicles trailing me follow suit, parking in a straight line behind my car like well-placed dominos. The headlights dim until they disappear completely, then beams of light from torches replace them.

  “Hold your positions. This is team blue. We're now approaching on foot. Hold your positions.” I speak softly.

  “Team yellow, holding our positions.”

  “Team green, holding our positions.”

  “Team red, still approaching with caution.”

  Opening the car door, I leap out. I take the strap at the bottom of my bulletproof vest and reef the Velcro back, pulling it tighter around my lower stomach until it becomes firm. I fasten the belt back into place.

  I twist on my heel and face the twenty officers who form team blue. They're geared up and watching me, eyes alert.

  “Ready?” I look to Gleaton, who nods in response. “Turn off your torches. Move out,” I yell loud enough for the team to hear, but not loud enough that my voice will project too far.

  We’re shielded by the cover of darkness.

  My firearm is gripped in my hand as I walk down a dirt track off the highway.

  Gleaton holds the radio to his mouth. “Team blue now approaching. I repeat, team blue now approaching.”

  “Team yellow, holding our position.”

  “Team green, holding our position.”

  “Team red. Shit. We have a problem.”

  “Fuck,” I growl before taking my radio from my holster and holding it by my mouth. “Team red, what’s the problem?” I hold my tension between my teeth.

  “We’ve hit a lake. Boss, this wasn’t on the map.”

  “Team red, hold your position. Do not cross the water.”

  “Team red, holding our position.” There’s a pause. “Sorry. Astin.”

  “Halt all radio contact. We’re going in,” I say quietly.

  “Team red, radio contact disabled.”

  “Team yellow, radio contact disabled.”

  “Team green, radio contact disabled.”

  I slip the portable back into my holster and catch a glimpse of Roland as I turn my gaze to the high grass in front of us. His eyes roam our surroundings. His weapon is held out in front of him, and I do the same. He's ready to fire. I’m ready to fire. We take no chances.

  We move one foot in front of the other. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t blink. We’re going to take down Winston Sampson, and then we’re going to bring Morgan home.

  To serve and protect above all else. I took an oath.

  I will protect Morgan.

  Reid

  Shirley did what I asked after some further convincing, and when I look towards Cruise after she walks out the back door, he drops his chin low to his chest.

  “Do you trust me?” I take a sharp inhale, hopeful Cruise will see that what we need to do far outweighs any possible need for him to go running through the house and alerting Max as to what’s unfolded. Cruise might play the hero on screen, but in reality, he’s far more analytical, and law abiding.

  He nods.

  “You said you’d help me bring Morgan home. Help me, brother.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “John. John knew. He …” I stop speaking as I try to control my racing thoughts and bury the betrayal from a man I’d considered to be a second father to me. “If John can do this to us, then the police can’t be trusted either. Hell, I know someone on the force is involved. Dusty, that guy Linda’s seeing, he told me not to trust the police. He had intel, Cruise. Those pigs haven’t told us all they know, just bits and pieces. They can’t help us. Max is the only one I trust, but he’s only one officer, and he’s not even high ranking. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Cruise doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even bat an eyelid. He just stares.

  “I’m going to get Morgan, and you’re coming with me.”

  Cruise's lips part, but I give him no time to speak.

  “You need to get the biggest butcher’s knife from the kitchen, and grab Ronald’s car keys. They’re next to my wallet on the bench. Cruise, do it quietly. I know where the cabin is. I know where to go.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You will get the knife and the keys.” My tone is strained. “I’m going to write a message for Max and tape it to the back of the front door.”

  “Reid, no. Let the police handle this. The kids, they —”

  “They will be safe. I know they will be okay.”

  “No. They’re not. Morgan would want you to go to them.”

  “Morgan needs me. Max will get the kids out safely. Trust me. Cruise, please be here for me.” />
  “I am,” he mumbles.

  I reach out my hand, placing it on his arm. “This is my wife, and I know if Natalie was out there you’d —”

  “I’d move hell and high water to get to her.”

  I grind my teeth together as I nod.

  “Okay.” He places his hand on top of mine. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

  I release a long exhale. Tears well in my eyes just as I see tears brim in Cruise’s. “You get the knife and car keys, and I’ll write the note.”

  I sneak towards the office. Slowly, I turn the handle and push open the door. Flicking the light switch on, I rush towards my desk. I pull out the printer tray and remove an A4 sheet of paper before grabbing a pen.

  Max,

  John is involved in Morgan’s disappearance. Get my kids out of that fucking house and keep them safe. You’re the only person I trust.

  Now, I need you to trust me. Shirley is not involved. She didn’t know. I know where Morgan is, she’s in a cabin John owns at Corbet’s Landing. I’m bringing my wife home.

  Reid.

  I pull four long strands of tape from the tape dispenser on the desk and stick them to my finger. I turn off the light and hurry down the hallway until I’ve reached the closed front door where Cruise stands, holding a long carving knife in his hand as he shifts from foot to foot.

  “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” he whispers.

  I nod.

  “Okay.”

  I tape the note a little higher than my line of sight knowing that the moment I start Ronald’s four-wheel drive, and blow the horn, Max will wake and realise I’m gone. He’s been a light sleeper every time his eyes have closed since he’s been here. I predict he’ll bolt to the front door to chase us, and hopefully, he’ll see the note. It’s what I need to believe will happen.

  I flick my hand towards Cruise, indicating it’s time for us to leave. Cruise’s Adam’s apple bounces in his throat in response.

  I swallow hard as I quickly spy the clock hung on the kitchen wall. 4:50 a.m. I know I’m not thinking clearly, but this is what my instinct is screaming for me to do. I need to run. Run until I find Morgan. She needs me. She’s not dead. Shirley mustn’t have heard John right.