by Chris Taylor
Olivia’s courage collapsed at his words. Her body trembled. Rough hands lifted her off the ground and forced her to walk forward. She stumbled in the darkness and earned a string of curses from Boris.
“For fuck’s sake, just walk, would you?”
With fear continuing to surge through every part of her body, Olivia did her best to do as he asked. Her bare toe connected with concrete, causing it to bend backwards. She grimaced pain.
“Lift your fuckin’ feet, girlie. We’re goin’ up some steps.”
Concentrating all her efforts on staying upright, Olivia counted the three steps that led into a building. A door slammed behind her and Boris dragged her further into the room. She shuffled along beside him, feeling the softer tread of carpet beneath her feet. The sound of a television on low came from the other side of the room. Her best guess was that she was in another house.
The bindings that held her wrists cut into her skin. She’d given up trying to loosen them. It only made the pain worse. The creaking of old dry wood snagged her attention. Boris pushed her forward, toward the noise. Two steps, five. And then…nothingness.
The ground went out from underneath her. Her feet flailed. Her arms reflexively moved upwards, but were cruelly restrained by the bindings. Air whistled around her. She screamed and fell into a black pit of terror.
It seemed like forever, but it was probably only a few seconds before she hit the hard ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of her. Gasping, she leaned away from the arm she’d fallen on and prayed it wasn’t broken.
With her other hand, she felt along the floor and walls of the tight enclosure as best she could. Her fingers scraped over crags and eddies along the earthen surface. It felt like some kind of cellar under the house. The smell of damp earth permeated the air and filled her nostrils. The tears swelled as she tried to fight off the nausea that suddenly threatened.
She hiccupped and sobbed through the choking gag and prayed for the nightmare to be over.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunday, January 28, 4:18 p.m.
Allison smoothed back the hair off her daughter’s face and thanked God her baby was safe. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought it would come to this. When David had told her about the unexpected visit by the two bikers, she’d been alarmed—of course she had—but there had been threats in the past and they’d never come to pass. A fortnight ago, Draco had even struck her and yet she hadn’t once imagined he’d threaten her child.
She couldn’t even feel guilty about the fact Brittany had been spared and someone else’s child hadn’t. That was the luck of the draw. Still, she was pissed at Draco for making the attempt. If he hadn’t mistaken Olivia Munro for Brittany, Allison would be feeling a lot less ambivalent about the whole fiasco.
Brittany. Sweet, baby Brittany. Thank God she was all right. Allison would die before she let anything happen to her daughter.
The phone in her jacket pocket vibrated against her hip. With a grimace, she eased it out and checked the Caller ID. It was blocked. Wanting to ignore it, but not quite brave enough to do so, she stepped away from Brittany’s bed and answered the call.
“Just because Boris fucked up, don’t think I’ve given up. You should know me better than that.”
Allison’s knees weakened at the venom in Draco’s voice. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
“The girl. I know he took the wrong one. I told him to get rid of her. She’s of no use to me. As if you’re going to pay for the daughter of some fucking copper. Next time, I’ll do it myself. Next time, there won’t be any mistakes. And be warned, there’ll be a next time.”
“Please, Draco. I-I’ll get your money. I promise. David is trying to liquidate some assets. He…he needs more time.”
“I’ve already given him a fortnight. He’s had all the time he’s going to get.”
Alarm sent cold shivers down Allison’s spine. She bit her lip and tried to keep calm. “Come on, Draco. There’s no need to be like that. You know me. David will find the money.”
“Seems to me like he might need a bit more incentive,” Draco growled. “Something to hurry him along. Perhaps if his trophy wife’s life is on the line, he might liquidate a bit faster.”
Allison could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart. Her fear intensified. “No, not me,” she answered quickly. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not the one he adores.” She paused. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt pricked at the edge of her consciousness, but she pushed it aside and decisively forged on.
“Take Zara. His firstborn. There’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for her.” She proceeded to enlighten Draco about her stepdaughter, providing him with all the details he needed to aid him in his quest.
She held the phone in her hand for a few brief moments after the call ended and replayed every word of their conversation. It was done.
Satisfying herself Brittany was still asleep, she left the room and closed the door quietly behind her. At the end of the long corridor, she entered the master suite and headed straight for the bathroom. With the door closed, she pulled open the bottom drawer of her vanity and tugged out a bag of ice. Tipping a small amount into the glass smoking apparatus she kept hidden beneath her sanitary pads, she added a few drops of water and then heated it with her lighter.
Sucking on the end of the glass pipe, she drew the smoke deep into her lungs and sighed in relief. Within minutes, the world was a better place. Afterwards, she returned the components of the drug paraphernalia to their hiding places. She checked her appearance in the mirror. Her pupils were slightly dilated, but after the distress she’d been through, people would understand it. Nodding once, satisfied she’d pass close inspection, she returned to her daughter’s side.
* * *
David poured himself another finger of scotch and took his time replacing the lid. Setting the half-empty bottle back on the shelf, he collected his glass and returned to the chair near his desk.
It had been nearly two hours since he’d spoken to Allison in the front foyer. With Zara and the detective standing nearby, he hadn’t been in a position to do more than offer her a strained greeting. She’d gone upstairs to sit with Brittany.
He understood her need to reassure herself that their daughter was safe. But enough was enough. She’d had her time. Besides, she’d taken her own sweet time getting home. He didn’t believe for an instant every plane out of Port Douglas the day before had been booked out. It was obvious she’d been delaying her arrival—and with it, their inevitable confrontation.
Well, she’d had plenty of time to come to terms with it. The moment of truth had arrived and she better be darn well prepared to accept responsibility for her part in the whole debacle; to take ownership of the problem; and to come clean to the police.
He’d done what he could to steer them in the right direction. It was the reason he’d fabricated the threatening phone call. The police would never have thought to connect Jovanovic with the Munro child otherwise.
He’d hated to deceive Zara and worse, to omit certain other details to the police, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to betray his wife.
Yes, it was her fault this had happened, but she was sick. Deep down, she was a good person and he loved her, despite what she’d done. He’d loved her from the first moment he’d met her.
Allison hadn’t warmed to Zara, but then, being a stepparent was difficult for anyone, let alone a stepparent to a teenager. It hadn’t been easy. And then in no time at all, little Brittany had come along and it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. He should have tried harder; he should have insisted Allison make more of an effort, but his love for Zara hadn’t wavered and somehow, he’d justified to himself that this was enough.
Besides, his firstborn daughter was tough as she was smart. She was a fighter and she knew how to take care of herself. He was never more proud than when she decided to follow in her grandfather’s and her father’s footsteps and carve out
a career in law. Even now, the knowledge of her success lit up his heart.
Taking a sip out of his glass, David relished the taste of the single malt whisky on his tongue. It slid smoothly down his throat and burned a pleasant path to his stomach, easing the tension that had taken up residence there for the last fortnight.
He’d known, of course, that Allison’s drug addiction was getting out of control. The signs were there when you knew what to look for. As far as he was aware, Zara and Brittany were clueless to it, but then, his wife was very clever at concealing her habit.
It had started out innocently enough—a tablet here and a tablet there. She said it helped her relax, be more social—especially in a roomful of dignitaries and government officials. He hadn’t liked it, but he’d accepted her explanation and it had alleviated some of the guilt he felt for dragging her to so many high-profile events.
As she so often pointed out to him, she hadn’t signed up for any of this. When they’d married, he’d been a partner in a very successful law firm. While they enjoyed a healthy social life, it was nothing on the scale or level of importance expected of the New South Wales Attorney General.
Allison had played his guilt to her advantage and had used it more times than he could remember as an excuse for her need to take drugs. He knew her dependence upon them had escalated. It was the reason he’d booked her into an exclusive rehabilitation center at Port Douglas in far north Queensland. He’d told everyone she was visiting her sister.
But until Draco’s evening visit, he’d had no idea about the amount of money she’d been spending on her habit. He’d been shocked again to discover the Redbacks’ president had allowed her to take drugs on credit and Allison was a good and loyal customer.
That created one gigantic problem: Accounts had to be paid. David had been stunned beyond words when Draco had told him the tab was a million dollars.
How could she possibly have consumed so much? There had obviously been many, many occasions when she’d been high and he hadn’t realized it. He could see that his frequent interstate and overseas travel in his role as Attorney General had only made the problem worse.
Not that he could do anything about it now. He had the money, of course. If Draco had been just a little more patient, the whole messy business could have been resolved with only minor inconvenience to everyone. But Draco wasn’t patient, and a little girl had been taken—a little girl that by all rights should have been his daughter.
Once again, relief flooded through him, followed swiftly by searing guilt. He prayed his delay wouldn’t cause the loss of Olivia Munro’s life. If he’d acted quicker, sold shares sooner, he’d have made Draco’s first deadline.
But he’d dragged his feet and taken his time, furious that Allison had put him in such a position. He’d been angry about liquidating assets he’d worked hard to acquire in order to satisfy her drug debt and before he knew it, the deadline had come and gone.
The next thing he knew, he was taking a phone call from Ellie Munro. Almost hysterical, she’d told him about the kidnapping. He’d immediately thought of the visit he’d had from the bikers a fortnight before.
His guilt had forced him to steer the police in Jovanovic’s direction. Of course, he hadn’t been able to tell them the real reason why a member of the Redbacks had abducted the Munro child. The fabricated phone call had given the biker gang a motive and he’d made it clear his daughter had been the target. At least it gave them a fighting chance of finding Olivia.
Pain twisted in his stomach and he grimaced. The stress of the last two weeks had taken their toll on his ulcer. The effort to keep up the facade was wearing him down and the thought of admitting Olivia might never be found—or not be found alive—left him shaken to the core.
Guilt surged through him again, along with renewed anger. Allison should be the one feeling scared and guilty. She was the one who’d put them in danger, to the point that she’d endangered her own daughter.
Tugging his phone out of his pocket, he dialed his wife’s number. After several rings, she finally picked up.
“Come downstairs. We need to talk. Now.”
* * *
Lane looked over his shoulder in both directions and checked that the men waiting behind him were ready. Speaking quietly into the handpiece attached to his shirt, he confirmed the team of officers assembled at the rear of Draco’s residence were also ready and waiting for his command to enter.
The TRG squad he’d hastily pulled together contained many of the men who’d raided Boris Vukovic’s house a day earlier and they were once again primed and ready to go. A quick meeting at the Chatswood station had brought everyone up to speed. There wasn’t an officer among them who wasn’t keen to see this scene played out.
Straining to listen for signs of danger over the distant sound of a television that murmured behind the closed door, Lane at last gave the order to his men. Simultaneously, he yelled into the handpiece.
“Go! “Go! Go!” Men in dark police-issue overalls stormed Draco’s house. The sound of a gunshot curdled Lane’s blood and he prayed the victim wasn’t one of theirs. Forcing open doors and pushing over furniture, he at last came upon Draco lying on the floor of the bedroom with his hands cuffed behind his back.
Lane nodded an acknowledgement to the officers who had come in from the rear. “Good job, boys. Any casualties?”
“No, Lane. Draco got a little excited. Put a bullet through the ceiling.”
Lane looked up and saw the hole in the plasterboard. “Nice shot, Jovanovic.”
Draco spat at him. “Fuck off, pig. This is police harassment. I’m not hiding anything. You’ve got no right to break into my house like this. I’m going to the fucking media with this.”
“Talk to whoever you like, Draco. But first, you’re talking to me. We’re taking you back to the station.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to nobody.”
Lane smiled without humor. “Let’s just see about that, shall we?”
* * *
Two hours later, Lane’s temper had reached the boiling point. Despite all his efforts and those of a couple of his AFP colleagues, Draco refused to budge. A knock on the interview room door drew his attention. His boss met him in the corridor, his expression grim.
“It’s no use, Lane. He’s lawyered up and he’s not going to give us anything. Time’s up. We can’t hold him any longer. We’re going to have to cut him loose.”
Lane cursed savagely and his hands clenched into fists. “The asshole knows where she is. She was in his house in Milperra, for Christ’s sake. There’s no way he’s not in this up to his stinking armpits.”
“That may be so, but we have nothing on him. Footwear similar to Olivia Munro’s was found in a shack owned by him. That’s it, and unless we can get DNA off it, we can’t even prove it’s hers. We have no evidence tying him to anything. You know as well as I do, that’s not enough. We have to let him go.”
Lane groaned and swore again. Helplessness and frustration engulfed him. He was so close to a breakthrough. He knew it. But the smug bastard on the other side of the door knew it, too. He knew they didn’t have enough evidence to charge him; if they did, they would have done it the moment they’d brought him in. Draco knew it. Lane knew it.
With everything inside him screaming in protest, he opened the door to the interview room and eyeballed Draco and his lawyer.
“All right, Jovanovic, you’re free to go.” Catching sight of the triumphant gleam in Draco’s eyes, Lane turned away, only managing to keep his fury in check until they’d left the room. Slamming his fist into the worn desktop, he winced at the pain reverberating up his forearm.
“I understand how you feel, Lane, but that probably wasn’t a good idea. Your arm won’t thank you for it in the morning.”
Lane looked at Michael who’d followed him into the room and grimaced. “Where do we go from here?”
His boss frowned as he thought. “The Attorney General’s daughter saw Jovanovic and
Vukovic in her father’s office a fortnight ago. What that means is anyone’s guess, but the man had Jovanovic’s name and address hidden inside a locked drawer. Why didn’t he mention that he knew Jovanovic? He was the one who pointed us in the direction of the Redbacks, after all. Something doesn’t fit. You need to have another chat with the AG. Take Jett with you.” Michael glanced at his watch. “It’s just after nine. You’d better get a move on. I’ll call the AG and let him know you’re on your way. Have you checked in with Clayton Munro?”
Lane sighed. Exhaustion was setting in. He’d gone home last night and snatched a few hours’ sleep before returning to work that morning. The strain of the investigation was beginning to take its toll. He spared a thought for Clayton and Ellie and shook off his fatigue. There wasn’t time for fatigue. The deadline was less than three hours away.
“No, I haven’t. I’ll do it on my way over to Dowton’s.”
“Okay. We need to know how much money they’ve managed to get together, in case the AG falls a little short. Find out if Dowton has any more information about where the exchange is going to take place. We can only hope that if Draco’s involved in this, he might just extend the deadline. He’s been a little busy himself, tonight.”
Lane nodded. “Let’s hope so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday, January 28, 9:13 p.m.
Allison shifted her position in the chair in her husband’s office and stared at her fingernails. She needed a manicure and she needed a painkiller. She always ended up with a vicious headache when she was coming down off a high.
After being summoned by David a few hours earlier, she’d come downstairs feeling relaxed and calm. Her husband had taken one look at her and had cursed long and loudly.
“You’re fucking high! I don’t believe it! How could you? A little girl was abducted yesterday. The police may never find her alive. It was supposed to be our daughter. And you’re the reason behind the kidnapping!” he yelled, his face turning purple with rage.