by Kim Cong
“Fly over?” Connor asked, looking at the map. Luc shook his head.
“It’s in the middle of nowhere. We put a chopper over him to get a heat signal, we’re going to be giving him the heads-up.”
Pax moved to the other side of the table, drawing again. “There are three wine cellars, as discussed. Our best scenario is he’ll have them tucked in one of these.”
“And the worst?”
“He’ll have them in the house.”
Connor nodded his understanding, looking over the map. “Okay. I say we get out choppers to drop in, one in each of the cleared areas. We go in hard and hot. Theory one plays out, we may be able to drop him and whoever the fuck else is up there before he gets to them. Theory two plays out, he’s going to use them as hostages.” Connor looked up at Pax, who was clenching his jaw. “But you already knew that.”
Pax nodded, his fingers clenching. “We have one shot at this.”
Everyone’s eyes went to Annabelle, who was observing off to the side. “I agree.” Her head tilted as she examined the map. “But we need to be aware, he’s smart and prepared. He’s not only planned this kidnapping, but he’s the brains behind a world-class criminal syndicate. A syndicate we did not know he was running.”
“Annabelle?” Luc asked, his gaze on her.
“What I’m saying is, the house could be wired. We don’t know if he’s got bombs or manpower. He could have nothing, but we need to be careful. We need to be smart.” The men all nodded, taking on the wisdom of her words.
Connor glanced at the table. “I guess now would be a good time to bring my team in.”
“Yeah.” Pax nodded, his eyes again on the property plans. “We got shit to do.”
Jetta
I woke to the sensation of flying. Opening my eyes, I realised I wasn’t flying so much as sliding across the ground. My back crashed into hard metal, jolting me into full consciousness. A quick glance told me I was in a van. Nothing was holding me down and, as the van flew around another corner, I was thrown across it again and smashed into the opposite side.
A rag had been pushed into my mouth and tied around my head. My hands were bound behind my back with what felt like cable ties. My legs were free but that hardly helped. I manoeuvred into sitting position, bracing my feet against the floor.
A squeak to my left showed another figure, dressed in jeans and a shirt that read I’m an Olive. Courtney.
Her hands were also bound. Her legs were free but similarly her mouth was gagged. She was staring at me, her eyes wide and full of fear. It took me long minutes but I finally managed to crawl to her side without getting smashed by the rapid turns of the van. I pressed my side into her, trying to offer the little comfort I could. Her eyes were leaking tears, her sobs just audible over the loud engine sounds and through the gag.
I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect. I paused in my mantra, remember Pax’s earlier words. I am strong, I am invincible. I am Jetta fucking Oliver!
I replayed those words over and over in my mind as the van continued through the night. There were no windows in the back, barring the one up high on the back door. Unless I stood, I had no way of seeing out, and considering the rapid pace of the van, I had no wish to die. After what felt like hours, where my hands slowly went numb, we finally felt the van slow. Courtney’s head jerked off my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. I tried to communicate calm, strength, and reassurance. I think I came across as terrified, unsure, and panicked.
The van finally stopped, the front door opening and then slamming shut. I tensed as footsteps rounded the back. Light flooded in, for a moment blinding me. I blinked rapidly as the second door was thrown open.
“Out.” Paul’s voice was harsh as he gestured with the gun. “Now. Both of you.”
We crawled down the back of the van, dropping our legs over the back and pushing up to standing. Paul shoved me in front of Courtney, holding the gun to my head.
“Walk.”
We did, stumbling and nearly going down. Paul walked us across a yard and down to a bushy area at the bottom of the garden. He let me go for a moment while he rummaged in the foliage. A door swung up and open, and again he pointed the guns at us, forcing us down the hole. The steps were mercifully easy to navigate, but the darkness in the pit was complete. As we got to the bottom, he switched on a light, illuminating the mammoth area. It was mostly empty, except for a table with chairs in the middle, a small bathroom off to one side—no door or walls just a toilet and basin—and rows upon rows of wine bottles and blocks of cheese.
He ripped off my gag then pushed me to the floor. Having no hands to break my fall, I crashed down, scraping and bruising my knees. Courtney suffered the same, rolling into me.
I looked up at Paul, the man I had once called uncle. His face was nearly unrecognisable. The hatred and disgust that he’d hidden for years were there for all to see.
“Why?” The word was soft, bewildered.
“Because you’re an Oliver.” And with that parting shot he left, switching off the light. We heard the door slam shut and a bolt drive home. We were locked in.
“Jetta?”
“Yeah, Ney-ney?”
“Are we going to die?”
“No, Courtney. Pax will find us.”
“How?”
“’Cause he’s Paxton Elliot.” I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. “And because he was right.”
“About?”
“About Paul.”
“So he’ll find us?”
“Absolutely.”
Paul White
Paul White sat in the study of his big house, pouring a glass of whiskey. His hand shook, spilling the thirty-year-old alcohol down the sides of the glass and sloshing it across his fingers. Ignoring the spill, he raised the glass to his lips, taking in the liquid heat.
Nearly thirty years of work had come down to the last four weeks. He’d wanted the Oliver’s to suffer. Suffer like he had, watching Marcella be with Jimmy. It had taken him three years after she’d dropped him for Paul to start his plan.
A small hit of coke here, a puff of marijuana there. Jimmy had been addicted to addiction. It had been easy, starting him down that path.
Then Marcella had realised and tried to get him clean. That had been harder. Paul had tried to show his support, tried to be the person she could rely on. But he’d still sabotaged Jimmy at every turn.
Then the groupies. Marcella had been knocked up, Jetta on the way, when Jimmy first strayed. Then it kept happening. And she’d forgiven him. Over and over.
Then Courtney came and Paul could no longer contain his frustration. Things escalated. Jimmy started looking for more and more highs and, Paul, knowing what he now knew about the drug game, stepped up his role. Two bullets in the previous kingpin’s head and a shitload of money to make it disappear and settle the ranks, they’d willingly come on board.
But he’d needed muscle. Enter Esso, who had a reputation that belied his stature. That reputation had degraded over the years as he got used to comfortable living. Paul had known he was reaching his expiry date, but still he’d waited.
The death of Marcella had ruined all his plans. After years of watching and waiting, finally she was about to leave Jimmy and come back to him.
And then she’d died.
Jetta and Courtney were the only Oliver’s left. Jimmy’s fucking legacy.
And just like that, he’d transferred his grief to them.
Years of careful planning came down to one phone call to Esso. Jetta was picked up and taken in.
Years of carefully introducing Courtney to the headiness of fame. The glitz and glamour. She was just like her dad, chasing the next high. Drugs had been an easy next step.
Paul sipped the whiskey again, listening to the silence of his mansion.
He knew they’d come. Paxton Elliot had demonstrated his team’s ability tonight.
And when they did come, he would take them all out of this world.
Not his original plan, but a backup when the original had gone to shit.
People would remember Paul White. He’d be bigger than Jimmy Oliver. His name would be fucking everywhere.
He placed the glass back on the silver tray as the woman on her knees before him drew back. He grunted, expelling cum over her breasts.
“Is there anything else tonight, Mr White?” She stood, a woman with a hit-a-day habit.
“No.” He tossed her a vial of her fix. “Get out.” She scurried from the room.
Paul tucked himself back in, then reached for the cigar box, lighting one and exhaling the smoke with a puff.
“Paul White—rock and roll legend, kingpin, and killer.” He laughed.
Jetta
It took me three tries to get my hands out from behind my back. I’d once watched a documentary on YouTube about what to do if your hands were bound behind your back. While you can’t go over your head—unless you’re double-jointed or very flexible—if you draw your knees up to your stomach, you can pull your arms down and get them to your front that way.
Once I’d done that, I helped Courtney do the same, then together we crawled to a wall, tracing hands up it, trying to find the light switch that Paul had turned off. It took what felt like hours. There was not a piece of light in the whole cellar to assist us. The darkness was so absolute that I couldn’t see the wall that was centimetres from my face. Finally, Courtney stumbled across the switch, bathing the room in light.
My head hurt. I knew I’d been bleeding. It had stopped, but it continued to throb and ache. I needed Panadol and medical attention. Courtney was okay. She’d been on one of her meditation walks when a guy had approached her. He’d grabbed her, holding a cloth to her face. She’d woken up bound and gagged only moments before I was thrown in the back of the van.
We took turns using the toilet while taking in our surroundings.
The cellar had nowhere to hide should Paul return. We started searching for something to cut the cable ties. There weren’t many places for us to look. Our exhaustive search turned up nothing. Not even a bottle opener.
“This is ridiculous.” Courtney stamped her feet. “We’ve got wine and cheese all around and not even a butter knife or corkscrew? Did he know we were coming?”
I paused, contemplating. “Actually, yes.”
“What?”
“Think about it. You were kidnapped when? Early afternoon? Paul must have been planning this for ages.”
“But why?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I’d already filled her in on Paul’s rant in my dressing room, but this was more. This absolute planning was insane. My eyes fell on the wine bottles.
“Okay, new plan.” I shuffled to the bathroom, pulling the hand towel out of its holder. Returning to the wine rack I reached over, sliding out a bottle. I wrapped the bottle in a towel, and walked to the edge of the table.
“Stand back.” I held it up and smashed it down, holding the neck of the bottle steady. The base hit with a crack, but nothing happened.
“Well. That was a fail.” Courtney was sitting in one of the chairs, watching me.
“Shut up, smartarse. This is our best option.”
It took me nearly twenty tries before the glass cracked, red wine soaking the towel. I peeled the wet fabric back, revealing the top half of the bottle had broken clean off.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Courtney came over, looking at the mess. I held up the broken glass.
“Use it as a knife.”
“You are so badarse. You totally could be in Orange is the New Black.” Courtney smiled at me and for the first time in a long while, I felt like my sister, my funny little sister, had returned.
“Shut up and come here.” She held her hands out and I wrapped her hands with another hand towel, then carefully started sawing at the cable ties.
“Tell me about rehab.”
It was time consuming and the glass kept breaking. We nearly seriously cut ourselves multiple times as the glass slipped. I had tiny shard in my hands, cuts that bled and made it hard to keep going. It took time, but during it, I learnt about her recovery. And she admitted that it was Paul who got her hooked, who introduced her to the guys who got her on the drugs to begin with.
My rage escalated with every moment. He was a bastard. Paxton had been right. Paul was a conman, drug lord, c-bomb. I wanted to hurt him. No wonder he wasn’t prepared to help me with the money—he was the one wanting it.
Courtney was wrapping a bottle with the other hand towel, in preparation of removing my binds when we both paused. The ground above us started shaking and the loud whoop-whoop of chopper blades could be heard dimly through the giant reinforced steel door that was locking us in.
We glanced at each other, our eyes meeting.
“Paxton.” My voice was small, relieved.
“Are you sure? It could be—”
“No.” I shook my head, absolutely certain. “No, it’s our rescue. It’s definitely Pax.”
On that word, the door swung open and Paul raced down the stairs, gun pointed at us.
“How did you—fuck!” His eyes were on Courtney’s unbound hands. “You!” He pointed the gun at her. “Against the wall.” Courtney put her hands up and immediately started walking backwards.
“You!” He turned to me. “Come here!” I walked over and was roughly brought up against his front, the gun pointed to my head. “One wrong move, Courtney, and your sister,” - he pressed the muzzle harder against my temple - “is dead. Got it?”
Courtney nodded rapidly, her face ashen.
“Come on.” He pulled and pushed me up the stairs, the gun still to my head. We walked outside, where three helicopters had landed. Men and women carrying weapons were streaming from them. I saw a familiar figure racing toward us.
Paxton.
My knees felt weak and I wanted to scream at him to stay back, to come, to be safe, to run, to save me.
Paul held the gun higher, drawing me closer to him.
“Stay back!” His voice was shrill, terrified. “I’ll kill her!”
All movement stopped. Everyone who was going to advance dropped back, their eyes on his gun.
Everyone but Paxton. Pax, eyes on me, kept moving. His face was set, his mouth a thin line.
“I said get back!” Paul screamed it at Pax, who finally looked at him and stopped just a few metres from us.
“Paul.” His voice was steady, emotionless.
“You fucker.” Paul was hysterical, spittle flying from his mouth. “You fucker! You don’t get it, do you? All you had to do was pay! Just pay the fucking money! You didn’t get the warnings! The drive-by was a warning! Pay or else! No, instead, you fucking start digging!” The gun pressed harder against my temple.
“Well, now you’re going to watch as I kill her. Now you’ll understand.”
The next moment happened as if in slow motion. Paxton started running, his hand drawing his gun up to shoot at Paul. The gun at my temple bucked, the bullet stalling in the chamber. Paul jerked back as the first bullet tore into his shoulder, the next his arm, and the third his chest. He stumbled backward, me still clutched to him, tripping us both down the stairs.
We rolled and crashed, coming to a halt at the bottom. Courtney, sobbing, panicked, ran over, screaming, beating at Paul, who was unconscious on top of me.
Every part of me hurt and I couldn’t breathe. For long moments, I struggled to get breath into my lungs.
And then Paxton was there, pushing Paul off me, bracing my neck and head as he rearranged my body into the recovery position. Encouraging me to breathe.
As I finally started coughing and spluttering, Paxton’s voice reached me. “It was meant to be me. It was meant to be me.” His words were said over and over, repeated as hands scanned my body for injury.
Apart from bruising and a few cuts, perhaps a concussion, I was fine. I brought a hand up to his face, stilling him.
“Hey.” I offer
ed him a smile. “I knew you’d come.”
His eyes searched my face. “You’re okay.”
“Yep.” I nodded, wincing a little. “Except for the head, but I’ll live.” He crushed me to him. I ignored the bruises and swelling that cried out in pain.
“Pax?”
“It’s gone.” The words were muffled against my shoulder.
“What?”
He drew back. “When I saw him, holding you, it stopped.” He tapped his chest then his head. “I knew he was going to turn the gun on me and I was going to die.”
His face was haunted, the horror of the last few minutes still painted in his eyes and the deep furrows of his skin. “But he pulled it on you.”
I reached up, pulling him close again. “I’m okay, Paxton. We’re okay. We both survived.”
“I know. And now it’s gone.” His arms were tight around me. “The little ticking is gone, Jetta.”
“Pax…” I broke down. Tears ran from my eyes, down my face, soaking into his shirt.
Shock finally set in and I refused to let Pax let go of me. I panicked when the medical officer tried to remove me from Pax’s arms. I ended up receiving medical attention while he held me in his lap. The officer recommended I be airlifted to Canberra Hospital for X-rays.
Hours later, I was released. A busted rib, bruising, a few cuts that required a stitch or two, and a mild concussion. Courtney was in a similar boat. A few scratches, some bruising, and shock, but otherwise okay. Pax took us to his house where the three of us all climbed into the one bed. He held us while we tried to sleep, the pills the hospital had forced down our throats finally tipping us into unconsciousness.
When we woke the next morning, the house was full of friends, all of whom had brought coffee and food. I came out in PJs, took one look at the full house, turned around and went for a shower—emerging some time later dressed and without the bed hair.
I was enveloped in hugs and kisses. Passed from one person to another, gently chastised or praised. Each person reassured me they were glad to see I was okay. By the time I was handed to Marco, I was crying.