He saw Gardner, alarmed, watching him from the door. “Get back an’ teach ’em!”
Suddenly, music started playing. It was coming from Gardner!
“What’s that?” demanded Redmond levelling his weapon at Gardner’s face.
Gardner took a small box from a pocket and held it up. “My…my phone.”
Redmond snatched it out of Gardners hand and stared at it. The box had a picture frame on the front with a picture of a woman and another picture of a bell was flashing in time with the music. Redmond suddenly became scared. He dropped the box and stamped on it, feeling a satisfying crunch under foot. The noise ceased. “Get him back in there.”
Hand dragged Gardner back inside the storeroom, leaving Redmond alone in the shop. The convict paused for a moment to practise. He unloaded the shotgun, then reloaded, working the pump-action. The metallic shunting sound pleased his ears.
He sensed, rather than saw, a movement outside. He turned slowly to the shop door, his shotgun tracing a steady arc in his right hand. There was a man outside, the same one as before. Redmond saw him clearly through the glass door. He was about forty, with red cheeks and big ears. His eyes opened wide as Redmond pulled the trigger.
It was an instinctive action and the noise in the small shop deafened him. He marvelled at the kick from the gun and was stunned to see the door blown off its hinges. The man’s chest disintegrated in a red explosion and his body was blasted against the side of his roarer which was a good twelve feet behind him.
Redmond was stunned for a few seconds, then he looked down at the smoking weapon in his hand. What a gun! he thought. It’s better than a royal pardon!
He snatched several boxes of ammunition from a shelf and burst back into the storeroom. The convicts were in uproar, so Redmond belted a couple to get their attention.
“There’s a change in plan, lads,” he said, excited. He grabbed Gardner, crushing his arm in a powerful grip. “Is there another way out?”
“Ye...yes,” sobbed Gardner. “A goods lane through there.”
“Show us the way,” snapped Redmond. “Grab as many o’ them guns and balls as yer can carry, lads!”
The convicts wasted no time and hurried after Redmond through the back door. The big convict moved quickly, dragging Gardner with his left hand, his right clutching the magical shotgun. He had just given their position away and the troopers would soon be after them.
The wind ruffling through his filthy, matted hair and the wild look in his eyes, must have given Redmond the appearance of a madman. Perhaps I am mad, he thought. Mad, but free.
The gun in his hands filled him with power. He began to wonder if he needed so many men with him. The gun was worth twenty of the miserable, spineless bastards. Only Lockwood and Hand were reliable anyway. He twisted to look back at the desperate men following behind. Perhaps it would soon be time to cut all of his ties with the Marlin.
KAREN
There were few things in life more horrible than being woken from a deep sleep by a telephone. Karen Jamison sat up with a start and reached for the phone, only succeeding in knocking it off the bedside table.
“Hello?” she said after gathering in the receiver.
The line was dead, so she replaced the phone and lay back on her pillow, allowing her heartbeat to slow. Glancing at the clock, she wondered who could be calling her before six in the morning. She flicked on the radio.
“...on Sydney Harbour at about 4am this morning. The unofficial death toll stands at one hundred and fourteen and is expected to go much higher.” The announcer paused. “Unconfirmed reports say many of the bodies were mutilated.”
Karen shuddered, disbelieving. On the harbour! Her professional instincts ignited.
“A shooting on Oxford Street half an hour ago resulted in the death of a man in his forties. Police say...”
The telephone rang again. Karen switched off the radio. “Hello?”
“Kaz!” It was Sam Tyler, her editor.
“Sam! Have you heard the news? What’s going on?”
“That’s why I’m fucking ringing,” said Sam. Karen was infected by his excitement. “Some ship sailed into the harbour last night and burst into flames. There was a major shitfight aboard and there are loads of dead etc. etc. Not important right now. Greg in the newsroom just intercepted a police message. A couple of cops are holding a bunch of men near Cremorne Point. They think they’re from the ship. Corner of Milson Road and Bannerman Street.” He paused for a quick breath. “Get the hell over there!”
“I’m on my way.”
Jumping out of bed, Karen threw on a shirt, skirt and shoes, picked up her keys, looked in the mirror, wished she hadn’t, then ran outside to the car. She felt grotty, but there was no time to waste.
She ran to her car and set off, putting on her seat belt as she rolled down the driveway. She lived in Neutral Bay, less than five minutes from Cremorne Point.
The radio was reporting the news with unrestrained enthusiasm after the comparative news drought of the Christmas and summer holiday period. Karen soaked up everything. A sailing ship had gone down on the harbour. More than a hundred were dead. A police launch had sunk on the rocks at Mrs Maquaries Chair and its two crewmembers were missing, believed dead. There were several reports indicating many of the victims were murdered, and another unconfirmed report that a survivor had been pulled from the water. Maybe I’m still asleep, thought Karen as she negotiated the winding streets.
Now she could hear the sirens. Lots of them. She opened the car windows. The noise came from the north, from the direction of Military Road. She turned into Harriette Street and approached the southern end of Bannerman Street.
After years of covering everything at The Sydney Express from C-list parties to white-collar crime and dodging regular staff cutbacks and restructures, this was an opportunity. Just like in the comics, it was a SCOOP!
MARKS
Constable Connie Marks, to her horror, suddenly developed a nervous twitch in her shooting arm. It was shaken by a spasm every few seconds and only succeeded in making her captives more nervous. She knew she was in command with the gun, but the situation was unbearably tense and potentially disastrous. And since her partner, Jim Fallan, was ordered to wait in the car for messages, she felt increasingly isolated.
A police officer for five years, Connie had developed a sixth sense enabling her to sum up people and situations very quickly and accurately. This lot, however, she thought, studying the tattered group, were unreadable. She had heard the gory details from the police radio, yet these men did not strike her as murderers. There was strength and determination etched on all the weather beaten faces, but there was also fear. A wild fear. As though many of them were on the very edge of uncontrollable panic. And she did not believe that their fear had much to do with her or the gun. They were skittish and terrified of anything and everything.
Their terror was infectious. Where the hell is our backup, thought Connie desperately. The men were growing restless, their heads jerking back and forth with every sound of distant traffic or siren or the helicopters circling the harbour. Some stared wildly at her, faces frozen, their features chiselled by sun and wind. Others seemed to be praying, fingering symbols on chains or crossing themselves obsessively. Dangerous and threatened men. It made no sense.
Connie forced herself to remain calm and looked closely at the three men heading the group. Cross, he said his name was, and two other men flanking him. They wore dark, dirty period costume jackets, in contrast to the lighter coloured clothing of the rest, and grubby knee length cream trousers and, like the rest of the men, were barefoot. But unlike the others, these three men stood almost arrogantly alert, viewing the confrontation with imperious indifference.
Cross looked sickly and pale, Connie thought. He was clearly determined, but not a physical threat. The man on his right was the youngest of the three, early twenties. He glared at Connie, but she had seen him restrained earlier by the third man, to Cross’s left.
The real leader.
He was the most interesting. And the most dangerous. In his late twenties, he was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, and self-assured. He looked around constantly, not from fear, though. It was as if he was soaking everything up, taking it in and processing the information. When their eyes met, his composure would drop away for the fraction of a second before he looked away. Connie found herself drawn towards him, but she kept her wits. She did not mistake the way the other men looked at him for guidance, or the familiar way he reassured them. If the pent-up violence of the group were to explode, this man would be the detonator. With some trepidation, Connie wondered if she would have to shoot him.
A sudden commotion in the centre of the group shifted her attention. Connie heard a man cry out in pain and saw him shake his hand. The man who bit him struggled with two other men, but they could not prevent him calling out. “Hey! I’m not with these maniacs. They’ve kidnapped me!”
At the same time, Connie was reassured by the sound of dozens of police sirens approaching from Military Road. Resisting the urge to turn round, she felt her confidence resurge.
“Let him speak,” she ordered the men trying to subdue him. After a glance at their leader, they relaxed. “Who are you?” asked Connie.
“Sam Panagiris,” he answered, trying to shrug himself free. The hands held him firm, but some of the men had moved aside so Connie could see him more clearly. “I was jogging down at the point. That man threatened me and told these others to grab me!” He pointed angrily at Cross. “He told them to beat me up if I spoke,” he added indignantly.
Connie was sure he was telling the truth. He was clearly not part of the group. She moved a little closer to them, gripping her pistol more tightly. “OK, let him through.”
The handsome man turned back and nodded slightly. Reluctantly, the men released Panagiris. He straightened his shirt with a flourish and moved forward. The hostile men bunched together to make his progress more difficult, yet on he came, pushed and jostled. The sirens were closer now and the ragged men were even more edgy.
Jesus Christ! thought Connie, Have they stopped for ice cream!
Sweat tickled her forehead, but she did not want to make a sudden move to wipe it. Panagiris was almost free and she edged forward again. Only a few metres from the men, Connie found herself staring into the eyes of the handsome man beside Cross. The last barrier to Panagiris, he smiled and stepped aside to allow his prisoner out.
The man moved aside, but he also left a foot in the path of the jogger. Panagiris tripped and stumbled comically into Connie before she could react. Both of them fell to the road in a tangle and her gun spun from her hand.
Connie heard the handsome man yell “run for it, lads!” over the screech of arriving police cars. Pushing the cursing Panagiris away she saw the group explode into action. A young boy dived headlong into the bushes on the eastern side of the street. She had not seen him earlier.
Men were piling from the police cars, chasing and crash tackling the frightened, milling men. Through the activity, Connie saw the three leaders moving steadily to a corner wall. The older man limped heavily and the other two practically carried him away. The street was in turmoil and Connie had to fight her way through to go after them.
Reaching the wall, the two younger men scrambled easily to the top and reached back for Cross’s hands. The older man gave himself a push, but he slipped and fell to the ground. Connie was close enough to hear them.
“We have to help him, Kit!” said the youngest. He jumped down.
“Damn you, Henry,” said the other, more frustrated than angry. “You won’t help him if you are captured!”
Trapped now by approaching officers, the young man declared, “I am staying!” He drew his sword.
Connie thought Kit would follow. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, but then his face hardened. He dropped out of sight over the wall.
Feeling naked without her gun, Connie advanced on the two men. She was brushed aside by two burly officers with guns drawn. The young man waved his weapon menacingly, but Cross reached up from where he sat on the pavement to restrain him. “Don’t be a fool, Mister Kite. Drop your sword before they shoot you.”
Reluctantly, Kite complied. The two men were led away, much to Connie’s relief. Three more policemen went over the wall in pursuit.
The action on the street was over and not one shot had been fired. All the men appeared to have been captured. All except Kit. Connie picked up her gun, still lying where she had dropped it. She wondered where Kit would go, feeling strangely glad he had got away.
BLANEY
Christopher Blaney swore like a sailor as he raced down a narrow alley. He damned Kite for allowing himself to be caught, cursed Cross for falling, and berated himself for leaving them to their fate. But what else could he have done? He did not believe the men of the Marlin would be harmed by their captors, particularly as no shots had been fired, yet he was convinced that if everyone was caught there would be no going back.
“Back!” he exclaimed to himself. To go back Blaney would first have to find out where he was.
But there was no time to think. He could hear his pursuers closing on him, though a quick glance backwards showed they were still beyond a corner of the alley. Dashing into a passage between two houses to his left, Blaney slipped and crashed heavily to the ground, then rolled quickly to his feet almost without breaking stride. His feet were cut and bruised, but he ignored the pain.
Blaney was tiring rapidly. He thought the men chasing him were further away, but no doubt they would soon find his trail once again. Capture was unthinkable, so he increased his pace as he approached another road. Suddenly, he heard shouts. Ahead this time! Without thinking, he scaled the nearest wall and jumped down into a small garden, dominated by a metal clothes line shaped like a parasol. He was tempted to steal some of the brightly coloured garments, but there was no time to delay.
Men were on the other side of the wall. “He must be in here somewhere!” said one, panting.
More men arrived from the direction Blaney had come. “Bugger it! He’s given us the slip,” said a new voice. “Thought we had the bastard, too.”
“Well, he didn’t come out here,” said the first voice. “He must have climbed one of these walls.”
He saw fingers appear on the top of the wall he came over and instantly scaled the opposite wall. “There he is!”
Running as he landed, he dashed down another passage and into a wider street between two carriages parked next to the footpath, emerging directly into the path of a speeding vehicle. He froze in the road at the sight, and the carriage screeched to a halt only a foot away. Blaney felt himself begin to shake all over, but he still noticed the pretty young woman sitting inside the vehicle, a very attractive but furious expression on her face. She mouthed an angry string of words he could not hear, yet it was clear they were not what one would expect from a lady.
Completely unable to move, Blaney looked over the vehicle and saw another carriage turn into the street in the distance, a flashing light on its roof and wailing like a demon from hell. Voices called out from the laneway. All the fight drained from Blaney’s body. He had failed.
JACKSON
At night the network of roads feeding Oxford Street would hardly be described as safe, but it was reasonable for a man walking to work in the morning to expect an unmolested journey. However, given the awful start to Bob Jackson’s day, he was hardly surprised by this new turn of events. First, his alarm had failed, making him late; then the neighbour’s dog had ripped the entire street’s garbage to pieces outside his gate; and to top it off, some idiot had jumped in front of a train two stops down the line, giving the railways another excuse for stuffing up the schedule!
Now, like icing on an inedible cake, only two minutes from the carpark where Jackson should be safely encased in his ticket cubicle, tucking into a hot sausage roll, an armed mob were thundering down the street in his direction. “Bloody typ
ical!” he mumbled.
Jackson drew his sixty-three year old frame up to its full five feet two inches and faced the marauders. Bugger ’em! he decided. Let’s see who gives way first.
It did not take long for the armed men to reach him. The huge, red-bearded man leading the group looked like a savage, in one hand a shotgun and in the other a small man borne along by the scruff of the neck his legs windmilling beneath him and hardly touching the ground. Jackson stood his ground, convinced the mob would go round an obviously cantankerous old man. By the time he realised his mistake, it was too late.
The stench hit him first, carried along on the breeze. The vile odour, a
hundred times worse than his sweaty socks, caused him to step back. It wrapped itself around Jackson’s face and launched a full scale assault on his nostrils. He was almost relieved when the red-headed man cannoned into him. The old man felt himself airborne for what seemed an age, then he landed on his heels, wobbled for an instant and then sat down heavily on the pavement. That’ll set me piles off again, he thought miserably.
He found himself being tossed in a sea of legs, stamping and kicking him as they passed. Jackson rolled after them and smacked his forehead on the ground. Dazed, he wondered where the applause was coming from until he saw the departing bare feet. He watched the men turn a corner down the street before rising shakily to his feet.
Jackson began to tremble. “Bloody hell! I could’ve been killed!” he muttered to himself. He picked up his newspaper and squashed lunch bag and hurried to work and the telephone. The police would soon sort out those bastards!
KAREN
Karen Jamison slammed on her brakes, miraculously stopping before she hit the stunned man in the road. Shock quickly turned to anger and she let fly with a string of obscenities.
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