Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Mojo’s mind was in overdrive. Had he been made? Who the fuck boarded a fishing boat to stir the pot? Did dirty mean not to be trusted or that the Sinners had a mole? “What about if I head down there at first light, it’s not that far,” Mojo suggested.

  Eddie returned a look of approval. “Yeah. Yeah, good idea, take Bushy as well. You’ll enjoy the ride, it’s nice down there.” And he put his head back against the chair. More relaxed and a little drunk he settled back and shut his eyes.

  “Good on you, Mojo. Good on you. Glad you’re a smart fuck,” Eddie mumbled. “Pass us that mobile, will you?”

  After handing Eddie the Nokia handset, Mojo excused himself and left the room. A few minutes later, Eddie heard a Harley grumble to life and the metal beast thundered off. Eddie pressed the redial button and after a few seconds it diverted to message bank. He rested it on the armrest, shut his eyes and crashed out.

  The night-time ride washed cold air over Mojo’s face. He could feel the thumping of the pistons from the twin cylinder four-stroke under the seat. His eyes became weepy from the cool air, despite his dark-framed glasses shielding some of the wind-driven air. Although his vision was a little blurred, his mind was sharper than ever. His earlier walk-about was cut short, with the realisation he left the building without his ride, it was a silly mistake made in haste. He was glad his decision to return to the clubhouse was smart and timely. Eddie had filled in some blanks on the page. Sometimes life would throw a bone. But now he really needed to communicate with his boss. His real boss. Grateful for a clear night, he motored to his temporary shack in Duffy’s Forest. The location of his temporary abode, since taking on the assignment was remote, but not far. Off the beaten track from suburban roads, it wasn’t a likely spot for prying eyes. Even the closest neighbours, who were a few hundred metres away on the adjoining five acre property, left him alone. The sound from a Harley was enough to put off a neighbourly approach.

  The unlocked door into the shack creaked as he pushed it open. He opened the only drawer of the side-table and retrieved a mobile phone. It was late, knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference he rang.

  “Hello. Whatcha got?” Was Cate’s sleepy voice on the other end.

  CHAPTER 74

  SNAKE IN THE BUSH

  Martin was exhausted. His prey would keep until morning. It would afford him some time to work out his plan with Peter. A plan for the marijuana farmer’s future – which was looking short. So, arriving at the property gate at around midnight, he snuck the quiet Corolla through the gate and parked the vehicle out of sight in the shrub. He maintained a good view of the gate, in case his quarry did an early morning bolt. It was wind still. Perfect for listening out for any activity in the valley, which was about seven or eight hundred metres down the rough rocky track. But it was quiet, except for the odd rustle in the scrub, figuring the presence of a wallaby or wombat. After half an hour he could hear the bickering and hissing noises from a couple of rival possums fighting over a spot in a tree. The noisy animals carried on well into the night, irking the skinny camper to the point where he wanted to shoot them both. Sleeping under a bridge, or a quiet sidewalk in the city was much more restful, he decided.

  He was woken up by the distant high-pitched bark from the cattle dog. It was only 6.15am. He curled up and pulled the blanket over him, cold and tired. After a few minutes, he kicked the blanket off. It was still dark and sun up another hour or more away. An early morning westerly wind had picked up and was gusting every few minutes, enough to deaden the sound of a barking dog. He sprang into action. After getting out of the backseat of the car, he relieved himself, leaving hot steam rising up from the ground. He zipped up and returned to the backseat and withdrew the black revolver from under the blanket. Carefully, he spun the cylinder and checked for bullets. Four of them: hollow-point .38 calibre. His thoughts flashed back to last night in the cabin. No regrets. He re-asserted his emotions. Those hollow-points certainly do some damage. Martin was impressed. He admired the weapon and put it between his legs as he positioned himself behind the wheel.

  By the time he drove down the rough track to the clearing, the Land Cruiser had left. The Kombi was parked in the same spot but no one came out to greet him, not a person and not a barking dog. Peter could not have gone past him, so he had to be on the property somewhere. Martin drove the car further down the hill and stopped. He turned the engine off, to listen out for Peter’s truck. Nothing.

  Waiting game again, he thought as he stopped the car. I have time.

  The element of surprise appealed to Martin. He decided to hide the Corolla behind the cabin and reversed the car around the back, just in case he needed a quick get-away. As he backed the sedan around the side a pile of cut plants caught his attention. Roughly stacked on the back part of the veranda was the harvest from yesterday’s efforts by Peter and Rafe. Martin stopped the car, switched off the engine, got out of the vehicle and went for a closer look. He lied to me. That fucking arsehole lied to me! Now he was furious.

  The third trip in two days had carved a clearer path through the bush and made it easier for the farmer to steer his truck down the steep overgrown track to the hidden creek. Last evening’s vehicle recovery efforts and plant-slashing had created a slow start this morning. Nevertheless, they were both focused on the day’s work, harvest until all was reaped. The plan was roughly to copy yesterday’s methods. Remove the flower-heads first and bag them. Work systematically from one end to another. Cut the plants in large or whole sections at the base because they would be easier to load. Process the plants back at the cabin. Trimming and sorting, then bagging was more efficient in Peter’s ‘potting’ shed, where he had sorting and packing benches, away from the sun and, more importantly, the wind.

  “So Peter, tell me what did you do in your previous life?” Rafe was curious.

  Concentrating on the last bend descending onto the creek bed, Peter replied, “Horticulture.” The lanky bloke held on tight as he turned the steering into full left-lock, as he carefully set the driver’s side wheel onto firm ground coming off a large boulder from the descending track. “I was a qualified horticultural landscaper. It was hard to get consistent work. Had a good job for an indoor plant hire business, unfortunately I got the sack.”

  “How come?” Rafe asked.

  “My supervisor caught me smoking a joint,” Peter replied. “It was stupid really, I should have known better.” They crossed the creek without any further exchange.

  The sun was yet to rise over the escarpment surrounding the hidden valley, but daylight had well and truly broken. The valley was cool and the light wind gusts up high were brisk. Morning dew was heavy and it added to a surreal natural beauty around them. The silence of the forest was broken by their footsteps stepping on the forest debris under their boots. They took in the fresh morning air and considered themselves lucky to be out here in the bush. Even the cattle dog was settled. Patch had stayed around them, alternating his sniffing routine between running out front and straying behind, only to run ahead of them a few minutes later.

  “Do you think he’ll be back?” Rafe ventured the question burning on the psyche of both men.

  Peter sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Hope not. That’s for sure.” They were nearing the plantation. “We have a crop to tend to, let’s worry about that first.”

  Rafe dropped the empty hessian bags on the leaf-covered ground. He had a good gander at the tall crop of plants.

  “The heavy dew is annoying,” Peter said. “It means we’ll have to dry them out in the sun later, otherwise they might get mouldy if we forget about them.” He grabbed the secateurs from his back pocket and started snipping, holding an open hessian bag to catch the pruned clippings.

  Rafe stayed near him and picked up any dropped heads and bagged them as well. The only sounds from the forest were a few birds whistling, and a couple of kookaburras talking to each other from a great height somewhere in the gum trees where the sun had pointed its rays and was w
arming the cool air.

  Rafe went for a piss behind one of the large ironbark trees. He was startled mid-stream and jumped back, his eyes locked onto a large slow-moving black-snake. Shaken and nervous, he retreated in a hurry while desperately trying to finish his urination. Realising there was no compromise here, he stuffed his waterer back into his pants while backing away from the slithering red-bellied black snake. Mindful of tripping and falling backwards, he called out to Peter. “I’ve got a snake chasing me! Can you help?” Rafe dared not to take his eyes off the snake in case it jumped him.

  Peter dropped his hessian bag and rushed over, but relaxed as soon as he saw the snake. “It’s only a red-belly. Perfectly harmless. Just walk back and let it escape whichever way it wants to go.” Peter watched in awe as the snake found a safe retreat. Gracefully, the shiny black reptile slithered into a fallen hollow log which was covered with other decayed tree debris and moss. Within seconds it had disappeared without a sound.

  Snakes. You have to be mindful of snakes. I hate snakes. Rafe’s afterthought.

  CHAPTER 75

  PRETTY AS A PICTURE

  Bushy hadn’t been all that happy about being woken up at midnight. But the teaser was, ‘we’re heading down the coast’ and that bit of information made it all good. Mojo arrived on Bushy’s doorstep in Narrabeen at 6am and waited while the dishevelled stocky man with a scruffy blond beard emerged from the garage, as the electric roller door rose with a strained whirring noise. Hair tussled and standing up as if he had electrocuted himself a minute ago, Bushy wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. It was no different this morning. He grunted and with a quick gesture, a slack wave of his hand, he climbed on his Harley Davidson and jumped on the kick-start. That was Bushy. Most bikers would use the electric start. Not Bushy, he was traditional. A real outlaw. Mojo winced, the neighbours must have thought that the garage next door had exploded, that’s how loud the Harley sounded when it boomed into life on the second kick-start.

  In Moruya, on the South Coast, a tow-truck driver was cursing at 6.30am, because he had spilt coffee on his lap. Not that his pants were clean, but the coffee was hot and he wore a lot of it, so he had no coffee left. After jumping from the cab and a half-hearted attempt to wipe the seat dry, he boarded the truck and reversed it into the service station driveway. Too early for the mechanic, not too early enough to leave the repair-job in front of the garage. He grumbled. As he finished storing the chains and winding back the winch, Mick, the mechanic turned up for work. “Good morning Ted.” In a sarcastic tone the scruffy mechanic greeted his associate.

  “Nothin’ good about this morning so far. So if you don’t mind I’ll go and get some coffee. Keys are in the ignition if you want to move it.” The heavy-bellied tow-truck driver waddled towards the servo cafeteria.

  Mick did a quick survey of the Pantec. He opened the driver’s door and noticed there were no keys in the ignition of the Daihatsu. Bandy-legged Ted still hadn’t made it to the entrance of the cafeteria. “Where’s the keys to the Daihatsu?” Mick yelled out. The towie turned around and shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t interested in early morning banter, he just wanted more coffee.

  Great, apart from being a cranky bastard, he was also deaf as a post, thought the mechanic. He would have to find the keys, he didn’t have the time to hotwire the truck. Mick went to his paper-cluttered customer service counter, searching for a phone number. Where’s that number? He roughly swiped the day-book pages to find yesterday’s bookings and notes, in the hope he had written it down. Nothing. Maybe useless Ted has the number.

  He left the counter and pressed the thick green knob, which activated the garage door motor to wind the chain to open the heavy industrial roller door. There was plenty to do without having to wait for a key to turn up. He would sort it later. No hurry on the removalist truck.

  At morning tea time, around 9.35am, a couple of motorcycle riders on Harley Davidsons entered the service station. Both riders were sporting black leather jackets. On closer inspection they had identical club patches on the backs of their shiny leather-jackets. ‘Devil’s Sinners Motorcycle Club’, and below the semi-circle embroidery, it read ‘Sydney Chapter’.

  Mick spied them from under the Holden Rodeo he was working on. Nice bikes. Wouldn’t mind one of them one day, he daydreamed, as he fingered the ring spanner feeling for the oil-pan plug, which needed tightening before putting oil back in the sump. He observed the outlaw gang members as they filled their fuel tanks.

  Both riders were hungry. They had ridden without a break. Traffic had been hectic, but being on bikes allowed them to weave in and out of the congestion giving them a small travel time advantage. Plus, being outlaw bikies, they were often given a wide berth and a gratuitous right-of-way. Mojo started his Harley and parked it closer to the garage. He spotted the mechanic under the dual-cab. Mick returned the eye-contact with a friendly country nod. It prompted Mojo into approaching the man still under the car. “G’day, mate,” Mojo greeted politely.

  Mick nodded, “Morning.”

  “I’m after some information. We’re looking for a bloke who is a courier. He lives around here somewhere. Possibly out of town,” Mojo explained. The undercover cop could detect the hesitance in the mechanic’s face. A reluctance to participate in something that may bring him grief. Mojo had to think fast on his feet. Not a chance he could tell him about who he really was. It just needed to be a believable story. “Look, mate, I can understand your thinking. Don’t want to mess with bikies in case it comes back on you. But this is legit. Bloke’s name is Matt and he is doing some transport for us. But he needs our help so he rang and asked us to come. But even though he told us how to get to his place, we’re a bit lost. So can you help us?” Mojo put on his best straight forward face.

  “Of course, mate. Sorry, it’s just you know, I don’t know you from a bar of soap. And actually I don’t know your mate either. But his truck is here.” Mick nodded in the direction of the Pantec. “You could probably do us all a favour, grab his keys for the truck because he forgot to give them to us.” Mick rolled out from under the Rodeo and got up in a leisurely manner. Brushing the dust and floor debris from the front of his overalls as he walked to the office where the service counter was located. He fiddled around on the desk looking for a pen and he tore a page from a notebook pad. “Here, I’ll draw you a mud map.”

  A stocky and scruffy biker holding two cups of take-away coffee mugs came up to the mechanic’s office door. He grunted lightly and passed one of the coffees to his fellow rider. Mojo beckoned Bushy to come closer and commented, “Mick here is drawing us a mud map to get to Matt’s place.” Bushy nodded in approval.

  Mick looked up from his map and popped his eyes a bit to suggest ‘well are you paying attention, because I haven’t got all day’. “Right, you paying attention?” And he drew an arrow from the X, which was the servo. “Follow this around the round-about, but don’t turn right heading back onto the highway, keep going straight and follow it out to Araluen. Turn right here, it’s a dirt road. You’ll come to crossing a creek, it’s a causeway. Keep going about another seven kays. There’s a white painted rock on the left. It marks the track to your mate’s place. It used to be Ronnie Smythe’s old place, I know it well.”

  Mojo sized up the mechanic and was genuinely grateful for his help. “Mate, thanks. We don’t get much country hospitality in the city.” Mojo extended his hand in friendship. Mick accepted the handshake, but thought nothing of helping out. Just directions. Bushy nodded and returned to his shiny black metal steed.

  “Being a Friday you might find some extra traffic on that road,” Mick warned.

  Mojo heard the kick start engaging, followed by a boisterous roar of the twin cylinder firing up. Bushy’s Harley idled a slow, ‘doof-doof-doof’, the exhaust-note shocking several pedestrians into stopping in their tracks. But when the second Harley thundered into life, it spurred the frozen pedestrians into a hurried pace to hide from some imminent threat.r />
  Mojo had committed the mud map to memory so he led the way and Bushy trailed him closely. At the turn-off to the dirt road, both riders slowed. Mojo clocked his trip-meter on the speedometer. Seven kays. Mick told him to remember the seven kilometres, it’s a magic number, easy to miss the white rock on the left. The causeway was bone dry and but the riders crossed one by one. Mojo monitored the trip-meter with a regular glance and when the dial read 6.35 kilometres, he slowed and signalled Bushy to look out for the white rock. On the left. Look for a track entrance.

  As the bikes negotiated a few wide rocky potholes, the white painted rock came into plain view. The entrance to the track leading to the courier’s hide-out was pretty obvious. Mojo also recalled the mechanic saying it was about a kilometre drive on a narrow and rough gravel road to the cottage.

  The thundering motorcycles caused a minor stir in the bush, sending a few wallabies on a hasty hop to flee the alien machines on their land. A small flock of birds flew away from the side of the dirt track as the noise came closer. The magpies perched on a high branch horizontally cutting through several small gumtrees, cocked their heads in curiosity and remained seated anticipating the show.

  Mojo marvelled at the sight of the clearing in the valley and how the tin-roofed cottage was perfectly laid-out in the middle of it. Pretty as a picture. The machinery-shed built with logs and corrugated iron overshadowed the size of the other humble building. The white 80 Series Land Cruiser was parked in front of the veranda. The rear barn-doors were open and there was some evidence of disturbance to the rear cargo area. When the motorcycles shut down the silence was eerie.

  Without a word, both riders remained on their bikes automatically scanning their surroundings. Each of the men surveying left and right, and behind. Double-checking each other’s reconnoitre. As if rehearsed, their attention turned to the open front door of the cottage. No one had come out of the cottage to greet them. Their arrival would have echoed through the forest from a mile away. Mojo removed his helmet and carefully placed it on the fuel tank. He looked at Bushy, whose blue eyes were open wide, his face worried. He followed suit and removed his helmet. Mojo swung his leg over the bike to disembark.