Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Eddie grabbed the unopened bottle of Quervo Gold from the centre of the conference table. Ceremoniously, he lifted the bottle up. “To our fallen brother, we cheer him on in the after-life. May he ride forever on the clouds of Loki’s castle.” Eddie unscrewed the bottle-cap and raised the bottle again, then he drank vigorously from it. He passed the ceremonial tequila to Mojo, who took a large swig. The bottle was passed on to the other three bikers and came back to Eddie. The half remaining was finished as the bottle went around for the second time.

  Lars would have approved, except for the tequila. Lars would have drunk from a bottle of Akevitte, a Norwegian traditional alcohol made from potatoes and anise. Eddie had never tasted anything so vile. Lars might have been part ‘ancient Viking’, but Eddie wasn’t going to drink that shit.

  He dismissed his disciples, but ordered them to stay close for the next few days. Another legacy from Lars’ leadership: Keep everyone around for a few days before a raid, good for bonding and morale. Eddie agreed with that notion, so the war-party would be camping out at the clubhouse until the raid was on. It always turned into a drink-fest, paired with ‘beast’ on a spit. Others were invited, of course. Details about any raid would be kept on a ‘need to know’ basis only.

  “Mojo, you stay,” Eddie commanded as he whisked the others out of the boardroom.

  “I’m going to contact Lewis and set up this meeting. Since you are the most unlikely looking biker with your smooth looks, you are the one chosen to do some recon. I’ll know where we’re going after the call. Hang here.” He pressed the numbers on the handset.

  “Lewis here,” he answered and listened to the voice over the phone. “You got some money. Good.” He flipped the zippo lid. “You want to bring it yourself? That’s nice of you. Maybe tomorrow night? I will let you know.” He hung up. Maybe it was an opportunity to get rid of Eddie. None of his plans had turned out. It was time to clean up. Salvatore was right: bikies were unreliable.

  He grabbed the mobile from the drawer, “Can you come by in the morning? Usual time.”

  The wake was still in full swing. James disappeared from the poolroom, hoping he would not be missed for a few minutes. Once outside he walked to the workshop. The lights were out already. The bikies were busy for now. He retrieved his mobile and pressed the speed-dial. “There’s not going to be an exchange of drugs. But there will be gun-fire. It will be tomorrow night. Address following...” James hung up and texted the address.

  Sneaking away from prying eyes was difficult in the charged atmosphere. The music coming from the Bose system bellowed out in the beer-garden, where the home-made spit had been lit earlier. The wholesale butcher down the road made sure he always kept a whole lamb in his cool-room for the bikers, for these occasions. This mob was one of his best customers.

  Born To Be Wild. Mojo had heard that tune before he became a bikie, but only a few times. Now he knew most of the words and that it was Steppenwolf. “Seen Easyrider, mate? Steppenwolf did a lot of music for that flick.” One of Bushy’s favourite movies and also one of his favourite bands.

  The coals in the spit tray were glowing. Mojo stood next to Duke who carefully moved the hot coals around making sure not too much ash would be disturbed and land on the slow-cooked meat, “Can’t be in a hurry. Needs to cook evenly.” Duke turned the handle of the rotisserie for the hundredth time in the last five hours. Duke was the chef. No one dared to interfere with his cooking schedule. No batteries to turn the rotisserie, this was a hand-job. Duke stayed from to start to finish, turning the rod holding the lamb every ten minutes or so, adjusting the position over the heat to ensure a perfect slow-cooked ‘beast’.

  The boisterous party mood from earlier changed to mellow. A dozen brothers stood near the spit breathing in the aroma of smoked slow-cooked lamb, passing one joint after another around the group. Some of inside crowd would come out and partake and then disappear back to the pool-room, it was like a revolving game of musical chairs. Mojo drew from a large spliff. Soon this would all be over. As he stared into the orange and red of the fire, he wasn’t sure if he wanted this night to be over so soon.

  CHAPTER 92

  THE RING OF FIRE

  As expected, Eddie was summoned at short notice. The secret locker-room in the workshop was cramped and the bikies were sweaty. Eddie finished cleaning the snub-nose .38 revolver. He loaded the hollow-point bullets one by one. Pig-stoppers, should certainly make short work of a couple of Italian mobsters.

  “Gator, Duke, you two take the sawn-offs. Stuff your pockets full of ammo,” Eddie ordered. “Both barrels need to be loaded.”

  Gator and Duke looked at each other with their backs turned to Eddie. In unison they replied, “Don’t worry boss, they will be.”

  “Vince, you and Dieter are back-up, grab the bars.”

  The towering German snatched the two inch gal water-pipes, which were cut to a length of seventy centimetres. Swung from a strong man’s arm connecting with any part of a person would hurt like hell. But a headshot from one of those would likely be lethal.

  Mojo had his own gun, ‘stolen from a copper’s kit, in a Harbord unit, when he was doing a lot of break-ins’, before joining the Sinners. Mojo had not told Eddie until yesterday, that he was in possession of a Glock 22. Eddie was too busy worrying about the raid to question the authenticity of Mojo’s story. An extra handgun was a good thing.

  With weapons readied the small band of brothers gathered in front of Eddie.

  “It is going to be simple. The meeting is scheduled for nine-thirty tonight at the wogs’ warehouse in Manly. Lewis is only expecting me, so I will ride in on my own. You guys will follow at a distance, but nowhere to be seen behind me. We’ll meet right next to the warehouse. I’ll have my phone on me. Any trouble at all and I’ll be on the ‘go button’. Got it?”

  The raiding party nodded in acknowledgment.

  Vince had brought a new wagon. Nice and shiny, the red VY Commodore quietly drove up the laneway. A few blocks away the evening was very lively. But here, a couple of hundred metres from the warehouse, the sounds of traffic, the odd car-horn blowing and other noises from the streets were muffled.

  They met around the corner of the warehouse. Eddie had arrived a few minutes earlier and had left his Harley parked nearby.

  “Stay out of sight,” Eddie whispered to his followers. “I’ll go on alone from here.” Eddie continued his quiet approach to the side door of the warehouse, as instructed by Lewis earlier. “The side-door in the alley is unlocked, come through that one.” The snub-nose Smith & Wesson was easily concealed in the small of his back stuffed down his jeans. He wore an over-sized flannel winter shirt. Eddie was tense and for the first time in many years, he felt fear. He pushed the heavy side door open further. Still standing on the outer threshold he poked his head around the door trying to see what was behind. Nothing but a high narrow hallway which was dimly lit with a few batten holder light fittings suspended from a sagging Masonite ceiling. He couldn’t quite work out the smell. Stale fruit, or old cardboard boxes.

  A cracked concrete floor led the way to another door at the end of the hallway. He mouthed a silent prayer before opening this creaky timber door. Relieved, he went through and up the rickety timber steps. Bright light from fluoro tubes shone from above. The odd smell had gone by the time he was up the stairwell. About twenty metres in front of him was an office; through the glass panel he could see Lewis smoking. The middle-aged Italian welcomed him with a wave of his hand. A feeling of calm overcame Eddie and he relaxed as he neared the mobster’s office.

  Lewis got up from his chair and extended his hand in friendship. “See, my friend, just relax, we can do business without hassles. Please sit down. May I offer you some grappa?”

  Eddie took a seat. He fidgeted while Lewis rotated his arm-chair to face a metal filing cabinet. Lewis leant over and pulled the bottom drawer out. He retrieved an unlabelled green glass bottle and a couple of small glasses and set them down on the messy desk. Le
wis shot a fleeting look past Eddie and smiled, deviously.

  “I’m going in, I don’t trust those fucking wogs,” Mojo whispered to the others. They quietly agreed. Mojo tip-toed over to the two-storey brick building. The side-door was left ajar, as Eddie said he would do. He wasn’t sure whether the bikies could see him from the corner, but this was the time to text Cate. His nimble thumbs danced the keypad and he pressed send.

  Voices were coming from upstairs. The voices sounded calm, like a conversation about a holiday recently. James was relieved. Perhaps he should just stay in the background. It was all so messy, and to what gain? If Eddie killed the mobster, they wouldn’t be able to break up the drug ring. But if Eddie didn’t kill the Italian, the whole show would tumble into a fiasco of circumstantial evidence, of a purported drug deal gone wrong. No drugs on the premises. Well maybe. At least they could pin a pre-meditated murder on the bikie leader and put him away. He could still stay on and maybe pick up the trail a bit further. Well, we’ll soon know when the shit hits the fan. His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a scuffle, like a person kicking furniture around, things dropping on the floor.

  James flew up the steep timber stairs. On top of the landing he saw a small person on Eddie’s back struggling to hold on to something. James withdrew the Glock from his shoulder holster. As he stormed the office, Eddie had straightened his back and forced himself to fall backwards on to the smaller man who was trying to choke him with a steel wire garrotte.

  Eddie’s face lit up when saw Mojo coming through the door. James saw that a balding middle-aged man seated behind the desk was brandishing a large pistol. The man pointed the .45 military style handgun at James and yelled, “Drop your gun!”

  James picked up on the mobster’s confusion as the Italian changed his aim, pointing the gun at Eddie on the floor. The big bikie was struggling with the stainless wire garrotte, his hand protecting his throat despite the wire cutting into his fingers. Eddie saw Mojo’s reflection in the window behind Lewis. The weight of the biker had winded the Calabrian hitman, but not enough for him to give up his wire easily. Eddie bounced his heavy body on top of the small attacker only to be staring into the barrel of Lewis’s gun. James’ mind was racing. Shoot the Italian before he changes his mind again.

  James pulled the trigger on the Glock. The old mobster fell back towards the window. He wasn’t fatally wounded, but seemed nevertheless shocked by the gunshot wound to his arm. Able to keep himself from falling to the ground, he lifted the other arm holding the big pistol and fired in the general direction of his opponent. James leapt aside, dodging the bullet. The sound of the blast was ringing in his ears. The impact from the missed bullet shattered the window in the office door and sent shards of glass in all directions.

  James aimed his Glock again. “Stand down or I’ll shoot again.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you!” Lewis screeched. James fired two shots and this time they both hit the mark, in the upper body. Chances for success are greater than trying to shoot someone in the head. James remembered his weapons training.

  Lewis’ sidekick was momentarily distracted and loosened his grip on the garrotte. Eddie seized the opportunity and rolled over, freeing himself from the wire. He wasted no time in pouncing on the stocky Calabrian on the floor. Eddie brought his elbow down on his opponent’s face, crushing his nose and smashing his lips onto his teeth. Then the biker swung his arm out wide, brought it back in an arc, and slammed it into the side of the hitman’s face, dislocating his jaw, grossly distorting the man’s face. The Calabrian lost consciousness.

  Eddie reached around his back and retrieved his revolver. Groaning from the effort of the fight he got to his feet and stood up. His long brown hair was tussled and in his face. He looked like a wild man. A little unsteady on his feet, he lifted his .38 and levelled it at the Calabrian on the floor. He pulled the trigger. BANG! “Die you fucking wog cocksucker.” He squeezed off another shot.

  The two detectives had been waiting for hours near the warehouse. Cate and Adam were on their own, no back-up; it was considered too risky. As soon as the first shot rang out from inside, Cate watched in horror as one of the bikies bolted towards the side-door. Shotgun in his hands, at the ready, to blast anyone to kingdom come. The bikie waited a few seconds and started to move, before Adam shouted, “Stop right there!” Adam pushed the barrel of his Glock hard against the bikie’s head.

  “I got ya Duke. I got yer back, mate.” Another bikie came running out of the dark laneway.

  Gator discharged the shotgun at the figure holding a gun to his brother’s head. The recoil was huge, the blast definitive. Both barrels had been discharged. Adam fell back against the brick-wall and slumped to the ground. The bikie Adam had restrained a few seconds ago fell forward on his face.

  Cate screamed, “Adam, no, no!” At ten paces back she turned to face the stunned bikie with the shotgun still in his hands. He was frozen. “Drop the fucking gun,” she ordered with both hands on her Glock aimed decisively at the pudgy biker’s upper body. He flinched. She fired three shots.

  Two shots into his upper body and one in the head. He dropped like a sack of spuds.

  Dieter ran out of the narrow laneway and threw his iron-bar at Cate. It cart-wheeled through the air whooshing its way towards her. She copped the cold steel bar on her gun hand, dropping the Glock. She heard her weapon clunking onto the road surface and the iron-bar smashing into the side of a parked car. Her hand and wrist felt like they were about to explode. She winced from the shock, but within seconds she took the full impact from a charging two-hundred pound raging bikie. Dieter barrelled her over and Cate skated onto the ground, her head hit the curb. She was knocked for six, out to the count.

  Vince threw his steel bar down and rushed over to Duke, who was bleeding profusely from his injuries. Dieter, however, went through the open side-door and up the stairs.

  “Only a copper says, ‘stand down’, or I’ll shoot.” Eddie was breathing heavily. His throat was severely bruised, his head was pounding and his fingers were stinging from the garrotte cuts. Dieter came barging through the office door and shoved the door hard into Eddie’s back. The snub-nose went off. The hollow-point bullet grazed Mojo’s ear. An eerie silence followed the loud bang. Mojo instantly clutched his grazed ear, and dropped his gun hand to his side.

  “You fucking German idiot. Look what you made me do.” Eddie put one hand to his ear, to stop the ringing. It didn’t help. His .38 was still trained on Mojo.

  James gazed at Eddie. The bikie boss had fire in his eyes.

  “I don’t hear any denial,” Eddie hissed.

  I’m fucked, no matter what I say. Gotta go for broke. James swung his gun arm up and levelled the Glock. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Eddie’s .38 blasted.

  Eddie watched Mojo crumble to the floor. Not so pretty anymore, Mojo. Or whatever you’re fucking name was.

  “We got to get out of here.” Eddie pushed Dieter out of the way.

  His head still in a spin, Eddie descended the steep stairs carefully. As he went through the side-door, he viewed the carnage. Bodies everywhere. Gator on the tarmac.

  Vince stood nearby shaking his head and cursing. “What a fucking disaster. What the fuck, Eddie? Jesus Christ, look! Duke’s fucked, Gator is gone. Fuck!”

  Eddie gave him an empty stare. The big German standing behind Eddie said nothing, unsure of how it was going to turn out for him.

  A soft groan came from the woman lying on the sidewalk. Her head moved slightly and she groaned again. Eddie stopped at her side and looked down at her.

  “Look who’s joined the party. It’s the bitch copper from the other night,” Eddie hissed. Well, my goose is cooked. Your mate is dead. And by the looks of it, so are some of mine. I may as well even the score. Makes no difference to me. Eddie’s face was raging.

  “Can you hear me bitch?”

  Cate stirred.

  “You’re fucked. And I just blew pretty boy’s face to smithereens. Like that?
”

  Eddie saw her try to mumble. Instead he pointed the snub-nose at her head and pulled the trigger three times. Her head jerked with each shot.

  Darren’s hands were welded to the steering wheel as the street-lighting whizzed past him. Nearly there! Please, Cate don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming. A stillness overcame him as he rounded the final corner and saw the-multi-coloured lights. Blue and red, and bright light flashing in front. His foot fell off the accelerator. The taxi slowed gradually, until it came to a halt. Darren burst out of the driver’s door. He ran at first. Men tried to stop him. Then he saw her: she was lying on the ground, her face was barely there. Her gun lay on the pavement away from her lifeless hand. “No. No. God. Please. No.” He crumbled to the ground, but he couldn’t get near her.

  CHAPTER 93

  ITS OVER

  “Up you get, mate. It’s over.” The uniformed copper put his hand around Darren’s upper arm. Firmly, but gently at first, he tried to pull Darren up from his knees.

  “No. It’s not over.” Darren got up. “Let go of me.”

  The copper released his grip. “You alright now, mate?”

  “Fine.” Darren was numb. As he turned away from the scene of the bloodbath he felt his heartbeat surging. Suddenly, he bolted to the cab and jumped behind the wheel. He turned the key to the sound of grinding, “It’s still on!” And he jerked the gear lever into reverse. The tyres screeched going backwards; he slammed the auto into D and put his foot to the floor; with wheels spinning the car shot forward.

  The streetlights, the lights from other traffic and the roads all became a tunnel vision blur. The speedo read a 112, with warning lights flickering. Oblivious to it all, Darren ignored the red lights when turning into Garden Street. He gunned the Falcon and the speeding taxi skidded into Warraba Road. Darren saw his target coming up to his right and slowed the vehicle. But only for a moment, only to adjust his direction and then he drove his foot into the accelerator pedal and speared the car through the gates and into the weatherboard clubhouse, shattering the silence of the neighbourhood.