Desire tightened his body, and armed with an added incentive to get back to the mountains, he set off again, sun visor down so it covered much of his face.
He made good time, and once he hit the motorway he got a straight run into the city, the only hitch, a brief stop for some maintenance work being carried out under powerful light towers. For a full two minutes he sat there, exposed in a blaze of artificial light, waiting for the Stop/Go man to turn his sign around.
After that, he was passing through the sleeping north shore suburbs and crossing the Harbour Bridge. He turned right at the Conservatorium of Music, a gothic structure complete with turrets, then wound his way around the Barracks and Hyde Park.
At five thirty, he parked the WRX ten minutes from his home in inner city Surry Hills, stowed the overcoat with the rest of his clothes, and covered the remaining distance on foot. It was humid in the city, and he was sweating inside the leather jacket by the time he turned into James Road and scanned the streetscape.
As befitting his bikie status, the house was in the light industrial part of the suburb, surrounded by clothing factories and printing businesses, away from the trendy shops and cafes. This early, the road was eerily quiet, streetlights reflecting on the wet bitumen, the only sign of life a guy who’d passed out among the rubbish near a set of concrete steps.
Resignation weighed Nate down like body armour, anxiety eating away at the lining of his stomach as he let himself in the front door and switched on the hall light. A central corridor ran the length of the house, transporting him back to Sunday night.
Another house, another corridor, walls papered with magazine cut-outs.
Kennett’s massive frame.
A crunch of bone, a hiss of air as the breath left Mulvaney’s body.
Josie’s traumatised face on screen.
It was an image that would haunt his dreams.
Looking for signs of disturbance, Nate checked the two bedrooms and living room. The house, so different from his home in the Blue Mountains, remained exactly as he’d left it. Not that he was concerned. There was no incriminating evidence here that would reveal his true identity, save for the notebook computer hidden under the old copper in the laundry.
He ran his eye over the cheap vinyl lounge and scratched wooden furniture, the “clincher that made the place a real bargain”, according to the leasing agent. A mug, half filled with congealed coffee sat where he’d left it on the wobbly table, along with last Saturday’s newspaper.
He stared at the room as if from a distance. Was he capable of stepping inside this world again, this dreary undercover existence? A few days ago, browned off and lonely as he was, he would have said yes.
Now he wasn’t sure.
Gees, Hunter, get a grip. No going soft. Not with the end in sight.
Forcing aside the negativity, Nate checked the back door then went into the laundry, a largish room at the back. The suburb had little in the way of off-street parking, and the room served as a garage.
He hesitated in the doorway, again checking for signs of disturbance. An oval, plastic basket filled with clothes, sat atop the old-fashioned copper in one corner of the room. A washing machine stood under the window, hose draping into a large cement tub, black motorcycle helmet perched on the lid.
But it was the blacked out, double-barrelled exhaust, Harley Davidson Night Rod standing in the centre of the room which commanded Nate’s attention. Sinister as hell and aggressively styled, the bike was a dream to ride, and by far the most valuable item in the house.
He stared at the beautifully constructed motorcycle.
Life, liberty and the pursuit of freedom.
The signature phrase was losing its relevance, the fabric of the bikie movement fraying at the edges. Outlaw gangs recruited young men straight from prison, and drugs weren’t the only order of the day, but luxury car jackings for spare parts, and the importation of illegal firearms.
Josie wouldn’t stand a chance.
Nate’s gut tightened like a steel band. He wouldn’t stand a chance if they caught the merest whiff of betrayal.
And if they discovered he was a cop?
The end wouldn’t be quick.
Life, liberty and the pursuit of freedom.
Bullshit.
He reached under the copper, slid the notebook out from the hidden bracket underneath and put it in the storage compartment on the bike. Then, he picked up the black beanie from where he’d left it on the bike seat. It would cover his newly cropped hair, at least until he got inside the bikie compound and confronted Kennett.
Half an hour later, Nate stopped at a small deli on his way to western Sydney and forced a bacon and egg roll and a cup of strong coffee into his rebellious stomach.
As planned, he was half an hour early when he pulled into the driveway of the Altar Boys’ compound and saw Bull on the gate.
Bull was around five ten, with a shaved head and a long seedy plait hanging between his shoulder blades. He was patched up, and had a reputation as an extreme member of the inner circle.
No-one ever crossed Bull.
Nate sat on the idling bike, scanning the compound from behind the perspex shield of his helmet. Three lines of barbed wire topped the corrugated iron fence surrounding the property, the gate being the sole access in and out. Cameras, mounted on either side of the driveway, fed CCTV footage back into the clubhouse. The club flag flew at full mast from a white pole just inside the gate.
Barely glancing his way, Bull came towards Nate. Edgy, the bikie’s eyes followed the movement of traffic out on the road, as if expecting trouble.
A counter strike from the Southern Cross no doubt.
‘Bull,’ Nate greeted him, flipping up the facial, the collar of his jacket turned up. There was no way Bull would notice the long hair was gone.
‘Bolt.’ Bull swung the gate open, eyes still on the street. “Bolter” was Nate’s club name, bestowed on him after he’d taken out one of the club’s in-house boxing tournaments. Compared to the stouter bikies who favoured street fighting, Nate was light on his feet and had a quick one two jab, thanks to hours of training in the police boxing gym.
He’d bolted in, they’d said, the win earning him as much respect as his ability to pick a deadlock. Within hours, “Bolter” had been shortened to “Bolt”.
Kennett was the only one who sometimes referred to him by another name, usually “pretty boy” or “dolly”.
Nate opened the throttle a little and roared up the driveway. An old hosiery factory, the clubhouse was a large, single story brick structure with an iron roof. Access into the clubhouse was via two roller doors, now open.
Kennett’s bike was parked outside.
The only other machine was Bull’s.
If luck was on his side, he’d get to speak to Kennett before the other bikies arrived, though the chapter leader wouldn’t want to know the details of Josie’s demise. The less Kennett knew, the better he’d perform in any police interrogation or lie detector test.
Arranging his features into an expressionless mask, Nate parked the Night Rod on the other side of Bull’s Chopper, took off his helmet and entered the clubhouse.
Stretching out the taut muscles in his neck, he scanned the huge space. The club banner hung above an unlicensed bar, three quarters the length of one wall. The adjacent wall was decorated with framed photographs of special edition Choppers and Harleys.
Nate walked towards the bar, eyes shifting to the boxing ring in the corner where he’d achieved much of his notoriety. Two pool tables and a couple of white plastic outdoor settings were arranged nearby. More chairs were lined against the wall as if in an old-fashioned dance hall.
The place was deserted and Nate relaxed a fraction. He’d been summoned here. Surely if they were onto him, there would be more members present than Bull and Kennett.
A boot squeaked on the polished cement and Kennett came towards him from the direction of the kitchen. The chapter leader hesitated when he saw Nate, the
n continued on, holding out a cardboard box so Nate could put his mobile phone inside.
Standard procedure. All mobile phones were handed in when the bikies attended church.
Nate wasn’t sure why, maybe because he’d spent the last day and a half staring at Josie, but Kennett looked bigger and meaner than ever. Completely bald, save for one black tuft of hair at his nape, the chapter leader stank of sweat and axle grease, his grey beard tinged a seedy yellow.
Tension cramping his stomach, Nate maintained eye contact with Kennett and fantasised about killing Josie. Sick and twisted as it was — he needed to imagine her dead in his arms if he were to be convincing.
‘Viper,’ he bit out, eyes stinging as his breakfast made its way back up his gullet. He coughed, swiped the back of his gloved hand across his mouth and fought down the self-inflicted nausea.
‘You fix things?’
He nodded, once.
Kennett’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
‘You — owe me,’ Nate bit out. ‘I want Grassy’s run. The guy’s a fucking liability and I’m not sticking around here doing this kind of shit and getting nowhere.’
He let the insinuation hang in the air. The bikies hated nothing more than a member defecting to another gang.
And Nate had a lot on Kennett.
Not that they’d ever let him leave.
Kennett glanced towards the open roller door. ‘Take it easy, Bolt.’
He’d bought it!
‘I don’t know, man.’ Nate dragged off the beanie and went for broke. ‘I’ve been earning my patches for two years now, even had to cut my fucking hair in case the pigs got me on camera.’
Kennett’s gold tooth glinted from behind his beard. ‘Shave it.’
In your dreams, dickhead.
Nate dragged some gold coins from his pocket and turned his back on Kennett, inserting the money into a nearby drink machine and keying in the code for a Coke.
‘I broke you into that joint, had your back, even dealt with the bitch.’ Nate picked up the can from the collection tray. ‘What more do you need?’
‘You know how things work around here, Bolt.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know, Viper.’ Nate stepped closer, got right up in Kennett’s face for the second time that week. ‘Most of our members are decent people, simple bike enthusiasts, but there’s a handful who take care of the rough stuff, and make the serious dough.’
He popped the top and took a long drink, glancing towards the roller door as another bike roared up the driveway.
He brought his gaze back to Kennett. ‘I want in.’
Chapter 13
3:00 p.m. Tuesday
Josie smiled her thanks as Dickson set a mug of coffee in front of her. It was their third for the day.
Earlier, he’d taken detailed notes of her version of Sunday night’s events, and after sharing sandwiches at lunch time, she’d grown more comfortable with Nate’s controller being in the house.
It was infinitely preferable to being alone.
In the afternoon, Dickson began working through the files restored onto Nate’s computer, insisting they work side by side at the dining room table so he could watch her screen as she accessed the Australian Securities and Investment Commission’s website. Never once did he leave her alone with the computer.
It was annoying that he didn’t trust her, and understandable he wouldn’t.
Now, as she studied him over the rim of her coffee mug, she came to the conclusion Boy Wonder was okay.
But he wasn’t Nate.
And the hollow feeling she’d woken with was still there.
‘Any patterns?’ Dickson asked, looking up and catching her watching him.
Josie lowered her mug and glanced at the flowcharts she’d drawn on her legal pad. Nate had asked them to pay particular attention to the drycleaners, which was in the underground section of the Queen Victoria Building and a Fit Forever gymnasium situated in the same arcade at street level.
‘I haven’t got far enough in to detect any patterns. I’ve got company tax file numbers and registered business names, but there’s a network of companies involved, and each time I follow one path it leads me down another.’
Dickson reached for his mobile as an alert came through. ‘Keep looking.’
Josie tensed, holding her breath and praying the message was from Nate.
‘It’s not him.’ Dickson put the phone down. ‘There’s been nothing since this morning when he left the house in Surry Hills.’
‘Should we be worried?’
Dickson pressed his lips together and gave her a look that said he didn’t appreciate her questioning him. Not that she cared.
‘It’s normal. We keep contact to a minimum. He’ll check in when he can.’
Josie let go of a breath and turned back to the computer.
‘What’s so great about him anyway?’
Josie looked over at Nate’s partner. He was reclined in the chair, fingers interlocked behind his shaved head, weight balanced on the chair’s back legs.
He spread his hands. ‘I mean, the guy’s so intense.’
Josie turned a page on her pad and waggled the pen between her fingers. Obviously Dickson had never witnessed Nate’s lighter side. ‘If you need to ask, you won’t understand.’
‘Ouch. Touchy.’ Dickson lowered the chair back on all four legs and shrugged. ‘I just want to know how he pulls all the chicks.’
Small pinpricks of disappointment stung Josie’s stomach. She knew Nate possessed a flirty gene, but she’d always thought it the harmless “fun” variety. “Pulling all the chicks” suggested a serial flirt. Did she believe that? When she’d made the ill-fated move at the party, he’d been openly mortified he’d given her the wrong impression.
She shrugged. ‘Some guys just have the X factor I guess.’
Hoping that would put an end to it, Josie peered at her computer monitor, but Dickson wouldn’t be discouraged.
‘There’s a history between you two, isn’t there?’
‘Hardly.’ Josie typed a company name into the ASIC search tool. ‘He worked for Allegra’s husband for a while. There was office contact, that’s all.’
‘Was that when he was suspended?’
Josie’s fingers stilled on the keyboard and she looked at Dickson again, torn between wanting to know, and refusing to pry into Nate’s business.
‘For getting involved with that member of congress in the States?’ he went on.
Josie shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘She was receiving threats from some Australian ex-pat wanted back here.’ Dickson frowned. ‘She had a kid too. I think Nate wanted them to move out here.’
The boy in the wallet.
Not a godson. Not even a nephew.
Oh God!
She was such an idiot. How could she be so stupid as to go there a second time? With the deadline for his return to the bikies hanging over him, Nate had obviously given in to a sudden urge, a moment of madness that wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t got out of bed and gone into his room.
A dark pall of regret settled over Josie. Thank God he’d seen her bruises and brought things to a halt before that kiss led to something else.
A United States Member of Congress.
A mature woman — probably of a similar age.
A boy he loved — enough to carry his photograph in his wallet.
‘Anyway.’ Dickson waved a hand, voice breaking into her thoughts. ‘I’m not speaking out of turn. It’s common knowledge in the service.’
‘I’m not in the service.’
‘No.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But Hunter has a habit of “falling for his leading lady” if you know what I mean.’
Josie glared, would have told him to stick his opinion where the sun don’t shine, except Nate’s warning not to unleash her mouth on Dickson stopped her. ‘And you thought I should be aware of it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I don�
��t give a damn about Nate Hunter’s pattern of behaviour.’ She shifted her attention back to the computer screen, female intuition warning her Dickson Cross had an ulterior motive for telling her this.
‘I just want my life back.’
Darkness surrounded Nate, not the protective kind, like when he and Josie had walked through the arbour, cool mountain air brushing their skin.
Oppressive.
Spinning.
He tried to make a fist, lift his arm.
Numbness — a dead weight.
His diaphragm contracted, squeezing his stomach muscles and threatening to expel its contents.
He jerked forward.
Upright.
A moving weight on his knees.
Hands around his neck.
Jesus!
A sickly odour made him want to avert his face but he couldn’t move. He opened his mouth, searching for oxygen, throat like sandpaper, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.
Josie’s face swam into view and he mentally grasped at it.
Concentrated on keeping her near.
She drew closer, young and beautiful. She was holding two champagne flutes.
Cute.
Small.
She offered him a glass. Picked up a strawberry and ate it. Said something, her mouth moving.
He couldn’t hear.
Speak up, Josie.
Why couldn’t he hear?
She reached for him.
He held out his arms. Agony in his left shoulder.
He faltered, breath leaving him.
Come on, Hunter — fight.
Josie stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
Sticky — sweet.
Nauseating.
Wrong!
Chapter 14
5:00 p.m. Tuesday
Allegra climbed out of Luke’s AMG and pulled a white baseball cap over her hair. She leaned down and spoke to him through the open window.
‘Do I pass as a jogger?’
In Safe Arms Page 10