by TJ Park
“Stop. Now, hold hands.”
At this last order, the woman and two men peered at him, confused.
“I mean it! Hold hands! Now!”
They clumsily did as they were told. Joining hands appeared to make the men more docile, left without even the presence of mind to position the girl between them.
Now for the more delicate part: Doug knew better than to begin ordering the pilots and guards to do the same. They weren’t his to do anything with yet.
“Check them,” he told Cutter. He made his voice carry so the guard with the gun heard it plainly. “Just to make sure they’re not carrying.”
Doug didn’t think it was a set-up. If it was a trick they deserved Oscars, including Best Makeup award for the guard with the bloody gash on his head. But, best to be sure. He knew from experience you could look worried whether you were carrying a gun into a fight or not.
Cutter did not frisk as much as pummel, almost knocking down the slender pilot. When it was their turn, the guards looked churlish enough to try something dumb, but resisted. Doug didn’t much care for private security. The work attracted men with an inflated sense of importance, emboldened by the value of the cargo they watched over. And what these guards had in their possession was very valuable indeed.
“Well?” It was the final guard, who had remained silent during the process.
Doug knew little about him, but what he knew was key. That his name was Torlach. That he was good at his job and also a loving family man. That he was here under duress and couldn’t be pushed much further.
Doug sympathised, but kept a bead on him. He nodded at Cutter, who broke into a flat jog as he went back toward the main building.
“This better be on the up and up!” Torlach shouted.
Doug kept his tone reasonable and sure. “It is on our end, if it is on yours.”
Torlach tried to lock his glare on Doug. He was finding it difficult. Doug moved out of direct sight, behind the ground crew, making it harder for Torlach to get a fix. Sensibly, everyone else kept still, quiet. One of the ground staff began to sob. Doug wasn’t entirely sure it was the girl.
Cutter came back trundling the soda machine on the trolley. Torlach looked ready to unravel with impatience.
“Easy,” Doug assured him. “We’re getting to it.”
Cutter parked the machine so everyone had a clear view. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the box and swung the front panel open.
Except for one or two muted gasps the silence on the tarmac was profound.
Revealed inside the hollowed-out machine was a bound and gagged boy.
The wall of the improvised cell was lined with a thin mattress – to soundproof the machine as much as to insulate and protect the occupant. Though there were nominal air vents, an oxygen tank was attached to the ceiling and tuned to a constant low pressure. There was even a container at the boy’s feet to catch spills in the event he had to go to the toilet. Some cruel wag – it had to be Cutter – had ripped a page from a “Where’s Wally?” book and stuck it to the inside of the door to give the boy something to do. Like it was possible to read in the dark.
Doug could barely make himself look. He had eventually reconciled himself to the machine’s use in transporting the boy, and then done what he could to make it comfortable. But he suspected the child would suffer claustrophobia for the rest of his life. He noticed now the boy’s nose was bloodied. No doubt due to Cutter’s lack of care.
Torlach’s anxiety rose up in a cry: “Matthew!”
The boy’s cheeks were huffing and puffing behind the gag. A large blood bubble burst from one nostril.
“Take the gag off him,” Doug told Cutter, “and wipe his nose, for god’s sake.”
Cutter pulled the gag down, the boy’s head nodding roughly with it. He produced a bandanna from his pocket and dabbed roughly under the child’s nose, spreading the blood around a bit, making the kid look like he’d been into a jam jar.
“I’m here, Matthew,” Torlach called.
The boy’s blinking eyes found his father and went wide with yearning.
“It’s okay, Matty.” Torlach’s voice cracked midway. “I’ll get you out of there.”
Doug said, “I’ve shown you mine, mate. Now show me yours.”
Fishing a key from his pocket, Torlach tossed it to the guard with the bloodied head, ordering him to open the crate. The key bounced off the other man’s chest. He was reluctant to bend down and pick it up, almost comically slow. Torlach ordered the third guard to hand his key over as well. To those two keys, the bloodied guard – Doug called him “Red” – added his own, trying not to look like he was stalling. Red squatted down in front of the crate to fit the first key in the lock. The keys were colour-coded, one for each of the three locks on the crate.
His hand still gripping the key, Red gave vent to his anger. “Don’t go through with this. You’ll never work again, Torlach. Not in security. The company will see to it.”
Cutter snorted. Even Doug had to smile. What a joke.
Hearing them, Red’s face flamed. He had to fumble with the key twice before he could turn it. “You won’t be paid to count change in a tuckshop!” he yelled at Torlach.
Cutter could barely contain himself, hooting his delight.
Red fitted the second key. Doug didn’t know why he let him keep talking. Maybe because he was still doing what he was told. Or perhaps Doug relished the man’s helplessness. Perhaps things around here simply needed livening up.
“Del Rossi will go after you for every last cent. Your children’s grandchildren will be paying it off after you’re dead!” Red barked.
He just got funnier. Cutter guffawed out loud and stamped his foot.
“I think you’re in with this lot,” Red shouted. He nodded at the drink machine and the boy in it. “What sort of mongrel would do that to his own kid?”
Torlach suddenly looked wild. He would have done something, but Doug got in first. “Shut up,” he said with menacing finality, although he would have enjoyed seeing Torlach pistol-whip Red to the ground. The last key turned in the crate. Red hesitated when he grasped what looked to be a large black button.
“I don’t know the combination.”
It set off a ferocious vibration in Torlach, threatening to shake him apart.
“Stop fucking around or I’ll kill you myself!”
Red baulked, but then held firm. “I don’t know the combination. I’m not supposed to. Only the sender and receiver know the numbers. Company policy.”
In response, Torlach took three large paces and held the pistol to Red’s temple.
Red hesitated for only a moment longer, then bent swiftly to the task. He gave the combination lock a few rough twists and threw the lid of the crate open before stepping away, washing his hands of the whole business.
But Doug wouldn’t let him off that easily.
“No, come back. Throw me a sample.”
He didn’t want to get too close to Torlach, not while he still had a gun.
Red returned to the crate, reached inside and then tossed a small, soft drawstring bag in Doug’s direction. It fell far short. Whether it was to show he wasn’t cowed or because he had mischief in mind, Doug didn’t know. He reminded himself to deliver Red a pistol-whipping of his own before they parted company.
He nudged the girl.
“Go get that for me, will you, love?”
The girl slowly prised her hands from her two colleagues, then approached the dropped bag on trembling legs, expecting to be shot in the back any moment.
She returned and timorously handed it over.
“Thank you, Sonya,” Doug said.
She looked shocked and terrified that he should know her name, sliding her sweaty hands back into those of her two equally frightened co-workers.
Making sure Cutter had everyone covered, Doug loosened the bag’s drawstring. The sensation of handling the velvety deep purple bag was almost electric. He upended it to inspe
ct the miracle that dropped onto his open palm.
At first glance it was a worthless chunk of rock, until the sun caught the uncut promise in its core. Then you were in the presence of black opal, the rarest gemstone on earth, queen of “the queen of gems”. This specimen was easily the size of a hen’s egg.
Despite needing to move things along, Doug turned the stone back and forth in the light, enraptured. The opal would be indicative of several more in the crate: large stones with high domes, laced with a distinctive “rolling flash” pattern. It was the brilliant colour play that spoke value. The stone in his hand was saturated with a crimson so vivid he could almost feel it beating with his life’s blood.
Not since laying eyes on his ex-wife for the first time, or holding his newborn son in his arms, had Doug fallen so quickly, so absolutely in love.
Chapter Two
Torlach had done as instructed: divert a shipment of showcase gems en route to a hush-hush shareholder’s exhibition in Brisbane to a pissant airfield in the middle of nowhere.
“You’ve got what you wanted, now give me my son!”
And Doug would honour the deal – in his fashion. He and Cutter had enough plastic ties to truss everyone hand and foot, before locking them in the office. Torlach would get his son. Doug would make sure they were tied together.
Or would have, until he heard a loud bang and things went completely to shit. Cutter had slammed the drink machine’s door shut on the boy.
“We’re taking the kid,” he said.
Torlach remained deadly quiet. Doug would have preferred bulging eyes and a screaming fit. “Cutter?” Doug enquired.
But Cutter was speaking to Torlach. “You’ll get little Matty back when we know we’re home free.”
Torlach rocked in place, his feet anchored. “I want my boy!”
“Cutter …” Doug cautioned. But he was unsure of how to follow it up. They had to appear to be in agreement or they’d lose control of the situation real quick.
“Give me my son!” Torlach shouted again. He lurched two steps forward.
“You can come too, if you like,” Cutter replied. “Might get a bit squashed with both of you in there, though.”
“Cutter! Torlach!” But Doug couldn’t get their attention.
And suddenly the spell was broken. The element of surprise and shock wearing off. The guards were backing away. Doug saw them eye their surroundings, plotting.
“You two pricks!” He pointed his gun at them. “On the ground, now!”
Red started to crouch, then hesitated, shooting a look to his partner.
“I said, now!” Doug shouted with all the authority he could muster. He would have risked a shot in the air, or even bounced one off the tarmac at their feet, except it could have sparked Cutter and Torlach into blazing away. So far, they were all talk.
He had to make a move, and do it resolutely, make it part of the plan, so began striding toward Cutter. It was a calculated risk. It was also a mistake.
Red saw his opening and made a break for it. He charged directly for Torlach, as if to tackle him, but then veered away at the last moment, leaping up the stairs and into the plane. Torlach hadn’t noticed, or chose to ignore it, his only focus his son.
Doug yelled for Red to stop, to come back, but might as well have been shouting at the wind. Damn! Even if he couldn’t take off, Red could radio for help. The bastard could make things tough just by locking the bloody door.
The hostages looked set to scatter. It was coming apart. There was no way to retrieve the situation, only salvage what he could. Doug raised his gun to bring down Torlach and was about to shoot when Red appeared again at the hatch, holding what looked like a closed umbrella, trying to cock it. The automatic rifle jumped crazily as he opened fire, spraying bullets at anything and everything in sight.
***
A car pulled up on the highway. A Ford station wagon, lime-green with a muddy skirt of a rich-red brown, a nausea-inducing combination if considered too long. But there were more jarring sights this day.
The car had slowed to a halt alongside the hitchhiker, but not to offer a lift. The driver’s attention was seized by the same spectacle that held the long-haired weirdo. They stared with the same slack-jawed astonishment, absorbed in the gun battle underway at the distant airfield. The sounds carried clearly.
The driver, a red-faced man in his fifties with wisps of blond hair wreathed around his ears, slowly wound down the window.
“What is it?”
The hitchhiker spun with a shriek, caught totally unaware. Hanging from his waist was a battered bumbag, slung low like a distended crotch. He shoved both hands inside and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “It’s on!” he screamed into it. “It’s fucking on!”
Then, ogling wildly at the driver, the hitchhiker scrabbled to retrieve something from his backpack. He danced clumsily around in a half-circle, giving the startled driver a good gander at the stock of a sawn-off shotgun he was trying to pull free. The station wagon stung the hitchhiker with loose gravel as it swung around, fishtailing, and went haring back toward town.
Ahead, company was coming. A second car, the white Falcon that almost ironed out the hitchhiker earlier, appeared on the rise, returning fast. The station wagon flashed its lights and sounded a horn, the driver waving frantically, signalling to turn back.
The Falcon got the message but didn’t retreat. Instead it screeched to a sliding halt, taking up both lanes of the road, blocking the station wagon’s path. As it rocked on its springs, a short, rotund man leapt from the Falcon’s passenger seat, the shotgun in his hands erupting the instant his bandy legs hit the bitumen.
The first shot slammed the hood open on the oncoming station wagon, obscuring the windshield and causing the vehicle to veer off road into the scrub. The bandy-legged man chased it with a second blast. The rear licence plate caved in and the boot flew ajar, but still the wagon didn’t stop. Bucking so hard its rear axle was seen, the car cantered into the low brush, the boot and hood flapping like a scrub turkey being chased by a fox.
The Falcon screeched in a tight circle, collecting the rotund man, then went for the hitchhiker, tyres smoking. Skidding to a stop beside him, the hippie was draped in a poisonous black cloud. He had not so much as managed to release the safety on his sawn-off. The fat chap in the passenger seat leaned over and threw open the back door.
“Get in!”
The shout was pure eagerness, the charged cry of someone who did not want to miss out on any of the fun. The car door closed on the hitchhiker’s leg as the Falcon peeled away, gunning toward the aerodrome.
The third occupant of the Falcon was hunched over the wheel, a wiry, leathery man surely nudging a pension, the ruthless concentration in his red-rimmed eyes magnified by round spectacles. The hitchhiker was still spluttering excuses for missing the station wagon when the gun-toting passenger twisted round in the front seat. His eyes were wide and manic.
“Gimmee.”
The hitchhiker rummaged through his bumbag and pulled out a small clear plastic bag, clip-sealed and bottom-heavy with white powder. Before he could speak it was snatched from his hands, his pinkie ring nearly taken with it.
***
Red fired the automatic rifle indiscriminately, uncaring who he might hit, which perhaps explained why he’d hit no-one on the first pass, nor the second.
Doug shouted at anyone who would listen to get down. Sonya and her workmates needed no encouragement. Neck ran in long, looping strides, more like he was coasting than running for his life. He staggered, did a big pantomime of deciding whether to fall or not, then slapped a hand to his bleeding left thigh and kept going with a limp. Incredibly, Duckbill approached the spraying automatic rifle, his face scrunched up and his hands out as if pleading for his life. He was an enticing target but any shots taken at him somehow missed. Sonya did the only half-smart thing, dropping on the spot, arms wrapped over her head. It was a shambles, rather than a proper gun battle. But not without real dang
er.
Cutter backed away casually as he returned fire on Red.
“Don’t shoot the bloody plane!” Doug yelled at him.
Red, in turn, began to concentrate fire on Cutter. His shots sparked the ground near the Coke machine, causing Torlach to scream and begin firing at him as well.
Red disappeared inside the plane; whether because he was shot or doing a swift dodge, Doug couldn’t tell.
Torlach hesitated, looking toward Doug, unsure what to do next. Were they now working together? Cutter took immediate advantage, firing as he strode toward Torlach, swearing as he went, finding his target.
The third guard hadn’t yet moved, watching from a frozen crouch beside the crate, his fingers splayed on the tarmac like at the beginning of a foot race. He picked the wrong moment to set off. Cutter swivelled and kept firing, ending the guard’s run before he made the first hurdle. The guard fell, thrashing and screaming, rolling over and over as if trying to put out a fire, not the two bullets in his back.
Cutter returned his attention to Torlach, firing until he was empty. No matter: he could take his time reloading. Torlach was in a bad way. He was crawling on his belly. He made a dazed start for the plane’s stair, then changed his mind and began crawling toward the vending machine.
“Matthew,” he croaked.
Cutter misheard him. “Fuck you, too,” he replied and shot him point-blank. Torlach’s head snapped back, then drooped forward again with a tired sigh that seemed to come from every atom. A moment later his dead weight smacked into the tarmac.
Doug watched, dumbstruck, his back against the side of the plane, gun trained on the hatch. He was praying Red would reveal his head so he could blow it off. From somewhere inside, Red let off short bursts of automatic fire through the open door.
Doug sidled up to the opening, as close as he dared … then he was stuck, unable to think of what to do next. The plane had emergency exits on the other side, but inaccessible without making a lot of noise. And he wasn’t going to charge a fortified position; that shit went out with Gallipoli.