The master bedroom did contain a bed, and the wardrobe contained clothes, though most of the dress-carriers also carried the label of the hire company to which they could be returned.
“Strange place,” Clyde said, from the doorway. “No personal touches at all.”
“There are a few,” Tess said. “But there’s something staged about them. Something staged about the whole place. It feels as deliberately fake as if she’d filled the place with soft toys and the walls with children’s drawings. She was trying to project an image out there, but in here, in her bedroom, I’d expect to find something that gave an insight into her real self.”
“She wasn’t married, right?” Clyde asked.
“No,” Tess said. “No kids. No spouse.”
“No sign of an extended family,” Clyde said.
“Let’s be gracious and assume that she kept all that back in her constituency,” Tess said. “Or maybe at her office in parliament. The alternative, considering how she died, is just too bleak.”
“What do you want done with the looters?” Clyde asked.
“It’s their lucky day,” Tess said. “Finish emptying those cupboards in the kitchen and bring the bags to the car. I’ll send Zach in to help you.”
Tess returned outside. “Zach, go help Clyde.” She turned to the three looters. “Listen up. Our strike force is hunting the mercenaries who were working with Erin Vaughn, so you’re doubly lucky. Firstly, that it was us who found you and not them. Secondly, because I don’t have time to take you in for processing. Canberra is in lockdown. If you’ve been listening to the radio, you know. The walls are guarded. No one leaves. No one enters unless they go through quarantine. There’s no escape, but if you have been paying attention to the radio, you’ll know there’s nowhere on Earth to escape to. The shelter-in-place order will expire tomorrow, and everyone will be conscripted. But since you’re out here looting, you must have run out of food of your own. Go to the airport. Report for duty. I’ll check around dawn. If you’re not there, your names will be broadcast on the morning news as wanted for questioning in connection with the coup. Got it? Go.”
“That’s it?” Elaina asked, as the three cautiously got to their feet, then more quickly, hurried away. “Aren’t we arresting them?”
“We’d have to feed them, watch them, arrange a trial, a punishment,” Tess said. “For petty looting, it’s not worth our time.”
Zach staggered outside, struggling under the weight of an overly full bag. “This one’s mine,” he declared.
“It’s not,” Tess said. “Because we’re not keeping it. We’ll drop the bag off at the emergency depot on our way back.”
“We can’t keep any of it?” Zach asked. “Not even the biscuits?”
“One pack of biscuits,” Tess said. “But only one, and you’re sharing with everyone. Anything else would be stealing, and if we don’t keep the law, we can’t expect anyone else to.”
“Have we anywhere else to search?” Toppley asked.
Tess walked across to the dark lamppost, leaned against it, and looked up at the sky. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I can think of a dozen places I’d hide, and I barely know this city. Vaughn could be anywhere. Lignatiev had a helicopter up at the transmitter. He guessed things might go north. Vaughn might have assumed the same and made a plan of her own. She had the time, and authority, to arrange a road-route through the walls and beyond. Wilson’s house seemed a logical place for her to hide, but perhaps it was too obvious. It’s hard trying to think like a criminal.”
“We think just like everyone else,” Toppley said. “Because we are just like everyone else. Criminality, for most people, is a matter of timing, marking the difference between borrowing an item and keeping it.”
“I won’t say you’re completely wrong,” Tess said. “But—” She stopped, turned, and looked back at Wilson’s house. “Timing. The mercenaries were hired before the outbreak. They had to have hidden somewhere.”
“A rental property, one assumes,” Toppley said.
“But afterward, they had to hide somewhere no one would be billeted,” Tess said. “A building not in danger of re-allocation, and Anna was in charge of the list. Anna and Aaron Bryce. We searched most of the reserved properties this morning, and these were the last three. Senator Aaron Bryce owned a mansion in Redhill, but he committed suicide in suburbia, and he lived in the smallest room in a hotel. And it was suicide, I’m sure of it. Not murder. Anna said he was struggling, out of his depth, refusing promotions and responsibility, but is that enough to warrant suicide? I assumed it, partly because there’d been so many other political suicides before my arrival here. Suicides I now suspect were murders.”
“You think he had some involvement in the conspiracy?” Toppley asked.
“I hope not,” Tess said. “Because it would mean the trail doesn’t stop with him. His father-in-law, Malcolm Baker, is in contention for most corrupt man in the country. However, Vaughn and Lignatiev didn’t pay for the mercenaries themselves. But that’s an issue for tomorrow. Tonight, I want to pay Aaron’s house a visit. Get everyone back in the cars, and tell them we’re driving to Redhill. We won’t find Vaughn there, but we might find where they were plotting. Maybe we’ll find out what they were plotting to do next.”
In most respects, Vaughn no longer mattered. She’d lost all authority and all chance of acquiring power. But Sir Malcolm Baker was a very different matter. His mining interests made him an even more influential figure than he’d been a month ago. His old contacts gave him influence among the politicians returning from Hobart. Worse still, Sir Malcolm had a connection to Oswald Owen. In which case, the coup might barely have begun.
Consulting her notebook, then the map, she drove the lead car through a suburb of million-dollar homes. The properties reallocated to refugees were noticeable by the caravans in the driveways, the DIY-store huts and cabins on the front lawns, the new fences and occasional sentry posts.
Two streets away, according to her map, Tess pulled the car in. Elaina parked the follow-car behind. Tess switched off the engine, grabbed her shotgun, and climbed out. The silent street nearly hummed with the hushed watchfulness of sleeping citizens woken by the unfamiliar sound of an engine. She could sense them, in their beds, some at their windows, breath held, hoping the vehicles’ arrival didn’t also mark the arrival of the same dangers from which they’d fled.
“Lights off,” she whispered as Zach and Toppley turned theirs on. “I want you to wait here. Quietly.” She took off her helmet, and then her body armour, and put them into the car. “Clyde, lose the helmet and the submachine gun, then lend me your arm. We’re taking a night-time stroll.”
“You want us to play the old couple getting a few minutes away from the kids?” he asked, handing his helmet to Zach.
“Less of the old, thanks,” Tess said. “But yeah. You have a sidearm? Keep it ready.”
Arm in arm, keeping to the occasionally illuminated footpath, they made their way to Endeavour Street.
Even with the hastily built fences, the houses were pleasant. Roomy. Spacious drives were bordered by neat flowerbeds. Those on the uphill side of the sloping road even had a view, though darkness hid it from her. They were more expensive properties than she could afford, but they weren’t truly high-end. They were the homes of upper management, not the board. She got the impression Sir Malcolm had bought his daughter and son-in-law the smallest property he could get away with.
Senator Bryce’s home was a corner-plot ringed by a pale blue painted wall and a privacy hedge to which an unseasoned wooden fence had been added. Part of the hedge had been crudely hacked down, making way for support posts to be planted in its stead, while more support props jutted out onto the footpath. A sturdy metal gate secured the drive, though with wooden panelling behind. But it was what was on the gate that caught her eye. The painted Hospital No Entry was clearly legible even under the faint glow of the streetlamp opposite. The note pinned to the gate was less so. She
stepped closer, squinting. It said something about being a temporary measles and chicken-pox ward for the nearby hospital.
Above the fence, she could see a two-wing house, with the upper-floor rooms on either wing having matching balconies. There were no lights, however, nor any sounds. Deciding they’d lingered long enough, she tugged on Clyde’s arm, continuing on around the corner.
“No lights,” Clyde said when they were out of earshot.
“No sentries,” Tess said. “But that note on the gate said it was an overflow ward. And it’s not. We’re using the leisure centre for that.”
“Good ruse, though,” Clyde said. “Have we found it?”
“I think so,” Tess said. “Let’s get the others.”
“The house appears empty,” Tess said when she and Clyde had returned to the cars. “Someone’s pretended it was an overflow ward for the hospital. We’re going to take a look. The windows are dark, but we’ll assume Vaughn is inside. Remember, the goal is to make her run, not get into a firefight. Dawn’s only a few hours away, and if we can confirm she’s here, we can put out a bulletin on the radio. But in case the hospital did claim the house, and word never made it up to us, fingers off triggers. Teegan, Clyde, and I’ll make our entrance through the front. Clyde, grab that crowbar. We’ll smash the fence. No point being subtle. Zach, Bianca, Elaina, in five minutes, drive both cars up to the front, sirens on. Shine the spotlights in the windows, and tear down the main gate. It’s metal, so use a chain. Any shots, we’ll fall back. Let her escape around the back. At this point, the evidence she’s left behind is more useful than her. Questions? Let’s go.”
Taking the lead, Tess ran back to Aaron’s house, this time with the shotgun in her hands. With the streetlights still on, she kept her torch off. She pointed at the nearest section of fence. Clyde stepped forward, running his gloved hand over the fence in search of a helpful gap. Toppley stepped back, submachine gun raised, while Tess looked up, watching for movement or lights in the windows visible above the fence.
With an achingly loud crack, Clyde wrenched a fence-panel loose. Another crack, and he’d torn it free. A third, and he’d pulled off a second panel, creating a gap just wide enough for Tess to enter.
“Make for the front door,” Tess said, bending and squeezing her way through. As she ran up the drive, she noted the complete absence of any cars, but she did see the hint of a light in a downstairs window. A reflection, a genuinely sick child, or a sleepless Vaughn waiting for dawn?
On either side of a dwarf-tree shrubbery, where the evergreens were carved into meaningless peaks, marble slabs, covered in scuffed dirt, led to the double front doors. Square white pillars supported an equally white porch-roof hiding a bank of lights shining on the red-stained front door.
Tess levelled her shotgun. “Go in fast,” she whispered as Clyde and Toppley caught up. “Go in low. Clyde to the left. Teegan the right.”
She levelled the shotgun at the bottom hinge.
The roar shattered the suburb’s unnatural stillness. The door shook until the second slug ripped away the upper hinge. Even as Tess shifted aim to the lock, the door slid sideways, twisting as it clattered to the tiled floor. Forgetting her instructions, or simply ignoring them, Clyde sprang inside ahead of her. The light slung beneath his submachine gun’s barrel tracked the weapon’s path as he swept up and left, stepping quickly into the hall.
Tess followed, adding her own beam to his, picking out details, looking for threats. A large hallway lay in front, with open double-doors to left and right, and a closed single door immediately ahead. A wraparound staircase began to her right, just beyond the open door. It rose to a balcony landing from which three corridors led left, right, and towards the back of the property, and down which a figure appeared. Bearded, in body-armour but no helmet, carrying a stocky long arm.
“Police!” Tess yelled, even as a gun roared. Automatically, unsure who was the shooter and who was the target, she fired back. The shotgun’s slug tore through the balcony-landing’s opaque-glass safety barrier, and into the mercenary’s leg. As he screamed, Tess realised the shot she’d heard hadn’t come from that man. Clyde had spun to the right, and fired through the open doors, before ducking down into a crouch and firing another burst. Tess looked from him to his target, and saw a second mercenary, bleeding, prone, probably dead.
From behind came a low groan.
Tess spun. “Toppley’s down!” she said.
But Toppley wasn’t dead. “Behind you!” the old crook yelled.
Tess ducked, pivoting around as bullets sprayed above her head. To the left, beyond the open doorway, stood another mercenary. Dressed only in t-shirt and shorts, she was working the mechanism of a machine pistol. Tess fired. Blood arced as the slug ripping through the woman’s stomach and spine. Her shrill scream rang louder than a siren, but only briefly, becoming a gargling whimper as the mercenary died.
As Tess stepped into the room, another automatic burst came from behind as Toppley, still prone, fired up the stairs. They were on a knife’s edge, the battle able to spin either way.
The closed door at the end of the hall opened just far enough for someone throw something through.
“Grenade!” she yelled, diving backwards, into the room while Clyde dived to the right.
The hall filled with white light and noise as the concussion grenade exploded.
Disorientated, head ringing, temporarily blinded, Tess barely registered the damp pool of blood through which she rolled as she tried to get back to her feet. The walls, and the angle of the staircase beyond, had partially shielded her. Vision slowly returning, she crawled, to the doorway.
In the hallway, Toppley sat against the wall, rifle in her lap, head in her hands. Clyde was in the doorway of the room opposite, on his knees, trying to push himself upright. But beyond him, a shadow straightened, silhouetted by the weakly reflected lights outside: the mercenary Clyde had shot. The man’s body armour had taken the impact.
“Clyde!” she called, even as she drew her handgun, but her arms were too slow and the words came out weak.
Clyde didn’t see the merc’s boot as it slammed upwards into his face. He sprawled sideways, but turned it into a roll. As the mercenary reached for his sidearm, and before Tess could find a clear shot, Clyde had drawn a knife from his boot. He dived, not forwards, but to the side of the man, stabbing the blade, underarm, deep into the mercenary’s thigh.
As the merc screamed, Clyde twisted the blade, pushing the man’s leg down while pushing himself up. Dragging the blade free, his left arm hooked around the man’s gun hand, clamping it as his right hand, gripping the knife under-hand, plunging the blade into the mercenary’s neck.
Now holding the dying man, Clyde released the knife. As he grabbed the gun from the dying mercenary, he spun himself and the nearly-dead merc, putting the almost-corpse between himself and the shadows. A bullet thudded into the merc’s chest. Clyde fired back, two shots, into the corner of the room. Releasing the now very dead mercenary, he darted into the shadows, disappearing from Tess’s view.
Wondering, once again, what the man had done before he’d become an aid-worker, Tess staggered down the hall, towards the door through which the flash-bang had been thrown.
Outside, sirens blared. Flashing lights reflected around the ceiling. That dispelled her hesitancy. The people with Lignatiev in the Bunker and at the Telstra Tower might have been amateurs and hobbyists, but the mercenaries in this house were professionals. She couldn’t let them engage the rest of her own amateur squad.
Torch in one hand, pistol in the other, she pushed the door open with her foot, moving in quickly, sweeping gun and light leftward and—
The door swung closed behind her. Her feet flew from underneath, kicked away before she realised. Gun and torch went flying. But as the beam turned and twisted, she saw a figure in black, a face covered in a roadmap of scars, above which was a helmet with a set of night-vision goggles, currently up.
“Kelly,” Te
ss hissed.
The mercenary didn’t reply, but moved quickly. Not towards Tess, but to the fallen flashlight which she grabbed and turned off. The room went completely dark. A soft click marked Kelly dropping the night-vision rig over her eyes. Tess pushed herself to her knees, and dived, but not forward, to the side, turning the dive into a roll, ignoring the agonised yell from her hip as she straightened and ran into the wall, hands slapping and searching until they found the light switch.
Artificial day returned. Kelly screamed, snatching the night-vision rig from her eyes even as Tess grabbed her fallen handgun, aimed, and fired. Two shots, which hit the mercenary’s body armour, making her stagger backwards. But Tess’s third slammed into Kelly’s face.
Pushing down pain and emotion, Tess ran back out into the hall.
Clyde was back at the front door, standing above Toppley, a pistol in each hand. One was aimed up the stairs, the other aimed directly at Tess until he recognised her, and shifted the barrel upwards. Toppley was gone, but Elaina was now crouched in the doorway, submachine gun uncertainly raised.
“Where’s Teegan?”
“Took two to the vest,” Clyde said. “Bruised but fine.”
“Major Kelly’s dead,” Tess said. “Hold the door. I’m going upstairs.”
Limping, she holstered her handgun, picked up her shotgun, and pushed herself up the stairs. After three steps, she grabbed hold of the bannister as old wounds gave newer injuries a tour of her exhausted body.
Adrenaline didn’t last as long as when she was younger. Pain made itself known far more quickly. But experience had come with age, too. Experience taught her people like Kelly fought or fled, and the shooting had now stopped. If there were others, they’d have run when the sirens sounded outside. Probably. But as she reached the landing, she levelled the shotgun, and kept her finger on the trigger as she went room to room, kicking open one door and the next until she found the bodies.
Life Goes On | Book 3 | While The Lights Are On [Surviving The Evacuation] Page 30