Crystal Ice

by Warren Miner-Williams

  Pete instantly made to grab the knife, but when even more pressure was applied, he saw the folly of this manoeuvre and let his arm fall back to rest in his lap.

  “You crazy fucking bitch, stop it, stop it now!” screamed Brian.

  “Look Ngaire, you can’t hobble across the paddock like this, holding that fucking knife to my throat, and you ain’t got the bottle to cut me open. So, quit now, while you still have a chance,” gurgled Pete, not able to hide the fear in his voice.

  “Stop Ngaire, please stop, we’re your friends, and friends don’t do this to each other. So, stop, please,” pleaded Brian.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, cut his fucking head off and let’s get on with the business we came out here for,” screamed Janet.

  “Look Ngaire you’re fucked whatever you decide to do, coz I warned Sonny about your hare-brained plan days ago,” confessed Brian. “They’re expecting you. You’re walking straight into a trap. It’s over Ngaire, you can’t win, so put the fucking knife away.”

  Janet screamed at her. “Don’t believe him Ngaire, this cocksucker’s just trying to save his brother’s miserable fucking hide. He’s bluffing Ngaire, just fucking with your head. Cut the bastard and let’s get on.”

  There were few options left. If she backed down, she would be ridiculed by the Rupene brothers forever. She could hardly make it across the paddock on her own, let alone holding a knife at Pete Rupene’s throat.

  “What the fuck” screamed Ngaire as she sliced through Rupene’s throat in one quick, brutal movement, severing the carotid artery on the left side of his neck. Blood spurted from the wound, hitting the windscreen in great gouts. Hot red liquid poured over Ngaire’s hand and drenched the front of her victim’s clothing before pooling beneath his feet. Gasps of air from his severed trachea bubbled and spluttered as Pete Rupene fought for breath. Weak cries emerged from the wound in his neck as he gasped for air. As his unsupported head flopped back even further, Ngaire stared into his upturned face and saw the life fade from his eyes.

  Brian Rupene watched in horror as the lifeblood poured from his brother’s neck. He ripped open the passenger side door and fled, fearing that he would be butchered next. He hobbled awkwardly panic-stricken towards Runciman.

  Ngaire seemed to be dreaming, looking through a tunnel, seeing only what was directly in front of her; and completely unaware of everything else that surrounded her. All the sounds reaching her ears were muffled as if being played back at an ultraslow speed. Then she became aware of a breeze on her face and light in her eyes.

  “Right-on Ngaire,” reverberated dully in her head as reality began to flood back. “Watch that bastard, girl, he’s getting away.”

  The slamming shut of the passenger door brought Ngaire back from her reverie and swept her into the gory reality that was inside of the car.

  “Look at that lily-livered fucker go! He’s shitting himself, thinking that we’ll follow him and stick him too,” shouted Janet Packman.

  The sickly metallic smell of blood congealing within the close confines of the car became nauseating and both Ngaire and Janet fled the vehicle to prevent themselves from vomiting. On their knees, they both crawled to the side of the road.

  Both women greedily gulped at the warm night air, each invigorating breath restoring their resolve to completely demolish, in just a single vengeful act of retribution, the drug empire of Sonny Rewaka.

  “The Skorpions will remember the names of Ngaire Rakena and Janet Packwood,” joked Janet, “especially when they are short of money aye?”

  “Shit Janet, look at the stars. I can imagine Danny’s looking down on us, high as a fucking kite, shouting go get ‘em girls, light up the fucking sky with crystal ice.”

  With a final hug and a giggle, the two women got up and crossed the road to the rear of the car. Fumbling with the keys in the dark it took a few minutes to unlock the boot of the unfamiliar stolen vehicle. In the boot was a plastic crate holding a dozen Molotov cocktails. As the Rupenes were now redundant, they took four each.

  The night was dark, lit only by the moon peeking between the clouds in short, random interludes. At any other time of the day there would be the constant hum of traffic on the distant motorway, but at 2.30 in the morning there was barely a whisper. Somewhere behind them a morepork called for a mate.

  Fully equipped, the two women, wriggled through the wire fence, then set off across the paddock towards The Finches. To prevent their burden clinking and betraying their approach to the farm, each bottle was wrapped in the rags that would eventually be used as fiery fuses. The ground was rough and pockmarked with indentations from the hooves of cattle; in places it was even sodden and marshy. Their progress across the field was slow as Ngaire kept stumbling on the uneven surface. With her injured knee, each pothole was like a land mine. Eventually, after her knee was cruelly twisted in a particularly large rut, she fell. It was many minutes before Janet Packwood realised that Ngaire had fallen. Retracing her steps, she soon found her partner, still lying on the ground, clutching her knee and sobbing with the agony of her injury. Although Ngaire wanted to scream she bravely stifled her shrieks to ensure they were not heard.

  “Ngaire, you can’t go on like this or you’ll wreck your knee completely. Stay here and watch the fireworks, then when I come back, I can help you back to the car.” Whispered Janet.

  Although she wanted to carry on, with only half the paddock having been traversed, Ngaire knew that she would never make it, and more to the point, she would be a liability to the success of their mission.

  “OK, I will,” she whispered through her agony, “I really can’t make it any further. Will you be OK on your own? We don’t have to do it tonight.”

  “I think with our happy Holden of horrors back there, we do have to do it tonight.” Janet Packwood replied as she knelt beside her partner. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.” Picking up Ngaire’s bag as well as her own, Janet kissed her friend and disappeared into the darkness.

  Ngaire fell back onto the grass and tried to breathe through her pain. As the minutes passed the pain started to recede and her resolve not to be a burden on Janet grew. She decided to try to get back to the car under her own steam. Then she and Janet would be gone before the neighbours, and any other potential witnesses to their crime, were alerted.

  ***

  Janet felt her pulse rise as she crossed the motorway, just behind the farm buildings she suspected housed the meth lab. Though she had displayed bravado to Ngaire she was terrified. Having reached the outer fence of The Finches, she fell to her knees and tried to control her breathing. Stabbing pains flashed across her forehead as the blood pounded in her temples. She was sweating profusely; her polo shirt was soaked and had stuck to her back. She decided to rest awhile to recover her strength. As the minutes ticked by and her strength returned, she recalled the bloody death of Pete Rupene. She had always hated the bastard and she couldn’t think of a more fitting end to the life of such a cretinous dog as him. It was a tragedy that Brian hadn’t suffered the same fate.

  Fifteen minutes had passed since she had stopped beside the boundary fence to catch her breath and calm down. Now she was ready for her moment of glory. Though the two bags of Molotov cocktails were heavy, she was determined to carry them all and do the job properly. First, she pushed the two bags ahead of her and then negotiated the fence herself.

  Near to the farm’s outbuildings it seemed darker and Janet felt a deep foreboding. She was on her knees now crawling towards the nearest and largest building of the four. In the gloom she could just make out a sliding door that appeared to be ajar.

  God, thought Janet, fucking crap security, anyone could wander in here and take what the hell they liked. She shuffled over to the door and peered inside. It was pitch dark; she couldn’t see a thing. But she could smell the thickly sweet smell that she recalled from her many trips to the emergency department of Greenlane Hospital. Sitting beside the open door she extracted two
bottles of petrol from her satchel and then soaked a single rag with the fuel before stuffing it into one of the bottles. She lit the fuse and then tossed both bottles inside the door.

  A loud whump heralded the muted explosion of the first two Molotov cocktails. Janet waited long enough to see the leaping tongues of fire quickly engulf much of what was in the first building, before she moved on. The next building was locked but she now had the courage of a lioness and didn’t hesitate breaking a window in the top third of the door. Reaching through the broken pane, she deftly unlocked the door and stepped across the threshold. Outside she could hear the crackle and roar of the conflagration in the first building but there was little help from its luminous flames to light up the interior of this second building.

  Janet lit her second fuse rag and then pulled her arm back in readiness to throw her third petrol bomb.

  “You fucking bitch how did you get here without me seeing yuh?” said the lone Skorpion guard in this second building.

  Janet had little time to react to the voice behind her. As she turned towards the threat a pickaxe handle swung at full force and hit her squarely on the side of her head. The blow crushed her skull and she fell to the concrete floor. The Molotov cocktail she held smashed on the floor beside her, engulfing her in flames. Lying on her back, still conscious, she felt the first tongues of fire creep across her body, the prelude to her fiery agonising death. By the time the flames reached her face her body was racked in pain and she was powerless to do anything about it. As the agony intensified to a point beyond human endurance it suddenly stopped. She could see the flames, but they didn’t hurt anymore. She watched bottles on the shelf beside her explode, but couldn’t hear them. Whoever had hit her must have gone, as the whole room was ablaze. An ethereal calmness enveloped her as her vision dimmed and her heart stopped.

  ***

  Petera was beside himself when he saw the first explosion. His mind ran riot, weighing up the implications of a major fire. This was a fucking disaster, he thought, and how did the bitch get through their defences?

  “Steve,” he screamed at Steve Honetana, the most senior of the Skorpion soldiers, “get the fucking truck now, let’s get up there and find out what the fuck is going on.”

  At that moment his phone started to vibrate in his pocket.

  “This had better be good news or I’ll cut your balls off myself,” declared Petera.

  “You’d better get up here fast, one of the women came across the field, and she’s torched the main building.”

  “How in fuck’s name did she manage that?”

  “I must have left the door open while I had a piss. I’m really sorry, I was only gone for a minute.”

  “Not as fucking sorry as you will be when Sonny gets hold of you. We’ll be there in a minute, try and put the fire out, quick.” He rang off before the penitent soldier had time to reply. Just then the truck pulled up beside him, crammed with the other gang members.

  “Go Steve. Now!” Petera commanded.

  As the vehicle accelerated up the drive towards the fire, he again had time to think of the consequences. A big fire would not just destroy the lab, the fire brigade would quickly realise that it was a meth lab and would call the police. That would mean that the whole fucking operation would be blown.

  Suddenly he was out of the truck and running towards the main building, which was now a raging inferno. Three of the soldiers who were guarding the building met Petera ten yards from the flames.

  “She got a second building too. Rueben here clobbered her but she dropped her Molotovs as she fell, and he couldn’t stop the place catching fire,” said Jack Naismith, another senior member of the Skorpions and one of Sonny Rewaka’s most trusted soldiers.

  “Bring the bitch here, I want to kick the fucking shit out of her.”

  “She’s dead already. The second building’s well alight, we can’t save it.”

  Petera paused for a second to gather his thoughts.

  “Fuck! We’ve had it here. Steve and Jack, help me move some of the stock. Reuben, open the doors of the deep litter sheds and herd the pigs out. The rest of you bastards had better get out of here before the fire brigade arrives; someone’s bound to have called them.”

  Petera jumped into the truck and moved it close to a horse float. After attaching it to the truck’s tow bar he ordered Jack and Steve to help him round up Alice and two of her mates. All he would have to do then was clear some of his personal stuff from the bungalow and he would be free.

  The evacuation was fast and efficient and just to complete the scene of destruction, Petera torched his bungalow as well. It wouldn’t take the police long to connect him with the lab, but he certainly wasn’t going to make their job any easier. As the fire took hold of his home he jumped back in the truck and drove south. He had a family friend in Te Awamutu who would care for Alice and her friends, then he would drive on to Stratford in Taranaki, where a cousin would give him a roof over his head till he knew who was coming after him. Before he was south of the Bombay Hills, Petera phoned Sonny to tell him the bad news. He fully expected that Sonny would blame him for the disaster but he was strangely fatalistic about it. The call was over in less than two minutes and this alarmed Petera more than if Sonny had given him a monumental verbal bollocking. His second call was to Tony Graham-Collins. Petera was loyal to Tony, even though he was not a Skorpion gang member. They had been friends for many years and he wanted to give him the “heads up” on what had taken place at the farm and warn him not to turn up for work at The Finches. Even though Petera woke the whole household calling in the middle of the night, Tony was very grateful. Neither Petera nor Tony were Teflon coated. There would be no damage limitation procedures for this scenario, the shit would stick to everyone. Any survivors would be those who hid in the deepest holes.

  ***

  Ngaire watched with satisfaction as the flames caught in the first building and privately cheered as the dark figure of her friend, silhouetted against the flames, ran to the second building.

  “Go girl, fucking do ‘em.” she whispered to herself.

  She heard the faint tinkle of breaking glass and saw Janet quickly moving into the second building. A great flash of light signalled that the second building was catching light. As containers of solvent exploded in the first building her attention briefly switched back to the original conflagration. Then suddenly she caught the movement of someone exiting the second building as flames exploded from the windows. Whoever had narrowly escaped from the second building now stood shielding their eyes from the heat, watching the building being consumed by the fire.

  “Go Janet, go for your hat-trick,” Ngaire urged her friend, but the person didn’t move. It was then that Ngaire realised the person she was watching was a man, Reuben Waiwiri, one of Sonny’s henchmen. Waiwiri was then joined by another thug, Matua Kingi. Both of them watched the flames now engulfing the entire building, punching the air with their fists in celebration. In celebration of what though? Then she realised, the bastards were celebrating the death of her friend.

  Ngaire shook with rage, slamming her fists into the ground as she realised Janet was dead. She had to escape now, into the darkness that surrounded the fires. If she stood up it was likely that she would be seen, so crawling was the only answer. However, each time her injured knee touched the ground she was in agony, slithering like a snake was the best she could do. Every few minutes she looked around to see if anyone had spotted her but no one had, they were too concerned about stopping the fire spreading to the other buildings. Every now and again great explosions rocked the ground and echoed across the darkness.

  Eventually Ngaire could take no more, she had to stand up. Behind her there was pandemonium, there must have been a dozen people running around with buckets and hosepipes vainly trying to stop the fires consuming a third building. There were more muted explosions that punctuated the piercing screams of the farm’s pigs, terrorised by the flames. Just as Ngaire heard the distant wa
il of a fire engine she saw four guys herding pigs into a horse float. Why? There must have been hundreds of pigs running across a distant paddock away from the fire, why save just a few? Turning her back to the farm, she slowly hobbled back to the car.

  The flickering light from the distant fires sparkled and danced in the side windows of the Holden Commodore. Ngaire was in no mood to appreciate the gravity of what she and Janet had achieved. She didn’t want to stay a second longer than she had too. If she or the car were spotted it would be doubtful if she could escape. Opening the driver’s side door, she grabbed the body of Pete Rupene by the shoulders.

  “Get out of my fucking car, you piece of shit,” Ngaire hissed.

  The limp body of Pete, the now dead Prick, flopped onto the road. Ngaire pulled a little more to clear his legs from the door, then, as she needed a rag to wipe the gore from the windscreen, she rolled the body over and with her knife cut the back off Rupene’s sweatshirt. Using water from her sipper bottle she tried in vain to clear the windscreen. At first all she managed to do was smear the gluey red muck from one side of the windscreen to the other. Eventually though her persistence paid off and she cleared enough to allow her to see through part of the windscreen to drive. By now, past caring if she had been seen or not, she revved up the Holden and screeched off towards Runciman. In 30 minutes, she had reached her own car. Then leaving the Commodore in flames behind, it took only seconds for her to disappear into the darkness, towards the safety of Otara.