The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  The SOG had been told that at a minimum they had to bring in Rosi, and if the Warlocks’ president, Mongrel, was there it would be a bonus. These guys were the jewel in the crown they were after. Then when the property was secure, the Serious Crime Squad and Drug Squad would move in to process the crime scene jointly.

  The only problem was that at this stage there was no crime scene. Apart from the SOG, there was also a task force of some thirty-odd police personnel ready in the wings, waiting to invade the property and pull it to bits. But when push came to shove, no one actually knew what they were going to find. There was an extrapolated presumption that the raid would lead to the Warlocks’ drug lab, but this was based solely on the word of that snitching gang member Dubarry, so there was a lot riding on his testimony. But Frog had never specifically mentioned anything about a drug lab. Sorenson had been so keen to follow this through that he overlooked that minor point when he pushed Prince to undertake the raid.

  SOG Team Two had been directed by Command to circle the Warlocks’ property and enter from the high side via a shallow ravine that offered good approaching cover and a visual sight line directly into the Warlocks’ compound, approximately three hundred meters away and down a slight slope. Sporadically placed trees between their vantage point and the house would enable them to dart safely and unseen from tree to tree until they were within a short sprint of the main property.

  “Confirmed sighting of six Harleys and a black Mercedes,” said Gus to his partner. Putting down the green monocular, he drew out his semiautomatic Glock 9mm pistol from the drop holster strapped to his right leg and completed a final safety check before the order was given to go in. His stomach churned in anticipation.

  Gus may have been a veteran of over a hundred raids, yet the last few minutes before they went in were still always the worst. But he knew the adrenaline would then hit like a sledgehammer and wham, he’d be in combat mode and all would be forgotten bar the immediacy of the moment.

  “All teams report in,” crackled Command over the tactical radio to each of the two-man teams positioned strategically at cardinal points around the property.

  “Team Two in position with a sight of the compound. Visual on six motorbikes, a black sedan car, and one suspect only,” replied Gus.

  They’re probably all still in bed shagging their whore girlfriends, Gus thought to himself as he took in the gray morning sky and the yellow-pink sunrise to the east, then glanced at his watch: 5:45.

  Early bird catches the worm, Gus thought to himself.

  “All teams, go, go, go. Move it and stay down.”

  “Roger, Command. Team Two out,” replied Gus as the two of them adopted a half-crouching position and stealthily zigzagged between the trees, moving with a speedy silence that to them was a way of life, using the gaps between the greenery to cover each other as they alternated dashing forward, twenty to thirty meters at a time.

  Pop-pop-thump, pop-pop-thump . . .

  “What the hell was that? Heard movement and action. Anybody got a visual?”

  Command was concealed some five hundred meters away and had no direct line of sight into the compound. Instead they were relying on each team member’s helmet cam to relay a visual back to the bank of monitors at the command post to pinpoint the activity as the four teams moved in.

  “Copy that, Command. Team Two here. One suspect has started his motorbike and looks like he’ll be heading your way in about sixty seconds.”

  “Roger that, Team Two. We’ll pick him up as he leaves the property. All teams, advance to your final positions and then hold until I give the order to move in.”

  Command turned to their eye in the sky for supporting visuals, but first had to reinforce the temporary hold on the operation while they reassessed the situation and captured the departing bikie.

  “All teams, report back immediately with details of any further movement in the compound. I repeat, maintain your cover until we reevaluate the situation. Do not move in until I give the order.”

  Command turned their attention to the drone’s monitor which was filming the property from two hundred and fifty meters up and scoured the compound for signs of movement. Nothing. All seemed quiet.

  “All teams, compound is clear. I repeat, clear. Countdown commenced. Expect to enter in two minutes from . . . three, two, one, now.”

  With the stealth of a native tracker, Team Two crept forward to the side of the house. The two operatives pressed their backs against the outside wall, listening for sounds inside, guns drawn, safeties off, eyes darting left and right searching for any movement outside the building.

  “All teams, go! Enter the property.”

  Gus smashed the window above their heads, shards of glass flying inside and falling back over their body armor, and in a flowing movement in sync with Gus’s arm as it crashed through the window his partner pulled the pin on a stun grenade and hurled it into the adjoining room.

  Both operatives felt the vibration of the explosion resonate through the brick wall and sensed a blast of air rush through the smashed window. They then immediately took off for the back door.

  At the sound of the stun grenade exploding, Team One crashed through the front door, their semiautomatic AR-15 assault rifles pulled tightly into their shoulders and pointing directly ahead as they looked for trouble or resistance.

  “Police! Come out with your hands up,” yelled the first SOG through the open door as he ran forward, scanning the lounge room for danger as he moved. Running over to first doorway to his left he forcefully kicked it open, rushing inside with the speed of an athlete.

  The door flew back on its hinges with a loud crash.

  “Hands above your head. Move it! Get out of bed and lie on the floor. Both of you.” The SOG operative ripped the covers off the bed. A heavily tattooed man and a tattooed woman were lying naked on top of the sheets.

  “I said on the floor now. Hands where I can see them. No sudden movements.”

  Team One’s partner had simultaneously kicked open the second closed door leading off the lounge area and hit pay dirt: another naked tattooed couple, struggling to get out of bed. Disoriented by the stun grenade that had exploded fifteen seconds earlier, the couple momentarily sat there and the SOG operative was able to leap over to them, cable tie them—zippp, zippp—and force them to the floor before they were aware of what was going on.

  By this time, thirty seconds later, Team Two had run around the back of the property and smashed their way through the back door, running through the laundry and up the hall.

  They located another closed door and Gus hurled himself at it, shouldering it open. The door crashed inward, flying off its hinges. A young dark-haired girl with wild, frightened eyes almost protruding from their sockets was on the bed, frantically trying to pull a T-shirt over her exposed body.

  But there was also someone else in the room: a man-mountain with a large cobra tattoo running up his forearm and finishing at his neck, who was arming himself with whatever he could grab. Man-mountain snatched hold of a heavy steel bedside light. He ripped it out of the wall socket with a twang as the electric cord broke free and swung it at Gus, full force.

  Gus ducked and feigned to the left, the blow brushing across the top of his helmet. In a continuing fluid movement, Gus quickly stepped back a half pace and thrust the tip of his semiautomatic forward and upward. The rifle connected heavily with the assailant’s solar plexus. Man-mountain doubled over, winded. Staggering backward onto the bed, he landed heavily on top of his partially dressed mate.

  Gus’s partner rushed in a split second behind him, making a beeline straight for the naked tattooed assailant on the bed. Grabbing the barrel of his semiautomatic rifle with his left hand and the stock with his right, Gus’s partner shoved the rifle down so hard down onto man-mountain’s exposed throat that all he heard was a muffled croak as man-mountain’s hyoid bone in his neck shattered. Gus was immediately behind his partner and slipped a cable tie tightly around the assaila
nt’s ankles. He then moved up man-mountain’s body and grasped one of man-mountain’s flailing arms. Gus’s partner released the rifle from man-mountain’s throat and grabbed his unrestrained arm as Gus bound him with a second cable tie.

  Zippp. Zippp.

  Done. Tied up and ready to travel.

  “Command to all teams. Report status.”

  “Command, Team Two. I repeat, this is Team Two. We have secured a male and female in the rear bedroom in the house. Looks like Rosi. Put up considerable resistance but now restrained. Area clear.”

  “Command, this is Team One. Have two males and two females secured in the front two bedrooms of the house. Area clear.”

  “Command, Team Three. One male and one female secured in the rear of the outhouse. Area clear. Checked all outbuildings and area clear.”

  “Command, this is Team Four. Have two males and one female, secured in the front of the outhouse. One of them looks like Dubarry. No resistance.”

  “Good work. Command post standing by. Prince, you can move your team in and sweep the area. Proceed with caution. I repeat, proceed with caution. There may be booby traps. Command post out.”

  “Shit!” yelled Detective Chief Inspector Prince. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. How’d that happen, Sorenson? They all had to be let go! Every single one of those thugs, except for Rosi and Dubarry.”

  DCI Prince was winding himself up, his face turning regal red, eyes popping.

  “We found nothing—absolutely nothing, did you hear me—we can pin on those degenerates. And to make matters worse we’re going to have to send that reprobate Dubarry back to the Northern Territory coppers because he broke bail up there.”

  Prince stopped talking momentarily to center himself, realizing that he had probably gone a bit over the top but regardless, he wasn’t going to let Sorenson get off unscathed with this, so he continued.

  “At least Dubarry will be in the nick up there. Then when we’ve built the case against him for the kidnapping we’ll know where to go to get him. He’ll die serving time.”

  Basically, Prince wasn’t a happy camper. Not only had the bust not uncovered a clandestine drug lab, or piles of drug money neatly tied up in five- or ten-thousand-dollar bundles hidden under the floorboards or buried in the garden, even worse still, there were no drugs found at all. Apart from a few grams here and there, the place was clean. Drug free.

  “You cocked that one up totally, Sorenson,” accused Prince. “How you talked me into proceeding with this raid without first checking the facts, I don’t know.

  “We’re screwed on this one,” continued Prince, purposefully introducing the “we” into the conversation to implicate Sorenson. Prince had no reservations in moving the blame on to someone else for this failed exercise. “And we’ll pay for this—me and you—big-time. What a total waste of police resources.”

  Prince was incensed. He knew what was coming from the brass above him, and it wasn’t pretty. The proverbial would hit the fan well and truly over this failed exercise.

  “This has been a total misuse of police resources.”

  Sorenson looked away from Prince’s steely glare, realizing that his chances of a recommendation for a promotion coming from this angle were looking slim at best.

  “Well, sir,” replied Sorenson obsequiously, attempting to salvage at least something out of the disaster, “you’re right, this operation might not have had the best outcome, but we did get Rosi. That’s a positive, and you’ve been trying to locate him unsuccessfully for the past few months.”

  Prince had authorized the raid on the expectation that he would come out smelling of roses, with a pat on the back from the commissioner and maybe a recommendation for a promotion after a job well done. Prince’s plan—actually Sorenson’s plan if the truth was known, but Prince had adopted it as his—was to crack the case wide open and locate the Warlocks’ drug laboratory. He would no doubt get his name in the papers and a commendation. And in the worst-case scenario if no lab was found, Boss-man would be arrested for possession of a trafficable quantity of a drug of dependence, then legally held in remand without bail, while they built the case against him for Cait’s kidnapping, and then eventually Rishi’s murder.

  This would keep Boss-man off the streets for anywhere between twenty years to life. With luck, he would die in prison, either of natural causes, or hopefully he would meet a more violent ending. A bashing with a house brick to the head would be a more suitable way to go, Prince thought.

  But no. Damn Sorenson had destroyed any chances of this working out in his favor, so now he had to find a way to shift the blame.

  “I’ll make sure this cock-up ends up on your file, Sorenson. Don’t expect to move up the ladder quickly after this total clusterfuck,” said Prince vindictively.

  “Your honour, in light of the fact that the accused is a known criminal with repeated jail time and is a self-declared member of an outlaw motorcycle gang known as the Warlocks, coupled with evidence at hand that he is involved with the manufacture and supply of crystal methamphetamine and MDMA, as well as having been identified as the perpetrator of a kidnapping and subsequent unlawful of restraint of an individual against her will, we strongly request that the accused be held in remand until his trial. We feel that there is a serious risk of the accused re-offending or absconding if he is released back into the community.”

  Boss-man was standing in the dock in Melbourne Magistrate Court four. He was handcuffed to a holding rail behind a heavy glass screen, looking around at a familiar place.

  When was I last here? he thought to himself. Seven, eight years ago? Must have been that bust where the cops contaminated the evidence and Moose got me off on a technicality.

  “Your honour, if I may be allowed to point out,” Boss-man’s barrister pleaded his case for his client, “my client has suffered harassment and undue and excessive use of force by the police to arrest him for what I ask you, a few grams of methamphetamine and some MDMA tablets, which were obviously for his own personal use? The Special Operations Group forcefully burst into my client’s quiet country residence, exploded a stun grenade and in an ensuing struggle caused my client serious injury by applying excessive use of force, resulting in breaking the hyoid bone in his throat and numerous abrasions and contusions to his person. Then the Organised Crime Squad and the Drug Squad subsequently searched the premises, causing I might add considerable damage to both the property and fittings and chattels, and to what avail? Nothing. There was no evidence of illegal activity, past and present, bar a small quantity of drugs located under a rug in my client’s bedroom. This is obviously a case of extreme and unwarranted use of force to apprehend my client for what, a misdemeanor? Your honour, I respectfully ask you to apply reason to this case and release my client on bail, pending a charge for minor possession of a prohibited substance.”

  The Beak furiously completed writing his case notes, not bothering to acknowledge or reject Rosi’s barrister’s plea, then looked up over the top of his glasses, first at Rosi, then at Rosi’s counsel.

  “I rule that given the accused’s background and prior criminal history that he be kept in remand for the maximum period of fourteen days to provide time for the prosecution to set their charges.”

  The magistrate slammed his wooden gavel down onto his desk with a resounding thump.

  “Next case.”

  The kitchen-cum-dining table was set for a family meal, which was unusual as dinner was more often than not a catch and grab affair, sometimes eaten at the table, other times in front of the TV. It all depended on who was around at the time. Jools and G—they’d gravitate to the lounge and watch the news while they ate if they were on their own; if the kids were home, dinner was more likely to be scoffed down at the table, or maybe the kitchen bench. There was nothing formal.

  But tonight was different. It was a special night; a night to celebrate. G had even raided his cellar and dragged out a 1998 Penfolds Bin 389 to whet the head of the occasion. Kylie had cal
led him earlier in the day and passed on the good news: Boss-man and Frog had been apprehended early this morning and were currently being held in the Melbourne Remand Centre pending the formal laying of criminal charges, presumably for Cait’s abduction and then hopefully down the track, for Rishi’s murder.

  Kylie did actually counsel G when she spoke with him not to let Cait get too carried away with the news, as Boss-man and Frog were only on remand and Mongrel was still yet to be picked up by the cops. Ever since their dalliance together a few weeks ago Kylie had felt a serious case of the guilts, and as a subconscious response had assumed an almost proprietary air over the case, her penance being that she had doubled her efforts to make sure that Cait came out the other side as a whole person, with a conclusion that was finite.

  But G was so excited for his daughter that he totally overlooked Kylie’s warning, as it appeared to be a bit overkill. Surely there was sufficient evidence to lock both those bastards up and throw away the key? It was a no-brainer.

  “Caitie, can you set the table?” G was playing househusband, cooking up an Asian storm, glass of red wine in one hand, wok chuan in the other as he put the finishing touches to his Thai green curry. “Time for a family meal.”

  “Dad, can you please tone it down, just for once. Maybe keep the chili to a low burn rather than your usual volcano hot,” said Dec. He’d always been a wimp when it came to spicy food.

  “Ah, get over it, Dec,” replied G with a mocking intonation. “I’m cooking Thai food. It’s meant to be hot.”

  “Wimp,” mocked Cait, laughing. She was in a good mood, buoyed by Kylie’s news that G had passed on to her this afternoon. At long last it looked like justice was about to be meted out.