Alan McQueen - 02 - Second Strike (51 page)

Don and Mac stepped up to the stormwater drain and peered over the edge. The light from the council’s spotlight bounced down ten metres into the drain, refl ecting on two things: a grey-green steel canister and a Pakistani male’s face.

‘
Fuck!
‘ yelped Don as the Pakistani’s gun came up and the fi rst shot was fi red.

As Mac fell backwards onto his arse he saw Don clutch at his left trapezoid muscle before passing out. Robbo and Didge moved to the edge of the manhole and laid down some three-burst fi re, which panicked the remaining Cavill Mall crowds into a stampede.

Didge gave a ‘clear’ sign and two DIA operators, one carrying the canvas bag, put on plastic welder’s masks and prepared to go down the manhole and secure the device.

‘Everyone back, and sorry about your cell phones,’ said the taller of the two.

A loud buzzing sound erupted from the stormwater drain for two seconds. It stopped and a strange smell leached out.

‘Mini-nukes detonation are all circuit boards,’ said Ari, nodding.

‘Burn circuit board and no one triggers bomb, yes?’

Mac realised their mobile phones had just been zapped too.

Ari helped Mac to his feet, Mac still reeling from the sight of that face. ‘Ari, it’s Shareef - you know, Gorilla.’

‘Time to catchee monkey,’ said Ari, his eyes wild for the chase as he, Didge and Robbo dropped down the internal ladder.

‘It goes to the river, mate,’ barked Mac. ‘We’ll meet you there.’

‘Get Don an ambulance,’ said Mac to Sandy, as two cops raced up and a police helo hovered above.

Running west down Cavill Avenue, Mac went straight across the Gold Coast Highway in front of the Hard Rock without stopping. The road had been blocked by the police and he sprinted west for the river with Jacko and Bluey behind him. The road sloped downhill as they neared the Nerang River. They dodged cars across Ferry Avenue and then stormed to the end of Cavill and through some trees onto the river bank. They looked up and down the river for the stormwater outlet, gasping for air in the balminess of early evening.

‘There,’ said Bluey, pointing.

Mac followed his arm into the fading light, thirty metres downriver, where a speedboat sat idling next to a large concrete fortress sticking into the Nerang. As they started moving down the river bank to the speedboat, more shooting broke out. A man in dark overalls clambered into the boat and two others start shooting into the stormwater outlet as the speedboat took off. Bluey dropped to his knee in a kneeling marksman pose and put bursts of three-shot into the boat as it accelerated past them in a surge of foam and exhaust fumes. One of the bombers in the back of the boat started shooting, saw Mac and then paused. As he did so he took a barrage in the chest and fell backwards out of the boat. His colleagues fi red back, spraying the Aussies with gunfi re. Mac ducked down and muttered a quick prayer for Purni as splinters exploded out of the trees.

Jacko let off a stream of full auto at the speedboat but it was too far away and speeding upriver. Jacko and Bluey were reloading mags as Mac looked back to the stormwater outlet. All three of the guys came out and Mac gave the thumbs-up as he gasped for breath. He’d been trained for paramilitary but he hated being fi red at.

‘We’re in luck,’ said Bluey, pointing to a pontoon jetty with a Nerang Jet tourist boat tied up to it. They moved towards it as a couple of men in shorts and company polo shirts came out of the offi ce on the river bank. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ said the younger one. ‘What the fuck was that?’

‘Keys in here?’ asked Mac, pointing down at the jet boat.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked the bloke, looking Mac up and down.

Leaping into the boat, Mac said, ‘Tell ‘im, Bluey.’

Bluey put his M4 in the bloke’s face and Mr Nerang Jet put his hands up and said, ‘In the ignition.’

The others piled in as Ari and the other 4RAR boys ran up the jetty.

‘Mate, they’ve got a car,’ said Mac, pointing to a blue ute with NERANG JET on the side. ‘Why not shadow us up the river?’

Didge put his big hand out to the other Nerang Jet guy and the bloke shrugged and handed over the keys while Robbo and Ari got in the ute.

Mac turned the ignition and the boat roared to life. The accelerator was on the fl oor but he couldn’t work out where the gearshift was to engage the drive. Looking over he gestured for the Nerang Jet bloke to come over as the ute squealed away from the car park, Didge behind the wheel.

‘What’s your name, champ?’

‘Gary,’ said the owner of the jet boat.

‘You’re driving,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s go.’

The boat - the
Crazy Lady -
leapt like a salmon and was on a plane within seconds as the V8 screamed its lungs out. They surged forward with an impetus that made Mac’s face peel back. He held on beside Gary, telling him what they were looking for: a white medium-length speedboat with a single large Mercury outboard on it. As they powered up around the hook of the river, they caught a glimpse of the fugitives’ boat. Mac pointed and Gary nodded, gave the
Crazy Lady
even more gas, and the thumps on the hull of the vessel made it sound like hundreds of people were knocking on a door.

Bluey got up alongside Mac, struggling for balance as he raised his M4. ‘Not yet,’ said Mac. ‘Too many houses.’

In front of them the white speedboat veered to its left and shot under the Monaco Street bridge into a narrow canal that serviced Florida Gardens.

‘We’ve got ‘em now,’ screamed Gary over the engine. ‘They can’t take this corner.’

The white boat slowed as they went through a tight hairpin turn that almost doubled back on itself. The jet boat had no problem with it and was suddenly almost on the white boat’s transom. This time Bluey just opened up and hit the outboard motor. One of the three bombers left in the back of the white boat shot straight back from a protected position, shattering the small windscreen and making Mac and Bluey duck for cover. Then the white boat was veering to starboard, smoke pouring out of the Mercury, before running straight up the muddy banks of Broadbeach Park, a family picnic area. The three bombers leapt onto land, two of them racing ahead while the other knelt behind the grounded boat and opened fi re with a special forces machine pistol. It was now almost certain that they were chasing Gorilla and Lempo. Mac guessed from the way he moved that the third bloke in the dark overalls was a soldier.

So Hassan wasn’t with them.

As Jacko and Bluey fi red back, Mac ducked slightly and yelled for Gary to turn for the shore. They kept going straight, losing power suddenly, and Mac looked to his right where Gary was slumped in his seat, half his face missing, blood and viscera running down over the hand controls on the inside of the gunwale.

Pulling him off the seat, Mac groaned, ‘Oh shit - oh fuck,’ his guilt like a block of ice in his stomach, vying for space with the intensity of the fear. He got into the driver’s seat, put his foot on the accelerator and turned for the shore.

Bluey led them across the park where barbecuing families were hiding behind trees, protecting their kids, as Mac ran through the picnic area with the 4RAR Commandos. The bombers were about fi fty metres in front of them and just leaving the park to cross Gold Coast Highway.

When Mac and the soldiers got to the road, the three northbound lanes of traffi c on the highway were almost stationary. Heaving for oxygen, Bluey saw them fi rst. The bombers were on the other side of the highway, where the lanes were almost deserted. They busted through the traffi c, keeping an eye on where the bombers were going, Bluey bolting to the front of the pack as they got to the median strip.

The bombers turned into Second Avenue and were thirty metres ahead as they all ran towards the beach. One of the bombers dropped his machine pistol and used both arms to help him run.

Mac could hardly believe it. The bombers were heading for his house.

The bombers split at Surf Parade, Gorilla heading right, down Surf, while the other two kept going straight for the beach.

‘I’ve got Gorilla,’ gasped Mac, accelerating with the blast of fear.

He ran right into Surf - past confused people standing in the street

- closing on the bomber. But Mac knew it was too late, knew that the big Pakistani’s next move was going to be a left into Armrick and a few complexes along he was going to duck into Mac and Jenny’s home.

Trying to level the Heckler as he ran, Mac loosed two shots. But the Heckler wasn’t accurate over those distances even when you were standing still.

Gorilla turned left and went down Armrick, Mac rounding the same corner a few seconds later, almost bowling over a rubber-necker and his wife as he sprinted to the townhouse. He slowed as he got near and, gasping for breath as he stopped, took it in: two federal cops, dead. One in the front seat of the car with a bullet between the eyes, the other sprawled between the car and the entry to the townhouse - which was now hanging open. Mac hadn’t heard the shots and he had the feeling the hits had been done earlier.

His breath rasped and whistled in his lungs as he checked the Heckler: four rounds left and no spares. He stepped over the body nearest the entrance, the bullet wounds suggesting the cops had trusted their assailant.

The four steps to the door seemed to take forever and Mac’s heart banged in his head. Reaching the top, he sneaked in behind the doorjamb and looked down the hallway. It seemed deserted and he slowly moved over the threshold, using his right hand to push the door back to check for anyone secreted behind it. The door whiplashed back in his face, so fast it caught his left foot between the door and jamb, knocking the Heckler out of his hand. He screamed in agony and doubled over, pain pulsing in his left foot as the door swung back to reveal Gorilla.

Mac raised a hand as Gorilla’s fi rst kick came in and caught him in the bottom teeth, just above the point of the chin. His face lurched back, a tooth bending into the gum. The second strike came from a fi st, accompanied by a heavy grunt. Mac blocked it with his right hand, stood up straight and threw a left elbow into the Pakistani’s face.

Gorilla reeled back, and Mac used the momentum to throw a straight right into the bloke’s face, breaking the Pakistani’s nose and making him stagger down the hall. This time Gorilla caught his balance and stamp-kicked at Mac, hitting him in the groin. As Mac bent over from the strike, Gorilla was on him in a half nelson.

Losing his centre of balance, Mac was shoved backwards at speed until he hit the wall and mirror above the hall table, Gorilla’s huge arms locked perfectly across his throat, putting pressure on his carotids and lifting him off his feet as mirror glass shattered on the tile fl oor. Mac knew he only had seven or eight seconds before he fell asleep. He pushed his hand down, took an industrial grip on Gorilla’s modest testicles and twisted like he was opening a jar lid. The Pakistani’s eyes went wide and his grip slackened just long enough for Mac to wriggle downwards and to the side, ducking as the big man lunged again. Getting under the attempted bear hug, Mac hit the bloke on the left cheekbone with a fast, hard right hand that opened up the bloke’s face and made Gorilla raise his left hand. So Mac hit him in the kidneys and then the right side of the face with a low-high left-hook combination that made blood and snot fl y out the left side of Gorilla’s face.

The Pakistani staggered for balance and threw a hand out, grabbing Mac’s face with a single paw and digging in with his huge fi ngers.

As Mac’s hands went up to get the fi ngernails out of his eyes, the bomber moved in for a bear hug - an assured killer for anyone with the weight and power advantage that Gorilla had on Mac. As Gorilla

squeezed the hold into place, the only thing Mac had going for him was his body position - with one shoulder over the hold and one arm pointing down Gorilla’s body. He looked into the Pakistani’s eyes, seeing yellowish orbs of evil.

‘Ready to die, McQueen?’ said Gorilla, as he squeezed and dug his fi st into the small of Mac’s back, making it almost impossible to breathe. Mac felt the warmth of the bloke’s bulging pectorals against his sideways-turned face, and he had an idea. Gorilla’s shirt had fallen open with the fi ght and Mac turned his face slightly into the big hairy chest and saw the nipple. Biting down into the generous areola, Mac clamped his jaws shut like a vice. The bear hug slackened as the Pakistani screamed like a woman in a horror movie. Mac kept his choppers going until blood was pouring into his mouth. The screaming became worse and Gorilla tried to push away but Mac twisted his face until his opposite teeth met and then he pulled back and tore off the Pakistani’s nipple, which hung out of his mouth like a hairy piece of sushi.

The two men stared at each other, Gorilla’s face changing from terror to anger as he charged. As he did he was knocked sideways when Didge appeared, a blade fl ashing. The Aussie grabbed a handful of the Pakistani’s hair with his left hand and brought the blade down across the Pakistani’s throat with the other. Gorilla stopped moving, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac, spitting chest hairs out of his mouth and wiping his chin.

Didge looked him up and down, chewing gum as he wiped his blade. ‘Didn’t know your mob were cannibals.’

They searched the rest of the townhouse but there was no one there.

Limping out onto the street, Mac asked where Lempo had gone.

‘Your Russian friend got Lempo, but he was shot in the leg for his troubles. The wound’s pretty bad.’

‘And Hassan?’ asked Mac, his mind spinning.

‘Don’t know.’

Mac heaved for breath and thought it through. Someone had taken off with his family, someone who could fake it long enough to get close enough to kill the Federal cops. Probably the same someone who’d worked out how to wheedle Vi’s maiden name out of an ASIS

or ASIO operative; someone who had connections that were good enough to track down Mac’s family home.

Someone charged with retrieving two stolen nukes from Hassan Ali, but who couldn’t say no to the money and ended up in league with him.