The Ransom (14 page)

What secrets lay behind its closed doors? She shuddered. There was only one way to find out.

* * *

Lane checked his rearview mirror for the headlights of the three unmarked police vans that had followed him to the nondescript fibro and galvanized-iron shack and was relieved to see them pull in behind him one by one and park a short distance from Boris Vukovic’s rented house. It had taken some doing and some clever searching, but they’d finally located his address. The building was set back on a small block surrounded by other housing commission homes, all in a similar state of disrepair.

Lane’s gut churned with nerves. He glanced at Jett beside him. He was sure his partner’s tense expression matched his own. Any raid on a dangerous criminal was an apprehensive and stressful event, no matter how well prepared and how well resourced the team.

Lane cleared his throat of the usual nerves. “Vukovic might not be the smartest one of the pack, but he’s known to shoot first and ask questions later. Make sure everyone’s wearing a Kevlar.”

Jett nodded, his lips compressed. Lane watched him check his gear for the hundredth time. Being prepared kept you alive. It was as simple as that. The phone in his pocket vibrated against his chest. He tugged it out and checked the screen and then cursed under his breath.

Jett looked at him. “What is it? Has there been a change of plan?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s a text from…someone I was supposed to meet at eight. She waited at my place for more than an hour before she gave up. I’ve had my phone on silent. I’ve been so caught up in all this, I forgot all about her.” He grimaced. “Now she’s royally pissed.”

Jett shook his head and shot Lane a slight grin. “Too bad, mate. I hope she understands when you explain what happened.”

Lane pursed his lips. He hadn’t given Katie a thought since this morning, when he’d replied to her email. Since then, his head had been full of the kidnapping…and Zara Dowton. And now wasn’t the time to think about either woman. He had a job to do.

Climbing out of his vehicle, he strode back to meet the other members of the taskforce and a handful of officers from the Tactical Response Group that had been put together with short notice to carry out the raid on Vukovic’s residence. It was late and the street was quiet. Conversation was clipped and kept to a minimum.

Lane ran through their plan again, confirming that everyone understood the drill. He checked again that they were ready.

His gaze drifted back to the ramshackle house. Light spilled through the open window of the front room and onto a weathered porch. A small child’s bicycle with the seat missing and a faded football stood in the shadows. A solitary streetlight illuminated the overgrown lawn and the piles of trash that were strewn across the front yard. Lane couldn’t imagine the kind of people who came home to such a welcoming scene.

Turning away, he did a last check of his equipment. A moment later, he nodded to his men and prepared to enter the building.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday, January 27, 10:17 p.m.

“
Police!
Open up!”

Lane gave the order and waited a few moments for the occupants of the house to respond. He was greeted with silence. He glanced at the team of TRG and AFP officers lined up behind him, armed with face shields, breast plates and fire power. Thumping on the door again, he yelled out for a second time. Not a sound emanated from inside.

He stepped back and glanced at the men around him. He spoke in a low voice. “All right, boys, we’re going in.” Speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder, he checked with the officers who waited at the rear of the residence. After receiving their okay, he nodded to the men behind him.

“After three. One. Two. Three.”

The steel battering ram hefted by two burly officers crashed against the wooden door. It groaned, but didn’t give. Another ram and then another. The men grunted with the effort. On the fourth attempt, the door splintered with a squeal of hinges. Lane charged through the door, his weapon drawn. The others poured in behind him.

A baby playing with an old toaster and wearing nothing but a dirty diaper stared up at him in surprise from its place on the bare floor of the front room. Lane cursed and looked around. A faded couch with the stuffing ripped out of it, leaving the springs exposed, lay along one wall. A television stood on a scarred, low table in the far corner. It was switched on with the sound turned down. There was no one else in the room.

“Clear,” he shouted.

He could hear his men plowing through the other rooms, clearing them as they went. And then the tone changed.

“Hands in the air! Put your fucking hands above your head!” It was Jett.

Lane’s pulse leaped. Leaving the baby where it was, he pushed his way down the hall, now ablaze with light. At the end of the corridor, he came up short outside a bedroom. Jett and two TRG officers had their weapons trained on a woman dressed in a filthy nightgown who lay on an unmade bed. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. She squinted at them through the light. The smell of body odor, cheap perfume and unwashed bedclothes assaulted his nose. He forced himself closer.

“Get up!”

Struggling to a sitting position, the woman complained loudly about their presence in her home.

“Shut your mouth,” Lane growled. “We’re here for Boris. Where the hell is he?”

The woman shrugged and attempted to push the sleeve of her nightgown back onto her shoulder. “How the fuck would I know? I’m the last one he talks to around here.”

Lane bit back his impatience and lowered his gun, indicating for the men around him to do the same. Tempering his tone, he spoke to her again. “What’s your name?”

“Sandra,” the woman offered grudgingly. “Sandra Welsh.”

“All right, Sandra, we’re here to speak to Boris. Where is he?”

“I already told ya. I don’t fuckin’ know where he is!”

Lane tried again. “You must have some idea. He lives here, doesn’t he?”

Sandra turned away and shrugged. “When he feels like it.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I dunno. A night or two ago. I lose track of time.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“What, do I look like—his fuckin’ mother?”

Anger surged through Lane. The woman must have seen something of it in his eyes because she quickly mumbled, “He said somethin’ about headin’ out west for a while. Had a job to do.”

Excitement surged through Lane. He looked up and caught Jett’s eye. His partner nodded in understanding.

“Whereabouts out west?” Lane asked.

“Out west, ya know. Fuckin’ western suburbs. What am I? A fuckin’ GPS?”

Lane drew in a deep breath and forced it out slowly between clenched teeth. “I want an address.”

“An address? What the fuck would I want with that? I don’t go out there. None of my fuckin’ business what he does out there. Long as he comes home with some fuckin’ gear, that’s all I ask.”

Shaking his head, Lane bit back his disappointment and disgust and shouldered his way out of the room. The baby sat where he’d left it. He spared it a pitying glance, then threw over his shoulder, “For Pete’s sake, would someone call Family Services?”

He strode out of the house without another word.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sunday, January 28, 11:07 a.m.

Zara peered over her shoulder and once again checked that she wasn’t being followed. She’d waited until after her father left for church before sneaking out of the house to her car. Brittany had been left to rest in her room. Mrs Harrow had assured Zara she’d keep an eye on the little girl in their absence.

It had taken her the best part of two hours’ drive, but according to the GPS mounted to the windscreen of her Z4M BMW Roadster and the scrap of paper in her hand, the rundown weatherboard cottage with the overhanging wisteria vine and the rusted mailbox was the one she was looking for.

Thirty-seven Scarborough Road
. The house looked innocent enough from the road. Mid-morning sunlight heated the rusted steel fence posts and wilted a patch of red geraniums battling for space amongst the tangle of overgrown grass. The house sat well back from the street, and apart from a general air of neglect, there was nothing to indicate unthinkable evil could be taking place inside.

She took a deep, fortifying breath and patted her purse, feeling the reassuring hardness of her can of capsicum spray. It was hardly a defense against a gun, but it was better than nothing. Now that she’d arrived, the nerves tightened like a tourniquet. On the way over, she’d tried to formulate a plan, but nothing stuck and she was no closer to deciding her next move. That she’d have to approach the house was a certainty. Even from her position out on the street, she could see the front windows were boarded up and wouldn’t help her detect anyone inside.

Another wave of nervousness went through her.

What the hell was she doing?

This kind of thing was better left to trained police officers: people who knew what they were doing. People who were armed with more than a measly can of capsicum spray. People like Lane. She was insane to think she could launch a one-woman raid against a dangerous biker who may or may not have Olivia. And yet, here she was, squaring her shoulders and readying herself to do battle, in order to protect her father and find a lost, little girl.

She should have called Lane and told him. She should have given him the address. He and his team of properly trained officers could have searched the house last night. Olivia might already have been found if Zara hadn’t sat on her findings.

A surge of guilt went through her. He’d been so kind and thorough and professional. He was only trying to help. But, he would have asked her questions and she would have had no choice but to answer them truthfully. She barely knew him, but somehow she could tell he wouldn’t be fobbed off with vague references. She’d be forced to tell him what she knew and how she’d come by the information and in the process, she’d have to betray her beloved father.

Knowing to procrastinate any longer would only eat away at her determination and what little courage she had left, Zara opened her car door and stepped out. The air around her was hot and still, made even more so by the fact she’d driven out there with the air-conditioner on high.

Loosening the silk scarf around her neck, she looked down at her clothing and grimaced. She’d dressed in another light summer dress that ended just above her knees. It wasn’t exactly practical for picking her way through high overgrown grass, but after a sleepless night, she’d been so focused on finding Olivia and anxiously waiting for her father to leave, she hadn’t given a thought to what she wore.

Having never been to Milperra before, she’d also assumed the address would lead her to a tidy home on a well manicured street. She couldn’t have been further from the truth, but now wasn’t the time to be thinking about practicality. She’d have to cope as best she could, despite her poorly chosen attire.

Walking the short distance to the house’s rusted front gate, she tried the latch and was relieved when it opened without too much effort. She estimated the distance between the fence and the house was a little over two hundred yards. Knowing no one could see her from the boarded front windows, she picked her way toward the house with a confidence that barely touched the fear and nervousness that coursed inside her.

Reaching the front porch was the easy part. It was the possibility of what might confront her inside that made her most apprehensive. She prayed silently that it wouldn’t be deadly.

* * *

Olivia managed to squeeze a breath past the filthy lump of rag that had been forced into her throat and tried not to gag. The blindfold fastened across her eyes was tight and the knot that secured it dug deep into the back of her head.

The car she was traveling in hit a bump on the road and she bounced up and down on the back seat. It had been at least half an hour, maybe more, since Boris had blindfolded and gagged her and thrown her into the vehicle.
It felt like a lifetime.
She bit back the sob that threatened to choke her and tried not to lose hope.

Despite his announcement that they were leaving, she’d spent the night scared and uncomfortable, lying bound on the hard wooden floor of the house. The fact that another day had dawned, terrified her. She’d been missing maybe as much as a day and nobody had come to rescue her.
Surely, someone was looking for her?
Where was her daddy? The man who could find anyone? Didn’t he care she was missing? Did he even
know
?

The sudden thought occurred to her and her heart stopped cold
. What if her stepmother hadn’t told him?
What if Ellie hadn’t been game to tell him she’d lost her and had spent the day at the mall, pretending all was well? He wouldn’t have found out she was missing until her stepmother arrived back at home without her. What if Ellie had made some excuse, lied to him about Olivia’s whereabouts? Her stepmother could even have told him his daughter was sleeping over at Brittany’s.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t found her?
Maybe he didn’t have a clue she’d been taken?

Burning anger at Ellie replaced the fear and desperation and she clung to it with all she had. Deep down, she knew she was being unfair to her stepmother, but right then, anger was what she needed to sustain her.