Read Without You I Have Nothing Online
Authors: J A Scooter
Next the Tamil leader
gave full details of the laneway at the rear of the nightclub and the
requirements for guaranteeing speedy and safe exit from the nightclub through
the rear door. His face broke into a smile as he concluded his report pointing
out that Andrew would have to have a lot of practice with chilies and learn to
eat South Indian curries before leading them again.
Andrew could only
groan.
Over breakfast next
morning, the little army was busy with war plans outlining the evening's
activities. Everyone seemed pleased to be pushing ahead with plans to rescue
Jennifer.
The extended
discussion of the evening's plans was interspersed with laughter as the morning
papers, full of the mysterious sinking of 'The Pony Stable', arrived.
Peter was pleased
there were no photos of the women. The cameramen had heeded his warning.
Much discussion
followed and it was over two hours before the plans were satisfactorily
finalized. Maps were drawn and the RSM delegated jobs.
Joe, Bill and Susie
were to stay at the motel and keep themselves ready at the communications
center. However Andrew was to drive the coach loaded with the two 'platoons' of
tourists to Chinatown, unload then return to the motel. He was to take four
Gurkhas with him and he was to show them the route from the Motel to Chinatown.
The Gurkhas were to remain with the coach.
Eight Gurkhas were to
use cars from the used car lot and to be at Chinatown at 10 ready to collect
their passengers in the laneway at the rear of the nightclub at a moment's
notice. They were to carry their Kukris concealed.
Joe was to organize
taxis to collect the Tamil 'platoon' from Chinatown at 11.00 and to take their
passengers to the Hunter's Hill Mansion. The meeting point for the Tamils would
be the drop off point used by Andrew.
During the evening,
the Tamils were to guarantee ready access to the laneway for the Gurkha drivers
and to run interference in Chinatown for their fellow conspirators. They were
to be the smokescreen and gales of laughter from both the Chinese and Tamils
met the RSM's words.
Peter was not
impressed and glared at them but they ignored him.
The RSM gave a nod
and two Gurkhas escorted Bill, Susie, Joe and Andrew out of the building. Two
others cleared the Motel of all staff.
When the Gurkhas
returned and signaled that the motel was secure the RSM continued.
"Peter, your
wife could be there tonight and I know just how capable you are. It'll be your
decision on whether we can free her safely. It'll be your choice of who shakes
hands with the Angel of Death tonight. You'll not let us down but we won't
stand idly by and let anything happen to you or Jennifer.
"Tonight, our
Chinese 'platoon' will be the staff at the nightclub and I can assure you
they’ll be most attentive to the patron's needs.” He chortled in a strange,
almost teenager way and his chortle was echoed by the other Gurkhas.
Peter straightened as
he stood. Tall he stared at his Gurkha friends. That chortle, he knew from the
past, was blood lust and the Gurkhas were about to become sharks going into a
feeding frenzy.
A weight lifted and
he asked that everyone stay in the room. "Clean the white board and
destroy all evidence of our little chat. I'll be back in about half an hour.”
Without awaiting a reply, he turned and hurriedly left.
In the accommodation
above his workshop, he prepared for the evening.
First, he removed his
wedding ring. He replaced it with an unusually heavy gold ring that worn one
way, was a wedding ring with a very wide band. Turned around, it revealed
ornate and intricate carvings.
It was the Cobra
Ring.
Carefully he slid it
around on his finger so that the carving of the coiled cobra was facing
outwards. Flexing the muscles on that finger, he watched the ring open and two
fangs pop into view. The poisonous mixture of the Fer-de-lance venom and
Tubocurarine dripped from the twin fangs and Peter knew that someone would die
later that night. The mixture was extremely toxic, exceptionally painful and
would cause profuse internal bleeding accompanied by massive tissue
destruction.
As he carefully
closed his ring he wondered just who would feel his wrath.
He placed the
cigarette packet containing bamboo darts in his shirt pocket. Each dart was
tipped with a poisonous mixture of Curare and the poison of the Taipan, - which
Peter knew was a powerful neurotoxin, causing respiratory paralysis. His
immediate prey would have little chance for recovery without prompt medical aid.
None of the scum he pursued would get any medical aid.
The Little One was
going hunting and was well prepared.
On the table were
four hypodermic syringes loaded with a toxic mixture. This was some of Dingo's
drug haul, heroin, with a plentiful boost of cocaine. Whoever kissed the dragon
tonight would be dead with a brain implosion within minutes.
Peter packed all this
and the remainder of his paraphernalia into a plastic shopping bag from
Woolworth's as if it were of no concern. Carefully he dressed and, at last,
satisfied with his disguise, he took particular care to leave the workshop
unobserved.
He shuffled into the
BMW Dealership next door and knocked on the door of Bill's office.
Holding out one
gnarled, wizened hand with its dirty cracked fingernails a stooped old Chinese
begged for money to buy food and Susie was quick to hand him $5. She quietly
ushered this nondescript, badly bent, shuffling, grey-headed Chinese with his
straggly, wispy beard and dirty unkempt hair out of the office,
Carrying the plastic,
non-descript grocery bag he returned to the Motel where he was halted by a
Gurkha guard. A second guard came across the car park to assist and Peter had
to use his Nepali to inform them that this stooped old Chinese was really him.
One guard escorted
the shuffling old man to the dining room where the RSM's bellowed order in
Nepali did not need a translation.
The old Chinese
didn't flinch and the guard didn't move
No one moved. In
fact, it was a Mexican standoff.
The old Chinese
interloper turned to one of the Chinese guests and painfully croaked a message
in Mandarin, followed by the words 'waiguo guizi'- foreign devil.
Still no one moved. The
Tamils were nonplussed and, other than the interloper's escort, each Gurkha has
his hand on the handle of his Kukri.
The RSM was so red in
the face he looked as if he were about to explode. "What did he say?
Translate please."
"Well, do you
want it in English or Australian?” was the reply and for once, a Chinese faced
cracked into a grin.
"Just tell me
what he said,” was the RSM's demand but then realizing he was getting nowhere
continued, "in Australian I guess."
"Tell this loud
bastard, he doesn't frighten me one little bit"
The RSM was almost
apoplectic but then the stranger's wild cackle broke into the deathly silence.
The stranger at last
sniggered in English. "See RSM! We still have some cards up our sleeves. You
didn't recognize me, none of you recognized me."
Still Peter played
the part of the old Chinese man. "Will I be acceptable at tonight's little
party?"
His allies gathered
around to inspect him very closely. Refusing to speak English Peter stood
patiently waiting. Gone were his blue eyes. Instead, this creature had
bloodshot brown eyes and no matter how closely they inspected, his disguise
stood the test of the intense scrutiny.
The noise and
confusion that followed his entrance eventually died and Peter shuffled to the
white board where he tried to draw a plan of Dingo's mansion at Hunter's Hill
from memory.
"When our
meeting at the nightclub is over, we‘ll return here and change. Then we’ll make
our way to Hunters Hill just to remind Dingo nothing of his is safe. The
details will be in the hands of the RSM, as we’ll leave nothing standing to
remind Dingo of his home.
"We sank his
boat. Now we bury his home!
"No matter how
fast he runs he’ll have nowhere to hide. I’ll leave now and will be in the
alley at the rear door of the nightclub when you’re all in place. Goodbye
everyone and make certain you are all here for breakfast tomorrow."
None of the
passengers took any notice of the nondescript, grey-headed Chinese with the
wispy beard, carrying a grocery bag as he climbed aboard the bus.
Later, like a street
person, Peter crouched in the gutter outside the rear of the nightclub, waiting.
He took no notice of the occasional Tamil who walked past him and stared into
his face.
As he waited, Peter
remembered that he must repay Susie that $5 and tease her for not recognizing
him.
He knew there was no need
to knock on the door. It would open when everything was in place. The Little
One was back and was not nervous.
‘Yes I am a
cold-blooded killer who is not the least worried.’ The rear door to the
nightclub opening slowly interrupted his thoughts. A hand beckoned him inside. No
words were spoken as he hobbled to the storeroom where, trussed against the
wall, were the waiters, the cooks and the chef.
Peter knew instantly
the men who were his, as they all wore white gloves. There would be no
fingerprints left behind and nothing to link any of them with what was about to
unfold. All communication was in Cantonese.
Everything was
prepared and all they could do was wait for the Silver Limousines carrying
Dingo, his guests and entourage.
Peter almost lost his
self-control when Jennifer walked into the nightclub wearing a blouse that
barely covered her nipples and a skirt so short that her sex plainly showed
when she sat. He was sure it was her sex he saw when she swung her legs into
place, but there was no dark shadow of her sparse pubic hair so he was
uncertain.
Like the other girls,
she was wearing one of those control collars and Peter knew that tonight there
would be no rescue.
Her hair was short
and she looked both cheap and worn-out. Her eyes were dull and she took no part
in the dinner table conversation as she stared ahead with unseeing eyes. Flanked
by the two Arabs, she seemed deaf as Pretty Boy and Dingo on the opposite side
of the table openly discussed her sexual abilities.
Burly guards stood at
the door and Peter noticed that the party included some Asian girls, all with
the same collar as if it were a distinctive brand.
The men seated at the
table included two prominent politicians, some businessmen and two senior
police officers.
No one noticed when
the old, stooped Chinese standing beside the kitchen doors, directing the
waiters, shuffled across the room to the bodyguards. In extremely poor, heavily
accented English, he told them their food was on a table in the kitchen.
No one considered
anything was strange when six waiters followed the guards through the swinging
doors into the kitchen. Each of the male guests seated at the table was too
busy eating and fondling the girls to be aware of their absence.
Shuffling back to his
position the old Chinese resumed his position beside the kitchen doors. He
again checked that the waiters paid close attention to the essential demands of
the guests.
So successful was
Peter's disguise that he was able to move around the room without drawing any
suspicion on himself. To the guests he was an Old Chinese stooped and frail -
to his own men he was The Little One assisting the Angel of Death.
It was a normal
dinner party, as hosted by Dingo - wine women and song - although Peter knew
that tonight the tunes would be of his choosing.
When one of the Arabs
dipped his hand into Jennifer's blouse to fondle her breasts and tweak her
nipples, Peter had to strive to maintain that look of the inscrutable east in
order to prevent himself from rushing forward and putting an immediate end to
the man's life.
Jennifer rebelled,
grasping the hand and trying to drag it from her neckline. With Peter watching
she suddenly lifted her hands to the collar, trying to wrench it free so she
could breathe. Then, her head dropped as she concentrated on not losing
consciousness.
Beaten, she made no
response to the Arab's hand that had gone under the table to snake it way under
her skirt. She seemed almost oblivious of the fingers clawing at her groin.