The Janson Command (24 page)

Wouldn’t it be nice if Janson was near enough to help? Wouldn’t it be nice if he otherwise arranged for a local CatsPaw contractor to help? Before the miniature device’s tiny battery ran down in two hours? Wouldn’t it be nice if pigs could fly?

The van was moving fast on a highway. She saw signs through the windshield for the Sydney Central Business District and the Harbour Bridge to North Sydney. “Where are we driving?” she asked.

“Luna Park,” called Sister at the steering wheel.

“What’s Luna Park?”

“Amusement park.”

“Haunted houses,” Cokie said. “Scary stuff.” She leaned close, leering at Kincaid, breathing wine in her face, mocking her fear.

Kincaid twisted her shoulder as though to relieve the stress on her pinioned arms. Her blouse puckered open in front, revealing glimpses of her breasts lit by the lamps arching over the road and oncoming headlights. Cokie wet her lips and glanced at the front of the speeding van. When she saw that Blondie had moved next to the driver, she plunged her hand into Kincaid’s blouse.

She slipped inside Kincaid’s bra and caressed her nipple. Kincaid tried to prepare herself for pain by separating thought from flesh, exiling her mind to a fog-shrouded beach where invisible breakers rumbled on the sand. Cokie positioned her thumb and index fingers like a pair of pliers.

* * *

PAUL JANSON DROVE
a rental Volkswagen Golf out of Sydney Airport, fearing that he would never see Jessica Kincaid again. Despite the speed of the Thai jet, a privately registered craft that was allowed to land as a general aviation corporate plane, he had arrived moments too late to catch up with her before she had cleared Immigration. Suddenly his Iridium phone vibrated. It was not a phone call vibration but a distinctive on-off, on-off pattern. He stood on the brake and pulled onto the shoulder to read the screen.

Up came a miniature Google Map. His heart soared when he saw that it displayed the same airport highway he was on. A red dot that represented the current position of Jessica Kincaid’s Swatch was blinking fifteen miles ahead of him, nearing the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Janson floored the rental and tore back onto the road, weaving through light traffic.

All that the blinking red dot indicated for sure was that Kincaid’s fake Swatch was in a moving vehicle. It might be on her wrist. She might still be alive. Or it might be on the wrist of someone who had killed her after she activated the concealed GPS. Even if it was her, its battery life was short. It could stop signaling her position at any moment. But after twenty-four hours of no communication—and the undeniable evidence that Securité Referral had hacked her phone—it was a million times better than knowing nothing at all, and he homed in on it with hope and cool deliberation.

His was not the only vehicle breaking the speed limit at this late hour. He tucked the rental tight behind a big Mercedes, betting it would draw the highway patrol’s attention first. If not, if they came after him, they were welcome to follow until he caught up with her. Then they were welcome to help or get out of his way.

He glanced at the Iridium. The red dot had disappeared. The signal had faded, the battery dying or no longer strong enough to transmit from a location shielded by metal. He switched to direct mode, instructing the software to scan for intermittent signals that were too weak to power the light on the map continuously but possibly strong enough to spit out bursts of the map coordinates if only for a second at a time.

* * *

SLOWLY, SADISTICALLY COKIE
dug her fingers deep into Jessica Kincaid’s breast. She gasped and allowed herself to whimper until she heard Cokie’s own breath quicken with vicious desire. Then Kincaid bit down hard and sank her teeth into the fleshy mound at the base of the woman’s thumb.

Cokie screamed. She jerked her hand away and slapped Kincaid in the face. Kincaid kicked her, further enraging Cokie, who hauled off and punched her with all her considerable strength. It hurt like hell and spun Kincaid around so hard that she caromed off the wall of the van and fell backward against her tormentor.

“What are you doing?” yelled Blondie. “Get away from her!”

Cokie punched Kincaid again. Kincaid tumbled like a rag doll against the back of the van. She’d have a black eye and a bitch of a headache, soon.

Six feet away, Cokie was boasting, “That’ll teach her to bite.”

Blondie was not so easily fooled. “Where’s your pistol?”

Kincaid tucked her cuffed wrists under her hips. To rack the Beretta Tomcat’s slide, much less cock, aim, and shoot, she had to drag her hands around from behind her back, which meant getting them all the way under her feet. She crunched herself into as tight a ball as she could. But she couldn’t get around her feet while holding the gun.

Cokie reached into her waistband. “Right here— Shit!”

Kincaid let go of the gun and frantically tugged her wrists under her heels. They hung up on the rubber of her shoes. She pulled with all her strength, tearing skin.

“You dumb dyke!” Blondie shouted, reaching into her windbreaker.

“Her word, not mine,” said Kincaid. “Hands up, girls.”

Her hands were still cuffed and blood from her wrists was making the Beretta slippery. But the gun was in front of her now, and she was up on one knee, braced against the back door. She racked a round into the chamber and flicked off the safety. “Up! Up! Up!—
You
keep driving. Both hands on the wheel where I can see them.”

Sister hesitated, looking back for orders from Blondie.

Kincaid fired a shot into the floor. It made an earsplitting
crack
in the enclosed space.

Sister’s hands flew to the top of the wheel. Blondie put hers in the air. But Cokie acted like she was above all this and fumbled clumsily for the automatic she carried in her shoulder holster. Kincaid whipped the stubby barrel toward the woman’s forehead.

Blondie saw that Kincaid would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

“No!” Blondie screamed. She threw herself on Cokie, pinning her down and shielding her with her body. “Don’t hurt her,” she pleaded. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Tell her to put it down.”

“I’m not putting it down!” Cokie screamed. “She can’t tell me to put it down.”

Blondie elbowed Cokie in the mouth and grabbed the gun, which she had dragged halfway out of its holster.

“Drop it! I’ll shoot you both.”

Blondie shoved it across the floor toward Kincaid and showed empty hands. “It’s cool. It’s cool. No one’s shooting. Just don’t—”

“Sister at the wheel! Toss me your weapon.”

A big police-issue Glock slid past Blondie to where Kincaid crouched.

“And your backup! Don’t make a mistake; it’ll be your last.”

Sister reached down slowly. An ankle gun came sliding back.

“Your gun with the can!” Kincaid shouted at Blondie.

The silenced Beretta slid across the carpet.

“Where’s your backup?”

“Ankle.”

“Give it!”

A Jetfire skipped past Kincaid.

“Cut this cuff!— You keep driving. Both hands!”

Blondie reached very slowly toward a pocket, saying, “I’ve got the cutter here. I’m just pulling it out, carefully.”

Kincaid recognized the manufacturer’s snipping device. “Come closer. Tell your friend not to move. Stop there! Extend your arm. Other hand behind your head. Cut it.”

The special tool snipped through the plastic and its metal core.

“Drop it.”

Kincaid slid their weapons behind her.

“You! Driving! Pull off the road and stop on the shoulder. Nice and easy. Turn on your blinkers. Do
not
move your hands from the top of the wheel.”

As the van slowed to a stop, Kincaid picked up the clipper and cut the remains of the cuffs off her wrists.

Blondie said, “The highway patrol will stop to investigate.”

“Love to meet them,” Kincaid lied. In fact, the last thing she wanted was interference by the highway patrol.

“Who sicced you on me?”

“South African guy.”

“Describe him!”

“I never saw him. He called on the phone. My phone showed an overseas number and he sounded South African.”

“I’m going to ask an important question. I already know the answer. Lie to me and I’ll shoot your friend.” Kincaid leveled the barrel at Cokie’s head. “What did he tell you to look for?”

“A knife in your bag.”

“Where in my bag?”

“Underneath. A slot in the bottom.”

“Good answer—here’s a harder one: How’d he know to call you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re asking me to believe that you kidnapped me for a complete stranger. Say good-bye to your friend.”

“No! No. He got my number from people who know me.”

“Know you as what?”

“I’m a cop.”

“No kidding. What people? Who are these people?”

“You know.” Blondie shrugged. “Mafia.”

“Mafia?” Kincaid asked. How the hell big was Securité Referral? “You at the wheel, hands on top!— What do you mean, mafia? Italian?”

“Local. Sydney. Just one of the Calabrian clans. They have a coke franchise.”

“Are they connected in Europe?”

“They bring stuff in, but it’s fragmented—very loose, each clan on its own.”

“So the South African knows local Calabrian mafia who know you can be bought?”

“Correct.”

“Where are you supposed to hand me over to him?”

“Luna Park.”

“You already said. Where in Luna Park?”

“Camper van in the car park.”

“With cuffs!” screamed Cokie. “And plastic tie clippy things. He’s going to tie you up and do you proper, you bitch.”

Kincaid put ice in her voice. “My outfit has a rule: No innocents get shot. But none of you are innocent.
Shut her up!
”

Blondie grabbed Cokie’s hand and tried to quiet her.

“What?” Cokie yelled. “You taking her side?”

Blondie took Cokie’s round cheeks in both hands and tried to make eye contact. “Please don’t be crazy. Just this once.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“Please?”

“She can’t make me—”

“She’ll kill you. I don’t want that to happen,” Blondie pleaded.

“Fuck her. Fuck all—”

Blondie threw a headlock on Cokie and clamped her free hand over her mouth. Cokie tried to bite her. Blondie squeezed harder and Cokie stopped struggling.

“Driver!” shouted Kincaid. “How long to Luna Park?”

“Ten minutes. Just over the bridge.”

Kincaid could see the lights of the bridge through the windshield. They speckled a giant blue arc in the sky. “Get going!”

“Where?”

“Luna Park!”

TWENTY-FOUR

L
una Park?” Blondie echoed incredulously.

Kincaid fired another shot in the floor.
“Go!”

The van lurched into the light traffic and accelerated to highway speed. Kincaid studied “Sister” in the rearview mirror. Cop or not, she was wearing the cowed expression of someone who was going to do what she was told and hope things got better. Kincaid turned her attention to the leader.

“Hold on to your friend.”

“I’m holding her.”

Blondie, too, was sufficiently cowed to behave herself. But having bullied and broken her down, now Kincaid had to build her back up. She had to make Blondie strong enough to help her nail Securité Referral to the wall.

“Okay, girls. How are we going to get out of this?”

“What do you mean?” Blondie asked warily.

“The South African is trying to kill me. You’ve broken every law in Australia trying to help him kill me. But you’re a police officer— I should be more specific. You are a
stupid
police officer. Incredibly stupid. But you still have a leg up over civilians. So how are we going to get me safely out of here and you guys not in jail for the rest of your lives?”

“Good question,” said Blondie, her face lighting with hope.

“What is your name?” Kincaid asked. “Just your first name. I’m not ratting you out unless you force me to.”

“Mary.”

“Okay, Mary. Who’s at the wheel?”

“Doris.”

“Doris, you’re doing fine up there. Stay at the speed limit. Mary, your excited friend here, whose head you’re doing an excellent job of holding, what’s her name?”

“Everybody calls her Mikie.”

“Fuck you!” yelled Mikie.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mikie. Okay, Mary, let’s go to work. Whose camper van is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Kincaid pretended to be patient as she asked, “What does it look like?”

“Toyota Hilux, white box, blue cab.”

“What is a Toyota Hilux?”

“A four-berth camper on a Toyota truck.”

“Beds to screw you on!” Mikie screamed.

Kincaid said, “Give me back my phone— Careful reaching in your bag, Mary.… Thank you. And my bracelet… Thank you.” Switching the gun smoothly from hand to hand, her eyes never leaving the three women in front of her, she put on her bracelet and pocketed her phone.

“And my bag.”

Mary found it on the floor behind the passenger seat and tossed it where Kincaid indicated.

“And my ring.”

“No fucking way!” yelled Mikie.

Kincaid gestured with the gun. Mary tightened her grip on Mikie’s neck. Mikie yanked the ring off her finger and twisted around to throw it out the driver’s window. Kincaid cracked her wrist with the gun barrel. Mikie screamed in pain, and Kincaid caught the ring falling from her hand. The gun barrel stayed on target as Kincaid slipped the ring Janson gave her back on her finger.

“So how are we going to get out of this?” she repeated.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Mary said.

“You said you’re a cop, right? What rank?”

“Detective sergeant.”

“Even better. What about Doris? You’re a cop, too, Doris, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” came the tight-lipped reply.

“What rank?”

“Senior constable.”

“How about Mikie?”

“No fucking way,” said Mikie.

“Didn’t think so. Okay, Mary, you’re a detective sergeant and Doris is a senior constable. Why don’t you arrest the South African?”