Dead Heat (39 page)

“Yes,” she whispered.

“How many?”

“Three.”

She was opening her mouth to ask if he had her mother but he’d disconnected. Hell. She’d wished he’d given her an order, like
go to the front of the restaurant and shoot the door down. But then, he assumed she was waiting in the car.

Glock tight in her hand, she headed down the alley, moving step by nerve-racking step, trying to see where her feet trod,
making sure there wasn’t a tin can in the way, a rustling paper bag. She reached the end of the alley and peered right to
the rear of the restaurant. The back door was ajar, spilling light across two industrial-sized garbage cans, four white plastic
chairs, and a load of bindweed growing up the surrounding fence.

She still had no idea what to do. If she opened the door, she might alert the Chens that she was there and blow whatever plan
Lee had. All she could think was that she couldn’t stand there and do nothing.

Tiptoeing to the door, she peered through the crack. All she could see was a wall. Whitewashed. No pictures. No flaking paint.
Tucking her forefinger around the door, she pulled it, infinitesimally slowly, open an inch.

Crack!

She jerked back, a scream forming in her throat.

A gunshot from inside the restaurant.

Crack! Crack!

The sound of shouting, feet thundering. More shots. Men hollering in Cantonese. A crash as something hit the floor. It sounded
big, like a piece of furniture, not a person.

Crack!

Another crash. A smashing sound, like china. Lots of yelling.

She found herself cowering, making herself small against the bedlam.

Boom!

Lee’s Magnum.

Boom! Boom!

Crack!

Sudden silence. Her ears were ringing from the shots and she could hear nothing aside from a dog’s mad nonstop barking nearby.
She had no doubt the entire neighborhood was currently dialing triple zero from under their beds.

“Aiyee!” An exclamation of what sounded like relief.

A long stream of Cantonese. Small silence.

Oh, Jesus, sweet Lord. Is Lee all right? Mum?

More chattering. Excited and relieved all at once. A couple of clicks that sounded like gun chambers being emptied, or loaded.

She stood there trembling, flinching with each sound, sweat pouring, her grip on the Glock spasmodically tight.

A roll of Cantonese. Slightly slurred. Deeper than the rest.

Lee. Lee’s voice. Had he been shot? What about her mother? She couldn’t hear a woman’s voice.

The rustle of cloth. A small thud. Lee’s groan.

They’d kicked him.

Strangely, it was this realization that prompted her into action. Not that they’d shot him, which they probably had, but that
they’d kicked him, like Jason Chen had kicked her, to make themselves feel big.

She was only a foot from the door leaking its light. Frozen into place, she’d barely moved since the shots had started.

Another thud. Another long, agonized groan.

Lots of chattering. A laugh. The Chens releasing their tension.

Georgia took a step and curled her fingers around the door and tugged it gently open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. Amazingly,
it didn’t, and she pulled it wider, seeing whitewashed wall, more wall, then a boot. Two boots. One was Lee’s. The other she
didn’t recognize. As she inched the door open she realized Lee was sprawled next to the inert body of the driver of the Merc.
She saw the bodies of the two guards at the far end of the room. If Lee had been correct about the number of guards, the only
enemies left in the room were Jason Chen and his father. She couldn’t see her mother. God, please let Mum be safe.

She saw that Lee’s black shirt was wet and glistening with what could have been dark paint. Blood. He was covered in blood.
And he wasn’t moving.

Although she’d guessed he’d been shot, she hadn’t reckoned on her reaction to seeing him like that. It was as though her heart
had been torn from her chest and sliced in half. She couldn’t breathe, and the pain in her heart grew and grew until she thought
she was having a heart attack. She had to see if he was alive. If he was alive, she knew the pain would stop.

She was dimly aware of the chatter of Cantonese, the smell of cigarette smoke, but she put the danger aside in her all-consuming
desire to open the door a bit farther . . . just to see Lee’s face . . .

Gap-tooth Chen’s shoulder came into view, a cloud of cigarette smoke drifting around it.

She pushed the door a little wider, craning to catch a glimpse of Lee . . . she saw his shirt collar, his cashew-smooth throat,
then the angle of his jaw, the scar running behind his ear, his mouth, straight and unmoving, that narrow nose . . .

Black eyes staring straight back.

A sensation of roaches scurrying over her skin. He’d been aware of her all along. He was alive.

Black eyes flicking to Gap-tooth then back to her. His lips moving.
Shoot him.

Georgia began to raise her Glock and curled her finger around the trigger. Next step, she knew, was to feel the resistance
of the trigger against the pad of her finger and shoot.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

At that moment the door was flung open wide.

She flinched and jumped backwards, then yanked her finger on the trigger, but nothing happened. Her hesitation had activated
the safety system. Her wrist was grabbed and she was flung inside, sprawling almost on top of Lee. She was swinging around,
trying to bring her Glock up when she saw a boot aiming for her kidneys. Rolling, still holding the gun, she let the boot
smash into her ribs like a stab of white lightning, and Lee was rolling too, toward her, and she felt his hand in the small
of her back, pulling the second Glock free.

Crack!

Her eardrums contracted from the blast.

She saw Gap-tooth’s chest erupt in a spray of blood and his body drop like a stone. Lee was surging left but Jason Chen was
swinging around, aiming his gun at Lee. Lee was yelling something but she couldn’t hear.

Her world was small and silent now. She was on her feet. Had the first Glock in both hands.

Lee diving for the floor. Jason Chen’s gun following him. Lee’s face a howl of pain as his shoulder slammed onto the floorboards.
Lee trying to bring up his Glock, unable to, lips bared in agony. His blood was smeared across the floor like a paintbrush
stroke.

Jason Chen taking his time, aiming for Lee’s head.

Her arms were straight. She felt the cool metal of the trigger travel from her fingers into her hands and through her arms
into her lungs, her heart. She closed her left eye, trained her right to the end of the barrel, to the foresight, and aligned
it with the rear notch, aiming right between Jason Chen’s shoulder blades, and gently, oh so gently, holding her breath, she
increased the pressure and the trigger gave way.

Crack!

The pistol jolted, the slide cycling back and forward.

Jason Chen faltered, one foot raised. Georgia felt her finger squeezing the trigger again, and again.

Crack! Crack!

She was still firing, her mind yelling. Go down, you bastard, go down, you bastard, go down!

“Enough! Georgia, enough!”

Her wrist was smacked high and her fourth shot hit the ceiling. Little pieces of plasterboard floated down, like snow, and
Lee had foiled her final shot, but she didn’t care anymore, because Jason Chen was falling, not hard and fast like his father
had, but falling all the same as he tried to turn and walk for her. His feet were dragging, his arms dangling at his sides,
his head swinging. His gun lay on the floor where he had dropped it.

He stood swaying in front of Georgia and said, surprised, “You.”

She felt a tingle in her wedding ring finger, her hideous stump, and raised her eyes to his. “Yes,” she said. “Me.”

Then suddenly she was lifted off her feet and bundled out of there, into the rear courtyard and left along the narrow alley.
Lee hustled her along at a rate of knots, and as her senses began to clear, she could hear him groaning with each breath,
and beyond his grunts of pain she heard sirens. Not as many as in Brisbane, but then they were in Nulgarra. Maybe two cop
cars at most.

“Mum,” she gasped.

“Car.” Another groan and he staggered, fell to his knees. “Your mum . . . in the car. Waiting . . . for you.”

Part of her wanted to burst into a run for his Mitsubishi and her mother, but the other part couldn’t bear to leave him. She
grabbed his hand, tried to pull him upright. “It’s not far! Come on!”

He seemed to gather his strength, and for a moment she thought he really would get to his feet, run with her to the car, but
he suddenly slumped and his body went limp, sprawled in the alley. His eyes were closed and his head lolled to one side.

Desperately, she grabbed his wrist. Putting all her weight behind her, she tried to drag him down the alley. She could have
been trying to drag a sack of bricks—he barely moved.

“Wake up, Lee! For God’s sake, please!”

One siren was still way off, but the other was closing fast.

“Lee!”

She was tugging and pulling at him, half sobbing, half yelling, but he didn’t move, couldn’t hear her pleas. Then she took
in the flood of blood pouring from his chest and suddenly realized he wouldn’t be getting up, not for a long time, if at all.

S
iren screaming down the street. Chirp of rubber. Blue beam of light pulsing over Lee’s unconscious form.

The bulky form of a man raced for her, gun drawn, then he stopped.

“Put down your weapon!” he yelled.

She’d forgotten she was still holding the Glock.

“Put it down or I’ll fire!”

Georgia bent forward and was about to place her gun on the ground by Lee, when he yelled, “Throw it toward me! Now! Do it!”

She chucked it his way and was standing there with raised hands, palms spread, when he yelled, “On your knees!”

She did as he said. Her bare thigh brushed Lee’s arm and she could feel the heat of his skin against hers.

“Hands behind your head!”

Hurriedly, she complied.

The policeman stepped forward, gun extended, his body tense.

“Move away from him.”

She wanted to obey, but she couldn’t. Obscurely she felt that if she moved away, Lee’s life force would move with her, and
he’d die.

“Move away!”

Hands behind her head, she stared at the Glock gleaming dully a yard away. She didn’t want to shoot a policeman. Besides,
even if she got her hands on it, she’d be dead before she fired the thing.

“I’m giving you a final warning! Move away!”

Click.

The policeman stiffened. Georgia stiffened. And if Lee had been conscious, he’d have stiffened too.

Because someone had just primed their gun.

But none of them knew who. Or where. Just that it was close. Really close.

“Sergeant,” a man said. “Drop the gun.”

“Hey, wait up a minute—”

“Drop it.”

The policeman slowly extended his arm and loosened his grip so his gun hung from his fingertips.

“
Now.
Not next week.”

The policeman let his gun drop to the ground with a small thud and stood there with his hands hanging slightly from his sides,
palms spread like a cowboy readying himself for a duel.

“Georgia. Leave Lee where he is. Walk to me.”

She wanted to tear herself away from the heat of Lee’s skin, run for her mother and for safety, but she felt unable to move.
Like she’d been glued into place.

“Georgia, do it!”

Her senses had refined the heat between her and Lee. It wasn’t just heat but the way the delicate hairs of her thigh could
feel each hair on his arm. Like little electrodes, they were connected, sparking off one another.

“I think she might be wounded,” the sergeant offered, but the other man didn’t seem to hear. He started walking down the alley,
gun in hand, and as he stepped past the sergeant he looked like he was going to clap the man on the shoulder, but instead
he pressed the barrel beneath the policeman’s chin and pulled the trigger. Head blown away, the sergeant toppled to the ground,
and the man didn’t pause a beat, just kept walking purposefully for her and Lee, gun raised, and she knew he’d killed the
sergeant so he couldn’t be a witness, that he was going to kill her and Lee too.

Spider had shown himself at last.

She didn’t have a hope of protecting Lee, but she moved so her body was crouched over his, like an eagle protecting its prey.
Legs bunched, ready to spring the instant Spider got close enough.

Blue flashing lights from a window reflected the glitter in his eyes. She felt a shock of recognition.

Chief Inspector Harris said, “Where’s Jon Ming?”

Fear pumping, adrenaline rocketing through her, her voice was unsteady when she said, “In Sydney. He went to the AMA. I don’t
know where he is now, I swear it.”

“Lee doesn’t look too well.” He sounded amused.

“I think he might be dead.”

“I’d like to make sure of it.”

“Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen you—”

“You’re right about that.”

Chief Inspector Harris pointed his gun straight at her.

His bullet would go straight through her and into Lee.

She took a breath and although she knew he was too far away, launched herself at him, a scream erupting from her throat.

Crack!

Georgia was a yard from the chief, still screaming, going for his gun.

Crack!

The chief toppled sideways and crashed against the wall, slid down it, and slumped facedown on the ground.

As he fell, she saw the slender silhouette of her mother against the blue, throbbing light, her hair wild, like a mad-spun
halo of hay, running down the alley for her. And then she was skidding to her knees in front of Georgia, her hands cupping
Georgia’s face, pressing a kiss on the side of her mouth.

“Sweetness,” she gasped, “whatever have you been up to, getting us into this mess?”