Hindsight (50 page)

‘Do it,’ Gabby echoed as she complied with the motors. ‘I can’t outrun an assault rifle. Bloody Greppias!’

‘Worse than a Greppia,’ Mira whispered. ‘That’s a traitor.’

L
ockman made his way through the tropical gardens of the resort, carrying his night-owl visor under his arm like a bike helmet. For the most part, he kept to the paths, hoping to appear like any other guest or resident.

Reaching the elbow of a path that branched to the visitors’ carpark and to the fire exit of the nearest four-storey apartment block, he swerved onto the softly lit path and passed a ground floor apartment with a child’s tricycle parked under a patio table. Looking up, he saw a number of clotheslines on the lee side balconies, each bearing children’s clothes among the beach towels. From a neighbouring room, he heard a baby cry, but only briefly until the balcony door to that unit rolled heavily closed with the drapes drawn to shut out the sleepless night.

No room parties anywhere to be heard, but that didn’t surprise him. Midnight, midweek in a family resort provided the perfect setting for evil men to perform dark deeds away from the glitter and noise of the Gold Coast further north.

He didn’t bother trying to enter through the fire exit. Aside from the three heat signatures he’d seen lurking at the top, he knew the doors on each level would be fitted with directional security locks for getting out of the building at any time, while providing access for residents with keys. Instead, he headed around the end of the building to the windier beachside corner, where he snapped a leafy branch from a small tree and stuffed it down the inside of his fishing vest. Then he donned his goggles, giving him both arms free to shift a patio table, and after climbing onto it, he stretched up to reach the lip of the balcony of the apartment above him.

Pain racked his chest as he hauled himself up, cramping him rigid until he could break through it by pure force of will and scramble up over the second floor railing. Hugging his punished ribs, he realised he might have cracked a couple after all. He’d certainly need a lot more time than he’d expected just to catch his breath. He huddled into the corner of the patio, staying out of the wind as best as possible and waited for the pain to pass, but it didn’t. Having survived several battlefields he knew a few rounds fired in his direction was always motivational in getting his butt moving, and the rush of adrenaline usually served as a quick-fix for the pain, but attracting that kind of attention deliberately was never his first preference — unlike others he’d met in his previous life during try-outs for special forces. As far as he knew, they’d all failed the grade too, so despite all the briefings and preparations, he still had no idea what kind of man he had to be before he could make it with the elite. For him, as an exercise in urban warfare, the thought of thin walls and sleeping kids kept his mind focused on getting in and out with the captives — without a single shot fired.

Possible, he still hoped, but only if he could make it unseen onto the roof.

Calling upon the fury of his inner strength, he climbed back onto the rail and stretched up gingerly to the next level, his ribcage flaming in agony, his muscles cramping and then straining to drag himself up to the third floor for another break, if only to catch his breath. So hard not to cry out once he achieved it — this was the floor that swarmed with the greatest number of hostile heat signatures.

He could see them through the drapes and walls; three mingling in the living area and open plan kitchen — the nearest of them sitting just inside the door — one lying flat in a rear bedroom and three down the hall, holding position at the top of the fire exit and stairs. Looking up through the thin floor, he could also read distorted signatures of four more mobile and two stationary contacts upstairs.

Doing the maths again quickly in his head, he realised there were more people in the apartment than he’d seen before on approach from the Pacific. Not unexpected. No impact on his plan either. With only one stationary reading on this floor and two on the floor above, he had no choice but to start at the top and work down.

A gentle tug on the balcony door lock confirmed he wasn’t getting in easily or quietly on this floor anyway, so he climbed back onto the railing — the last of its kind before the top floor. An awning provided shade to the third floor patio and he stretched up to find purchase on it. Beside him, the door opened and footsteps emerged as he hauled himself up to the top level. A blue vein of cigarette smoke followed him, but nothing else.

Moving silently higher onto the slippery roof, he achieved a position between two large attic-style windows, through which he could confirm his previous readings using thermal imaging. Four mobile and two stationary contacts, the latter huddled in opposite corners of adjacent rooms.

Withdrawing the branch from his jacket, Lockman moved around the corner of the building to the unit’s private rooftop entertainment area — stylishly curved to fit the shape of the building — and climbed down between large potted palms and over a heated spa that was covered and humming; still running on a timer that suited the lifestyle of its former occupant.

A sliding-glass door provided access; however, heavy drapes prevented him from being seen by any hostiles inside. Beside the door, sheltered from the weather, sat a gas barbeque, fridge and metal sink. Through the glass door of the fridge, he noticed an impressive assortment of foreign beers, wines and spirits, but on top sat a wine rack full of far more expensive scotch and rum. He helped himself to a quick mouthful of the best rum, hoping to take the edge off his pain.

Decision time: to burst in shooting and risk return fire from four to six hostiles — as well as the lives of the three sleeping children in the neighbouring unit, since high powered rounds made easy work of thin walls, while attracting more attention from hostiles on the lower level. Or do it the hard way.

Rolling the barbeque aside quietly, he crept closer to the door, and as he sidled up to it, he felt a surge of adrenaline kicking in.

Four to six. One at a time. Quietly.

Easier planned than executed, without committing murder to protect the innocent.

Using the barbeque as cover and the branch as an arm extension, he stretched out past the fixed door pane to the sliding door and scratched it. Waited a moment. Then scratched again.

‘Check it,’ said a voice inside. Not that hearing them come for him made much difference to Lockman; with thermal imaging at such close range and through only glass, he could not only see them coming, he could read their body language so well he could see their facial expressions change.

Taking cover between the barbeque and fridge, he raised the leafy branch over him as if it was a potted plant to help break up the outline of his body and head. In broad daylight he would have looked comical trying to hide behind such a twig, but he knew they couldn’t risk switching on a light without sky-lining themselves to any sea-or beach-based police snipers. He waited behind the leafy branch and heard the vertical drapes turn to provide the insiders with a prison-bar view of the private patio.

Withdrawing his fishing knife quietly, he leaned against the fridge and shook it, to make the wine rack and bottles shudder.

Then the door latch clicked and the patio door slid open. Slow footsteps emerged as the first target wandered slowly around the curved railing past the spa, bearing a distinctive T-shaped Uzi submachine gun as he checked the shadows between the potted palms.

The spa motor rattled as the timer switched off, and the target eyed it suspiciously. Unlatching the padded lid to check inside, he also reached in as if checking the temperature of the water. In two steps, Lockman ensured the bigger guy had a full body experience, first snapping his neck to minimise the splash and relieving him of his Uzi as he lifted the body in. Then closing the spa lid down, he resumed his position with the branch between the barbeque and fridge, sliding the Uzi under the barbeque, out of sight and out of temptation.

Vertical blinds flapped in the breeze, attracting the next two Uzi enthusiasts out together. At first calling out quietly for their missing companion, one of them slipped in a puddle, causing them both to lean over the rail as if assuming he’d fallen over, and as tempting as it was to rush them and help them to lean further, Lockman knew he couldn’t do that without passing the open doorway, where another fan of the same weapon awaited him.

He stayed one with the shadows, watching the two exchange glances then split up to circle the patio separately. In the muted light, one of them walked right past him to the spa where he stopped, noticing the latch to the lid open. In two steps, Lockman had snapped his neck too, the crack attracting attention from his companion on the far side, so Lockman kept the body raised against him in the shadows and waved with the Uzi arm, hoping to mimic a signal that all was well. But the dead guy was impossibly heavy to hold for long, his lungs hissing air up through his throat as he died and reminding Lockman of his own punished ribs in the cruellest way.

The other guy looked behind him nervously, and in that instant, Lockman leaned the body over the railing as if he was looking over, and slid back against the nearest potted palm.

‘What’s wrong?’ called his mate, approaching. ‘What do you see?’ He reached his companion and leaned over to look too, and Lockman emerged from the shadows to make them a trio. Spinning on instinct, he caught a glimpse of the fourth coming through the door, and with a flick of his fishing knife ensured that he’d never see anything.

The body fell backwards through the doorway and Lockman drew his Glock as he stepped over it, retrieving his knife from the guy’s eye socket and wiping it on the body as he proceeded quickly and quietly into the upper level living room.

Lifting his visor briefly, he found it filled mostly with pink and black exercise equipment with a large flatscreen TV on one wall, a full-length dancing mirror on the other and three doors, only one of them open. That door was in the furthest corner, at the top of stairs that only led to more trouble. Postponing that course of action for the moment, he proceeded to the nearest of the two closed doors with his visor in place, and noticed one of the stationary heat signatures inside was now mobile — edging for the same door as him, but from the other side. No sign of any weapon on them, but with their heat signature shaped as if stooped and holding their arms close to their chest, it was possible for them to have a weapon concealed.

He didn’t dare to say anything, and neither did they.

From the moulding of the doorframe, he could tell it opened inwards, and that meant he couldn’t open it without leaning into it or kicking it open noisily, so again he waited, this time with his visor up and relying on the natural night vision of his own eyes — and was rewarded after a tense moment as the door knob slowly turned and then opened.

A head appeared with stringy wet hair and a filthy face that he recognised. She fell through the door exhausted, muddy and bloody. He caught her and lowered her carefully to the ground. The stub of her right arm was bandaged with her own shirt, and her left trouser leg torn up and used as a tourniquet for a calf wound, leaving her dressed only in the remains of her camo-trousers and bra, and as he turned her enough to check her face, he found that her cheeks, forehead and neck were also dotted with small circular burns as if made by cigarettes or cigars, and her skin was pale as if she’d lost a lot of blood.

‘Tarin!’ he whispered, but she was almost out of it.

‘Where’s Ben?’ she asked.

‘Excellent question.’ Lockman hugged her and stroked a strand of filthy hair out of her eyes, wondering how far he might be able to carry her. Certainly not back the way he’d come. Then he remembered the other heat signature, which hadn’t moved, and setting Tarin aside gently, he checked the thermal image in the next room to find it still motionless.

Approaching the door with resumed caution, he opened it and found a sight as pitiful as Tarin — a body slumped in the corner, naked except for bloodied boxer shorts. Male, but beaten and swollen so badly it was impossible for Lockman to recognise him as Bennet Chiron, though it seemed likely. With such a highly patterned heat signature, blood either pumped feverishly and clotted with a lot of internal bleeding and broken bones — or he’d died recently and not yet cooled.

Lunging to the body, Lockman found a racing pulse.

Eyes rolled open, mouth releasing a groan, but he flinched at Lockman’s touch. Terror came to his expression, followed only very slowly by recognition and confusion.

‘Ben?’ Lockman whispered. ‘Ben Chiron, is that you?’

Groaning, he tried to speak again, but could only nod once.

Lockman flung off his night goggles and wiped sweat off his forehead, wondering how in the wide world of extreme sports he could get them both out safely without attracting or engaging the attention of the seven hostiles on the floor below. The bedroom phone beside Ben had been torn out, which made it impossible to call for help and simply barricade the door to the stairs until help arrived. But he had a window and plenty of light switches — and a sea full of yachts, fishermen and cargo vessels, aboard which most of the old timers would still recognise a series of short and long flashes as a distress signal in Morse code.

He went out and closed the door at the top of the stairs, wincing as the hinge creaked, and after chocking the knob closed with an exercise bike and using a skipping rope to tie it shut as well, he searched for the light to the patio and began signalling with three short flashes, three long, three short, pause, and repeat.

Then downstairs, he heard a phone ring.