Terror Stash (38 page)

“Thanks, Pete.” She watched him run for the far side of the cavern, then turned back to Caden. “Caden, do you need insulin?”

“Glycogen.” He took a deep breath. “Bloody arm....” he muttered. “Can’t lift it.”

“I’ll do it. We need to be quick, the paramedics will be here in a second.”

“Right pocket,” he said.

As she pulled out the little pouch, he tugged her arm with his good hand to get her attention. His black eyes looked calmly into hers. “Thanks.”

She smiled, feeling a warm glow it took her a while to identify. It was contentment.

* * * * *

When they finally emerged from the caves via the land entrance, it was still daylight, which shocked Montana. It felt like a lot longer than a few short hours had passed. It was explosively hot, even beneath the shady canopy of the forest. It was also very, very noisy.

There were vehicles everywhere, many of them with dome lights turning in lazy circles, flashing red, orange, yellow. Other vehicles were a nondescript grey or dark green that spoke of military purposes. There were also more than a handful of plain sedans. Government authorities, she guessed.

The paramedics had escorted them both out of the caves, anxious to get Caden to one of the ambulances where they had better equipment to do a field analysis on his condition, although the twenty-something guy who had examined his shoulder had been relatively happy about it. “In and out, bit of muscle with it. Could have been worse. A quarter inch higher, he’d have a broken collar bone. An inch lower, you’re clipping the top of the lung and other nasty stuff.”

Caden had sent her a withering look at that pronouncement. “Archery....” he muttered darkly.

Conversely, she knew he was pleased at her marksmanship, even though she freely admitted luck had played a huge part in it.

Boyd Nelson was waiting at the ambulance for her, anxiously swaying from foot to foot. There was a man in his sixties with him, wearing the only business suit in the area, jacket, tie and all.

Nelson lifted up his hands when he saw her. “There you are!”

“Nelson, what the hell are you doing here?” Montana let go of Caden’s arm as the medic pulled him toward the ambulance and pulled the thin blanket around her shoulders tighter together. Nelson’s eyes bulged.

“What did they
do
to you?” he cried, hands to his face.

She realized he’d seen her lack of clothing beneath the blanket and shook her head. “Not what you think,” she assured him. “I used my shirt to tend a wound.”

“Rawn’s?”

“That’s right. Nelson, did you have anything to do with all this?” She waved her hand around the clearing, at the frenetic activity there and the huge number of people hurrying about.

Nelson looked down at his feet. “I might have.”

“Nelson?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, I suppose it was me.”

“But you said....” She glanced at the silver-haired gentleman next to him. “You remember what you said, I know.”

Nelson touched her arm, drawing her away from the others. He lowered his voice. “I’ll remember it the rest of my life,” he said with fervor. His face flushed red. “I couldn’t just sit back after that and let you do it alone. So I pulled the tapes on our interview and gutted it for any facts you’d provided that would point to where you were—where these terrorists of yours were. Then I spoke to that Mountie friend of mine, who spoke to his supervisor and suddenly we had an operation on our hands. We had to bring the Australian authorities into it, as it’s their turf.”

“You just happened to have a handful of Army Rangers sitting around just waiting for your beck and call?”

“They came in on the carrier that arrived in Fremantle three days ago. So yes, they were just sitting around, spoiling for some fun. I think if you were to check with most of the people wearing uniforms here that they came along just to break the monotony. Nothing exciting ever happens in Western Australia.”

Montana could feel giggles rising and squashed them. They were a product of tiredness and the release of tension. “Well, they’ve got their fun now. Nelson, you couldn’t have arrived at a better time.” She reached on tiptoe and kissed his ruddy cheek. “Thank you.”

Nelson sighed. “There’s going to be a lot of very frustrated authorities that will want to talk to you, from about six different countries.”

Caden stepped to her side. He was shirtless again and there was a patch of gauze taped across his shoulder, looking very white in the subdued light. Filth streaked his jeans and flesh, but his eyes were bright. He looked fresh and rested.

“You’ve caught us all with our pants down, Montana,” Nelson added. “I’ll be frank. Those who are the most embarrassed by this will not thank you for it. You’re going to have an interesting few weeks.”

She shrugged. “How many of the cave dwellers have been rounded up?”

But Caden held up his hand, staring at Nelson. “Can’t you slide her past all that? If they get hold of her, they’ll clamp on like limpets. She’ll be tied up in red tape the rest of her life.”

“What can
I
do?” Nelson said, spreading his hands.

“You arranged all this, didn’t you?” Caden asked, waving a hand at the clearing. “Claim you have priority call on her time. Get her out of the country fast. Get her back home. She can write out a complete statement and let them feed on that rather than her.”

Nelson nodded slowly. “Yes, you may be right.”

“It’s all in how you look at it,” Caden said smoothly.

“And you’re ducking my question,” Montana complained. “How many have they found in the caves?”

Nelson scratched his head. “Six dead, including your pal, Ghenghis Bob. They just bought his body to the surface. Fifty-three detained.” He shook his head. “Who’d have suspected they were there? All this time?”

“Montana did,” Caden said flatly. His gaze pinned Nelson with no mercy.

Nelson flushed a little.

“That’s all they’ve found? Fifty-three?” Montana said. “That’s
it
?”

“There’s more?” Nelson said sharply.

“Ria was talking about four hundred-plus people down there. I don’t know if she was exaggerating, but there was about three hundred standing around when Caden when...they brought Caden before Ria.”

“She’s right, Nelson,” Caden added. “I’d put it closer to four hundred.”

“Plus there was a team of them shipped out last night,” Montana said.

“How many?” Nelson demanded.

“She didn’t tell me. But you need to reach out to whoever you can reach out to. Every ship currently on the Indian Ocean needs to be stopped and searched.”

“Oh, lordy, the headaches this is going to cause.” Nelson clutched his head. “That’s this Ria person? The little old lady they hauled out? She’s their leader?”

Montana grinned. “Nelson, you want to sit down for this one. That sweet little old lady is Arriabata Anderson Finch-Jones. You’d know her better as Nicollo.”

Nelson’s eyes bugged out. “Impossible!”

“About as impossible as four hundred terrorists camping out in caves in Western Australia?” Caden asked.

Nelson snapped his jaw shut with an audible click. “I need to let someone know the real numbers,” he muttered and hurried off.

They watched him go. “They’ll be rounding them up for a week down there,” Caden said, his tone thoughtful. “Those caves run all over the place.”

“Some will get away,” Montana observed.

“Problem is, it’s the better ones that will make it out.”

“So the best will have to hunt them down again.” She shrugged. “They won’t have a convenient rabbit hole to scuttle into this time. They’re on the run. They’ll make mistakes.”

“Which reminds me. How did you know that shooting me where you did wasn’t fatal?”

She rolled her eyes and turned to face him. “I’m not even going to ask what the association is, there.”

Caden grinned. “Survival of the fittest. Natural selection. I seem to have won the pot today, thanks to you. Was it as much dumb luck as you say it was?”

“I read about it in a book,” she said.

“Figures.” He looked around again. “You know, there’s no one standing around here insisting you sign papers or answer questions.”

She glanced around. No one was taking any notice of them.

“You’re right.”

“Time to cut and run,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * * * *

They ducked under the police tape that cordoned off a good two acres of the forest. On the other side of the barrier, there were thirty or forty people dotted along the borders, straining to see what was going on.

As they emerged onto the old logging track, which was churned and furrowed from all the heavy traffic, half-a-dozen or more of the by-standers broke away from the line and hurried after them.

“Montana! Wait!”

She glanced over her shoulder and halted. Jogging down the track after them was Jacko, Bruce, Greg and four or five other people she knew from the beaches. Surfers all, and addicted to the lifestyle.

They rushed up to her. “Man, are you all right?” Bruce asked, reaching out but not quite grasping her arm. “We heard you were mixed up in all this stuff.”

“You came out to check?” She smiled. “I’m fine.”

Jacko glanced at Caden. “I’m guessing you’re fine only by the skin of your teeth. That’s a bullet wound or I’m a Kiwi.”

Caden lifted his brow, but didn’t comment. Montana realized he’d fallen back into his defensive mode. Even his shoulders were squared and braced.

He doesn’t let people in easy
.

But she was in. She was on the other side of the shield. She had seen the real Caden. Because she had seen him, she understood why he held people at arm’s length.

She caught Jacko’s eye. “We want to avoid the crowds,” she said. “Want to walk with us?”

Jacko, Bruce and Greg fell in beside them and they walked down the track towards town, leaving the rest of the surfers behind.

“We didn’t just come to make sure you didn’t get your ass busted, you know,” Bruce finally offered.

“No?” She let the question dangle, unspoken.

Jacko glanced over his shoulder. “They’re out of sight,” he declared.

The three surfers came to a halt and ranged before them.

Montana studied their grave faces. “What is it?” she asked.

Jacko scrubbed at his chin with his fist. “It’s about Borelli. The police captain. And the cop, Steve, the one you were hanging with. There’s something you should know. And there’s something Bruce has to show you.”

“Christallmighty, will you just get in the goddam car?” Borelli shouted at his fussing wife.

Barbs looked up at him from the suitcase she was kneeling over, her face troubled. “But Mike, it’ll only take a few minutes to pack some things. I can’t just leave the cats to fend for themselves. I’ll ask Margaret to feed them. Can’t you tell me where we’re going? Or how long we’re going to be?”

He could feel his control starting to jitter apart under the impact of the dozen petty frustrations she was dishing out. Didn’t she get it? Didn’t she understand that this was a one-way trip?
Of course she doesn’t, moron. She’s so wrapped in her ladies’ lawn bowls association that even if you spelled it out for her she wouldn’t get it. Not without slow repetition.

He didn’t have time for repetition. He didn’t have time for explanations. “Fine. Okay. You pack. I’ll be back in a minute,” he told his wife of twenty-seven years. He strode out of the house into the belting heat of the day and let the screen door slam behind him. The sound was the punctuation at the end of his marriage. He had no intention of going back.

He climbed into his cruiser, already sweating copiously. The cell phone on the passenger seat was burring quietly. He snaked out his left hand and picked it up, then dropped it with a howl of pain. The phone was hotter than a teakettle. It had been sitting in the sun for a couple of hours. It was a wonder the plastic casing hadn’t melted.

He delicately picked it up again, but the phone went silent just as he was juggling it to try and pry it open without losing skin in the process. He threw it back onto the passenger seat with a snarl, started the car and cranked the air conditioning to full power. He pulled the cruiser out of the driveway and headed for the downtown area and the station.

He drove on automatic; obeying the speed limits and road rules. Everyone knew his cruiser. He couldn’t afford to peel rubber, although more than anything he wanted to head for the hills at top speed and then keep going.

The cell phone started burring again.

“Jeezus,” he breathed and reached for it. After just a few minutes of vented chill, it was already cool enough to handle, although he could feel the plastic sections give under his fingertips.

“What?” he barked. Fuck courtesy. There were only a handful of people that had this number and he didn’t want to talk to any of them right now.

“God, I’ve been dialing for twenty five minutes!” It was Chris Goonewardene’s high, panicky voice.

“Why the fuck are you phoning at all? And on a mobile phone, you dickhead.”

“I’m at Steve Scarborough’s place. You’d better get out here.”

“Why would I do that? You know where I’m heading today and if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll do the same.” They had both listened to the radio bands that morning with amazement and growing concern, as the combined police and military might of three countries had converged on Margaret River and proceeded to flush out the cave dwellers like ants from a nest. The radio signals had been frank. Just as many bodies as live ones had washed to the surface.

When the inspector had phoned the station with the incredible news that little old Ria Jones was the man in charge of the operation, with orders to go secure her house for later investigation, that was when Borelli knew it was time to cut and run.

“Like you said, this is a mobile phone,” Chris replied. “Better just come out here. It’d take too long to explain, anyway.”

He squeezed the cell phone to his ear and considered Chris’s appeal. “I gotta swing by the station and pick up my own car. I’ll be out then.” He shut the phone down with an irritated snap of his fingers and threw it back on the seat. He reconsidered, picked it up and turned the power off and threw it over his shoulder on to the back seat.