I’d read stuff in the papers about meth labs. They were prone to exploding, and so full of toxic, flammable chemicals that law enforcement didn’t go in without full Hazmat protective gear. I pulled my t-shirt over the lower half of my face and went inside. An extractor fan was going but the stink was acrid, and I felt noxious gases sting my eyes and coil into my lungs. Inside, propane bottles, coffee filters, betadine and bottles of kerosene shared space with jars full of match heads. What the hell did they do with all that crap?
I switched off the air-conditioner, left an extractor fan on and swept all the empty cold and flu packets from the laminex table to the floor. I grabbed a bottle of kerosene, squirted it around and picked up an intact box of matches. Soon as I’d jumped out of the caravan I struck a match. Blue flames leapt and I bolted, slamming into the dust behind the shed, sure the thing was going to blow any second.
It didn’t.
Had the fire gone out? I peeked through another hole in the tin. Soldier-boy Dean had untied Nick from the chair and was dragging him across the concrete towards the open doors and the helicopter beyond.
And then—boom.
M
y shoulders jumped and I turned instinctively, poking my head around the corner of the shed and copping an invisible wave of pressure and heat. The windows exploded in a blur of jangling glass and orange flame, and black smoke unfurled, turning the caravan into a fireball. I ducked as burning shrapnel rained from the sky, scuffing the dirt and pinging off the shed. The air stank of melting plastic, smouldering tyres.
Glancing through a hole in the tin I saw everyone running outside and I knew I didn’t have long if I wanted to make a move. I snuck around the other side of the shed and ended up by the helicopter, where Nick was lying alone on the concrete slab.
‘Come on,’ I hissed. ‘Get up. Run to the van.’
Nick shook his bruised and bloody head so I started dragging him through the dirt. Not easy. Although he’d lost weight he was still a big guy.
Rod and Dean were standing at the rear of the chopper, backs to me, with two bikies and a guy I guessed was the chopper pilot. The skinny bikie with long straggly hair had come out of the house and was standing on the wraparound wooden veranda, weapon in hand, mouth open. Everyone swore and ducked each time another chunk of flaming debris rained down.
Then something big blew and a fiery propane tank burst straight out of the roof of the caravan like a surface to air missile. The lot of them hit the dirt, but it wasn’t headed for the chopper, instead flying towards the house and crashing through the tin roof. Flames burst from the hole and a blast ripped the air as the tank detonated. The skinny bikie vaulted over the veranda railing as a new blaze roiled from the building. I’d almost got Nick out of sight behind the van when a figure came striding out of the inferno, untouched. He wore a backpack, carried the silver Samsonite case in one hand and a Wild Turkey stubby in the other and was bleeding from the side of the head. Watto.
He stared straight at me as he came down the stairs. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he yelled.
Everybody turned, saw me dragging Nick and in seconds I was surrounded. Watto’s guys pulled me back and held me. Rod’s men grabbed Nick and hefted him into the helicopter.
I struggled like a wildcat until Watto dropped the suitcase on the ground, reclaimed his knife from my belt and held the serrated tip under my chin. I froze.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Rod boomed over the sound of the helicopter rotors, squinting like he almost recognised me.
Rod’s guard, Dean, had helped wrestle Nick’s limp body into the chopper, and stood on the edge of the cabin, pointing into the distance.
‘I can see a dust cloud,’ he yelled.
‘Get the binoculars,’ ordered Rod.
Dean reached into the chopper and came out with a pair.
‘Shit. It’s a cop car. They’re stopped at the first gate!’
‘How many?’ Watto barked.
‘Looks like two.’ Dean adjusted the focus. ‘A black guy and a woman. I think it’s that Talbot bitch.’
‘Fuck,’ said Rod. ‘ETA?’
‘Five, ten minutes? He’s using a sledgehammer on the lock.’
‘Let’s get out of here—now.’ Rod moved towards the helicopter.
‘Me, the girl and Craig’s money are coming too,’ Watto said.
Rod frowned. ‘There’s not enough room.’
‘Bullshit,’ said the fat guy in the t-shirt. ‘I looked inside. Seats five.’
‘Too much weight and she won’t fly, we’ll run out of fuel,’ said Rod.
‘We’ll be three soon enough.’ Watto grinned at me, then scowled at Rod. ‘You don’t let me on that fucking chopper and me mates here’ll shoot you out of the sky.’ He downed the last of his bourbon and Coke and threw the bottle into the dust.
‘Right, fine, let’s just get out of here,’ Rod said, heading for the aircraft.
‘What about us?’ the skinny bikie whined.
‘How much ammo you got?’ Watto asked.
‘Stacks.’
‘Bonus. One of you in the shed, one behind the water tank. They won’t know what hit ’em. Burn the bodies and the cop car and piss off straight after. They probably called for backup after the explosion, but it’ll take ages to get here.’
Watto pushed me into the chopper beside Nick, who was slumped against the far door, and threw the silver case on the floor. Rod perched in the seat opposite and Dean jumped in, slid the door closed and sat next to Rod, a mini bar between them. The pilot started the engine and it let out a high-pitched hum before the rotor blades started to thump.
Watto kept the knife pressed into my side and grabbed a pistol out of the back of his jeans using his free hand. It looked like the one Nick had given me. Rod’s guard held the sort of large automatic weapon favoured by Colombian drug lords, and his trigger finger twitched when Watto pulled the gun. Watto noticed.
‘Wouldn’t, mate. One, I work for Craig Murdoch, and two, youse have a lot more to lose than what I do.’
Rod put his hand on Dean’s arm, made him lower the rif le. He glanced at me and then suddenly realised who I was.
‘Simone
Kirsch
?’
I attempted a smile and tried to appear calm and resigned to my fate, when in reality I was speeding off my dial and noting exits, weapon placement and the position of the automatic screen that separated the cabin from the cockpit. It was directly behind Rod and Dean’s seats and it was open.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rod asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘She’s with me,’ Watto said, like I was his girlfriend. ‘It’s grouse to meet you again, by the way.’
‘What?’
‘Did your writing workshop at Port Phillip. So inspired I went and writ a book of me own.’ He slipped the backpack off and, juggling the knife and the gun, opened the top so Rod could see all the jumbled notebooks and paper inside.
‘Know where I could find an agent?’ Watto asked.
Rod looked horrified.
While they were occupied I put Nick’s seatbelt on him, then clasped my own so it wouldn’t look suss. Watto noticed and chuckled.
‘Don’t think youse’ll be needin’ those,’ he said.
Rod looked at me and opened his mouth as though he was about to tell Watto to unhand me, then he shut it and looked away, like being an imminent murder victim was contagious. So much for his righteous real-life action hero shtick. Arsehole.
‘Can you see the cop car?’ I asked, and everyone strained to look out the window. I took the Wild Turkey ring pull from my pocket and surreptitiously wiggled it into the buckle of Nick’s seatbelt until the top broke off and the bottom half lodged in the mechanism. I was hoping to jam it, buy us some time.
As we wobbled, then began to lift, I put my next plan in motion.
‘Hey, Rod,’ I said. ‘How’s it feel to be sitting opposite your fiancée’s killer?’
‘Nick had it coming.’ He still wasn’t looking at me.
‘Nick didn’t do it.’ I smiled. ‘It was this guy: Watto.’
I thought the short, sharp jab in my side was a punch, until I looked down and saw the red patch growing on my singlet. Watto had stabbed me just below the ribs.
‘Shut your lying hole,’ he growled.
‘Dean, get a towel,’ Rod ordered. ‘Now.’
Dean reached under the bar compartment and came up with some paper towels, knelt in front of me and pressed them to my wound. Rod rolled his eyes.
‘No, for the seat.’
I held a bunch of absorbent towels to my side while Dean carefully laid down the rest to protect the seat underneath, then scooted back to Rod’s side.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Rod told me.
‘It’s bullshit,’ Watto said. ‘She’s just trying ta, you know, like, get us to—’
Rod sighed impatiently. ‘Set us against each other.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone knows Nick’s guilty.’ Rod sounded like he was trying to convince himself. ‘He went on the run. The police have been after him for months . . .’
I talked fast. ‘He ran because Craig Murdoch was threatening his family and blackmailing him. Isabella stole money and drugs off the Red Devils. It’s all in her book.’
I winced and waited for the thump that was really a stab. Bam. There it was. One in the arm this time. Not too deep but I felt the burn and hot blood gushing.
‘Motherfucker!’ I gasped, in pain yet strangely exhilarated. ‘They read
Thrill City
after you donated it to the jail library. They recognised Lachlan Elliot and the replica Harley!’
Bam, bam, two more hits to the arm and the blood was really spurting, but I could take it. I was so high I felt like laughing.
‘Would you stop doing that?’ Rod bellowed at Watto. ‘Those seats are imported calfskin!’
His brow creased like he was thinking. Even if he hadn’t read the book he must have remembered her reading out the excerpt. He looked at me again and exchanged a glance with his blond-haired paratrooper.
‘Don’t listen, she’s full of shit,’ Watto said, eyes darting.
‘He wrote about murdering Isabella.’ I pointed at Watto’s backpack.
I winced, anticipating the next stabbing blow, but Rod and Dean acted as one and leapt on Watto. Dean grabbed the gun but Rod couldn’t get hold of the knife and struggled with Watto’s wrist. In seconds the three of them were wrestling on the narrow floor space between the seats. I unclipped my seatbelt, scooted across to where Watto had been sitting, by the window, and clipped myself back in. Snatching his backpack, I wedged it between my knees before reaching forward to push the handle on the sliding door. Blood leaked everywhere, running down my arm, staining Rod’s imported leather upholstery, sticking to my fingers. As the handle released, the cabin filled with rushing air and the deafening thump of the rotors. The others stopped and looked at me. I slid the door open all the way and saw we were only fifty metres or so above the red desert sand, but it was enough to make me feel dizzy and weak in the shins. I started pulling scraps of paper out of the backpack. Some of them fluttered around the cabin, but most flew out the door.
‘You fucken bitch!’ Watto tried to crawl towards me with the knife but the others held him back. With one hand Rod grabbed a headset and mike, struggled into it and said something to the pilot I couldn’t hear over all the noise. I pulled out a bigger sheaf of paper and chucked it, too.
‘No!’ Watto yelled.
I made eye contact with Rod as I held the backpack above the threshold, about to fling it into space. Watto was enraged now, inching forward, his lips curled back exposing pale gums and disintegrating teeth. Rod said something into his microphone and nodded at Dean. They released Watto at the same time and dived back to their seats, clutching at the belts. The chopper banked sharply left as Watto lunged for his backpack, and suddenly he was gone. No yelling, no sound. One second he was there and the next he wasn’t. I looked out the doorway and in between the strands of hair whipping into my eyes I saw his body hit the ground and bounce, once, producing a small puff of dust. I felt like I was going to throw up. The chopper straightened and Rod shifted to the seat next to me.
‘Help me close the door,’ I yelled in his ear, but he ignored me and started trying to undo Nick’s seatbelt. Jesus. He knew Nick wasn’t the killer, but he was going to throw him out of the chopper anyway. And I bet I was next. He’d given more of a shit about his seat covers and couldn’t let me live if I witnessed him murder Nick.
Rod tugged on the seatbelt and looked to Dean for help. Dean got on his knees between the seats, tried the belt, took a knife from his ankle strap and started sawing through the material. His weapon was still strapped over his shoulder but he’d left Watto’s gun on the mini bar between the two rear-facing seats. Just behind the seats was the cockpit. Since the privacy screen was open I could see the back of the pilot’s head and the instrument panel. I wasn’t sure if I had a plan, exactly. Maybe I was acting on instinct, or maybe I was thinking that if I was going down then everyone else was, too.
I unclipped the belt, dived across and grabbed the revolver, climbed onto the seat and thrust the top half of my body into the cockpit.
Then I fired the gun.
T
he first bullet blew into the instrument panel, the second into a throttle next to the pilot. I felt a tug on my leg and metal pressing against my neck. The assault rif le, probably. I kicked back and screamed.
‘Leave me alone or I’ll blow his fucking head off and we’ll all be fucked!’
I hadn’t a clue what I’d hit but it seemed to be doing the trick. The rotors slowed. Whump. Whump. Whump.
Rod was yelling stuff to the pilot I couldn’t understand.
‘Lower the pitch! Autorotate!’
‘I’m trying! Altitude’s too low!’
The copter started swinging around, slowly at first, then faster and faster. We were descending and moving closer to the farmhouse: I saw smoke from the burning building each time we flipped that way. For a moment I regretted what I’d done, but the spin became so intense that after a few seconds all I could think about was hanging on. I tried to look back and see what Rod and Dean were up to but the force was too great so I hooked one elbow under the pilot’s shoulder strap. He was too busy fighting with the busted controls to stop me.