Blood Junction Read online

  Two men piled out of the Ford, broke into a run. Straight for Scotto.

  He started opening his arms to embrace her.

  India saw, without quite believing it, both men lunge at Scotto and snatch him away.

  For a second, she lost her momentum in shock. The two men were on either side of him, had grabbed his briefcase and pinned his hands high between his shoulders … They were hauling him away.

  Instinct took over: India simply put her head down and charged for him. People were yelling in outrage, sprawling behind her, some on their knees. She ripped through the crowd, single-minded, unthinking. Someone lashed out at her and she found herself spinning around, her right arm in a grip like iron. A fist landed deep in her belly. She went down like a stone.

  Immediately a crowd formed around her.

  “Asthma, my wife suffers from asthma,” a man was saying as he helped her to her feet, hands around her arms like steel cuffs.

  She was bent double. She fought to breathe, to form a word.

  “India!” Mikey shouted.

  “Deal with him,” the man snapped to his sidekick, who spun aside and vanished into the crowd.

  “India!” Mikey yelled again.

  “Does she need Ventalin?” a woman said helpfully. “I’ve some in my bag.”

  “No, no. She’ll be right. My car’s just here. Our friends will help. She’s fine, thank you.”

  She was choking, gasping. Tears streamed down her face. The crowd parted as she was half-dragged, half-carried towards the black Ford. She tried to struggle but they simply hoisted her off the ground so her feet swung free. The Ford lurched alongside her, its rear door opening.

  Her breathing suddenly eased. India filled her lungs.

  Her scream split the air. “Mikey!”

  People stopped to stare.

  She was bucking and squirming furiously, her legs jerking as she took another breath, yelled, “Mikey!” but a hand clapped over her mouth, another on top of her head, and she found herself bundled into the back of the Ford and the door slammed shut behind her.

  Immediately the car moved forward. The interior was black leather and India could smell pine air freshener and stale cigarettes. Scotto lay slumped unconscious, half on the seat, half on the floor. There were two men in front, both about thirty, both in dark trousers and jackets. One held a gun in his hand, pointed at her.

  “You try anything, I shoot you.”

  She was panting jerkily, her breath rasping in her throat.

  The car did a slow three-point turn and eased through the crowds, heading back to the city. For a second the man glanced away and looked forward.

  India flipped off the door lock with her right hand, yanked back the door handle with her left and shoved with all her might.

  Nothing happened.

  She shoved again. The man snapped his head around.

  She sat there, hands on the door, frozen.

  They stared at each other, immobile, and all she could think was that he had missed a patch of stubble, the size of a five-pence piece, shaving that morning.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  She didn’t think he’d shoot her, but she couldn’t be certain. So she sat there, quite still, willing him to be lenient.

  The seconds ticked by. When the journey had been going on for some time, the man moved the pistol away from her. India brought her hands onto her lap. Began breathing normally again.

  Mikey had seen the man come for him and immediately spun away for Phillip Street. He saw the black Ford start its three-point turn and pelted for the Intercontinental Hotel and the taxi stand outside, praying there’d be one, that they weren’t all taken …

  He ran up the hill. Two taxis, thank God.

  He raced to the first, a blue Holden, and yanked open the driver’s door.

  “What the—”

  “Sorry, mate,” Mikey said, dragging the man out and shoving him into the street. He jumped into the cab, locked the door, turned the ignition key.

  The cab driver was yelling at him, banging on the door.

  Mikey slammed the car into gear and roared off with a squeal of rubber.

  The car was cruising south. They’d passed Haymarket and were on South Dowling Street, heading towards the airport.

  India tried to work out why she was there, why they’d grabbed Scotto too … and a sinking feeling of dread settled in her stomach. There had been no blindfolds. No concern about hiding the kidnappers’ faces, or their route. This was bad news. Very bad news.

  When they reached Mascot, the car pulled off the expressway and turned right. After a set of traffic lights it swung suddenly to the left and bumped onto an ill-kempt road lined with warehouses. After a while it slowed, and turned into a huge courtyard that spread over several acres. The whole place was empty. A single dusty gum tree stood like a sentinel beside a rusting gate hanging from one hinge. The building ahead was white, with great cracks running down its walls. The car drew to a stop outside a metal door. The driver switched off the ignition. Everything was silent, aside from the faint hum of traffic speeding down South Cross Drive.

  There was a rattle from the warehouse and the metal door opened. Two more men appeared, walked to the car. One had a buzz haircut, the other short curly brown hair.

  “India.” Scotto drew the word out slowly, as though he were drunk.

  Instantly the gun trained around. “Shut up,” the man said tightly.

  Scotto acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Indi, darling, I’ve missed you. Terribly.”

  Holding the gunman’s eyes, she reached across and gripped Scotto’s hand. It was surprisingly warm, and when his fingers clenched around hers with a remarkable strength, she had to concentrate on keeping her expression bland. The gunman didn’t notice, however; he was watching the two men approaching. But the gun never wavered.

  “Who are these apes?” Scotto said, then as the gunman swung around, “Shit, my head hurts.”

  There was the all-around click of car doors unlocking, the clunk as they opened, and then the instant heat as the humidity rushed in and blanketed the air-conditioning.

  “He’s awake,” said the gunman, jerking his pistol at Scotto.

  “Good,” said one of the men outside, and yanked a protesting Scotto through the door by his hair and an elbow. “I didn’t fancy carrying the bastard.”

  India found herself being hauled out of the car and marched into the warehouse behind Scotto, who was still protesting about his head, how it hurt and wouldn’t they give him a break?

  Inside, the warehouse was enormous. There was a stack of packing crates to her left, and on the right, just yards away, a silver Mercedes four-wheel-drive. Scotto’s briefcase was put next to the Merc, then he was handcuffed with what looked like police-issue cuffs and led towards the crates, where they tethered his feet together. India was guided to stand in front of the four-wheel-drive car. Two men took up position behind her. She felt something small and hard pressed into the small of her back. She had no doubt it was the barrel of a pistol.

  “Come on, guys,” Scotto said, loudly aggrieved. “Let us in on the secret, will you? What’s going on here, huh?”

  There was the sound of a car door being opened and shut. “Very good, Mr. Kennedy. Acting as if you haven’t a clue. If I didn’t know better I could even fall for it myself.”

  India recognized the voice. Felt sick.

  Roland Knox.

  He was dressed as he’d been when she met him at the Research Institute, in a city suit. Dark gray, snowy white shirt, and a vivid blue tie that paled his eyes to water.

  Scotto looked bewildered. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’m fed up with him playing the whingeing innocent,” said Knox. “Break a finger.”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Knox snapped. “Just do it.”

  He stepped forward, quite close to India. He was watching her with a strange intensity.

 
She felt a moment of complete disbelief as two men approached Scotto. He jerked wildly as one man pinned him against the wall, another gripping his handcuffed wrists.

  Her eyes opened wide in shock, wider than they’d ever been, as the man holding Scotto’s wrists gripped the little finger of his right hand, bent it back. The snap of bone when it came had a slightly succulent popping sound, like a chicken drumstick being pulled from the raw flesh of torso. Scotto paused in his fight and turned pale.

  A wave of dizzy nausea washed over her. The other two men were behind her, one on each side. She could hear their breathing they were so close, too close for her to make a run for it.

  “Christ,” said Scotto weakly. “Christ. Oh, Christ.” He cradled his hands to his chest. He was deathly white.

  Knox clicked his fingers at one of the men behind her. “The briefcase,” he said. “Open it and bring it here.”

  The man in question did as commanded and held Scotto’s briefcase open in front of Knox, as though he were offering him a giant box of cigars. Knox glanced inside. His voice was full of satisfaction as he held up a tattered green folder stuffed with papers and waved it at Scotto, then dropped it back inside. “Just as I thought,” he said, and waved the man away. Knox gave Scotto a nasty smile. “You took it sailing with you, didn’t you, Mr. Kennedy? I respect your caution. Wary of sharing its contents with the average Australian family, no doubt.”

  Scotto jerked his head up as though electrified, and when he spoke his voice was steady and strong. In ringing tones he said, “Indi, if you don’t remember anything else, remember it’s the water. It’s the WATER—”

  “Shut up!” snapped Knox. He made a sharp gesture to the men holding Scotto. “Keep him quiet. Yank that finger of his, break another bone, I don’t care.”

  Knox came to India, looked at her. She knew he hated his lack of height, loathed looking up at her, and she made sure her chin was well tucked in as she peered down, so that from his position her nose would seem elongated and her attitude haughty.

  “I want to know everything,” he said. “I want to know how you set up that Abo cop to take the fall. I want to know about Rodney Stirling. I want to know who you’ve talked to, who you’ve seen … I want to know about every minute of every day since we last met.”

  Distantly she registered the fact: Whitelaw was innocent.

  “Start talking, Miss Kane.”

  India didn’t say anything. Where would it get her? Especially with Scotto guarded by two men, and her with a gun in her back. So she stood there without moving, and thought about life and Scotto and sunshine and how Mikey had looked when he was laughing about her being an Aborigine.

  “You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” said Knox. “Tough as nails. Not scared at all.”

  She held his gaze, didn’t reply.

  “How about Mr. Kennedy here? You’re scared for him, aren’t you?”

  Involuntarily, India’s head jerked.

  Knox came close to her, so close she could smell his aftershave: a hint of citrus, sharp, but not unpleasant.

  “I want to know why the AMA started investigating my business,” he said.

  India stared at him. A feeling of dread started in her lower belly, moved to her heart.

  “Answer me,” he said.

  She didn’t move, not a centimeter.

  Knox clicked his fingers at the man who had brought him the briefcase. He came forward and gave him a small handgun. Knox quickly pulled back the slide and a bullet slipped into the chamber. Then he gave a nod to the two men holding Scotto, and said, “Hold him down.”

  India made to go to Scotto but the man behind her grabbed her hair and twisted it around his hand and pulled from behind in a grip that made her eyes water.

  Like an animal who senses its doom, Scotto struggled the instant he felt their hands on him. The man who’d given Knox the pistol went across and helped. It took three men to subdue Scotto and even then he was bucking and squirming furiously as Knox approached, gun held at the ground.

  “No!” Scotto shouted. His limbs were flailing, and spittle flew from his mouth. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”

  India made a lunge towards Scotto but her head was jerked backwards so hard she thought her hair would come out at the roots.

  Roland Knox stepped towards Scotto and swung his arm so that the black barrel was pressed against Scotto’s left kneecap. Scotto was shouting, but India was deathly quiet. A wave of horror drenched her from head to toe.

  Knox turned to her, and smiled. He said, “You’re not enjoying this, are you, Miss Kane?”

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  Scotto screamed incoherently for twenty-five seconds before he lost consciousness. India knew she would hear those screams in her cold dawn dreams until the day she died. She could see blood soaking his jeans like red ink spilled onto blotting paper. She could smell burnt powder and the acrid stench of her own fear. Her ears were ringing from the gunshot and her head was beginning to throb; the grip on her hair had tightened unbearably.

  Roland Knox came and stood in front of her and lowered the pistol until it was pointed at her stomach.

  India jerked against the man behind her, tried to twist away from Knox, then lashed out with her feet in panic, a strangled whimper bubbling in her throat.

  “Hold her still.”

  Frantically she kicked out at the men as they neared, but they were too strong and she ended up with two of them restraining her legs and arms.

  “Pull up her shirt,” he said, “and undo her jeans.”

  The man holding her hair started to relax his grip but Knox said, “Not you, you idiot. Aikin.”

  The fourth man jumped to do his bidding. Knox slowly brought the barrel to the tender skin of her lower belly and stroked it. She could feel her muscles leap and contract against the metallic caress and tried to drop to her knees, twist away, but the man behind held her head relentlessly. Knox watched her closely, his face intent.

  He raised the pistol.

  Fear liquidized her insides. It swept through every vein, every nerve, made her whimper in every cell of her body. She tried not to let her fear show, holding Knox’s gaze with her own without blinking, but she couldn’t stop the trickle of urine that escaped and wet her pants, seeped down her jeans.

  His voice was calm, serene, almost as though he were reassuring or comforting her. “As you can see, I can demolish your intestines if I choose. Turn your stomach, your bladder and your bowel into juice. I doubt if you’ll ever be able to have children.” He stroked the hard gunmetal in a circle around her belly button. “What would you do to prevent that happening?”

  India opened her mouth. Worked her tongue drily. Choked out, “Anything.”

  “How very accommodating of you. Does this mean you will tell me who tipped off the AMA and set you on my trail?”

  She closed her eyes and immediately felt the gun barrel jab hard into her belly.

  “Open your eyes and answer me.”

  Her voice was hoarse. “Yes.”

  He put his head on one side and studied her, the sweat trickling down her forehead, her cheeks. “So start, Miss Kane. Go ahead. Start talking.”

  There was a long silence while he contemplated India and India hung from the trap of her hair, shaking and trembling and thinking: Please, God, let me live, don’t let him pull the trigger, don’t, please don’t. Finally, he took the pistol away from her stomach and pushed it against her right kneecap.

  “This is going to hurt, Miss Kane.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  INDIA MADE A FINAL, WILD STRUGGLE, URGENTLY TRYING TO free herself.

  “Keep her still!” snapped Knox.

  Every muscle, every nerve was flooded with adrenaline as she fought, and she was kicking and bucking and yelling when somebody screamed: “Police!”

  Knox immediately trained his pistol towards the sound.

  The same voice yelled: “Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot!”

  Nobody moved
.

  A single gunshot split the air. Spat cement chips to India’s left.

  Knox fired twice and ran.

  The three men dropped India and scattered behind the Mercedes.

  She sagged there for a second, bewildered.

  A bullet whacked into the Mercedes. Another whizzed past her. A surge of adrenaline reenergized her. She twisted sideways and ran in the opposite direction, for the door, for freedom. She heard the blast of guns. Men were shouting behind her. A bullet struck a shipping crate just ahead. India stretched her legs. More bullets struck the crates, splintering wood. She swung left.

  “India!” a man yelled ahead of her. “I’m here!” Mikey’s voice was hoarse.

  A bullet nicked her shirt. Another zinged past her ear.

  Gunshots roared in the warehouse.

  “Mikey!” India screamed.

  “Stay down!” he yelled.

  India dropped to her hands and knees, scurried for him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” She hastily did up her jeans.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed her wrist. “I’ll come back for Scotto. Hurry!” He pulled her after him. She strained to keep up. Her ears, deafened by the gunshots, were ringing and, in confusion, it took her a moment to realize they were outside.

  Bullets struck the ground. The shots continued from behind them.

  Without warning Mikey stumbled. Dropped her wrist. Sprawled facedown. A bullet parted the air by her head. She barely paused. Kept sprinting across the forecourt. Have to reach the road. Have to get out of here. Have to run. Run, run, run.

  The next thing she realized, she was running along Botany Road, traffic was lumbering along, and then she was slowing, putting her hand out, walking, gasping.

  The truck that stopped was headed for Newcastle but she didn’t care.

  Mikey scrambled to his feet. He saw India race through the courtyard gates and disappear. He ran for the Holden taxi, jumped in and locked the doors. He started the engine. He became aware that the gunshots hadn’t stopped.