Dark Country (42 page)

‘I think he is,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t know for sure. I don’t see him much lately. He works for the company, a legit job, but
this past few months, he’s been throwing around money. And … he’s changed. More swagger. He used to spend time with me and
Chloe and the kids, but now he hardly ever comes. And when he does, it’s not like it used to be. Not … easy.’

Jim lifted his face and, for all their previous run-ins, it hurt Kris to see the pain in his eyes.

‘I was glad when he got the job with Flanagan. I thought he’d stay, not move away,’ he said roughly. ‘But he’s grown hard
and arrogant. I don’t know what he’s doing, who he’s with, and I don’t ask because I know I’ll hate my son if I find out.’

‘Do either of you know where he is now?’

Jim shook his head. Paul hesitated, then spoke up again. ‘I don’t know where he is. But while I was working on the old Sutherland
place the last few weeks, I often saw him drive past in the late afternoons, heading north on the Hammersley Road.’

Kris thanked them, saw them out, then came back and studied the map. North on the Hammersley Road. That could lead to five
of the Flanagan properties, but it ran roughly parallel to Scrub Road, kilometres apart, and a few tracks linked the two.
That broadened the area considerably and brought another three properties into contention.

Her phone rang. Steve, on his way to Dungirri. He told her Petric and Macklin were due to arrive shortly, that they’d agreed
to meet in Dungirri.

The station’s front bell sounded, and she answered it to find Karl on the doorstep, clutching several sheets of paper. He
spread them out on the table in the interview room, gave her a wary grin.

‘I’m not going to tell you how I got this data, and it’s best if you don’t ask, okay?’

She nodded, very cautiously, knowing he’d worked in IT for a phone company, until recently.

‘Believe me, I wouldn’t normally do this,’ he said earnestly. ‘But I can’t do nothing if someone might die because of it.’

He pushed a map towards her, different from the survey maps she used. ‘I hate saying it, but I think Sean is involved. He
used to be a mate, but he’s …. well, he’s not, now. Anyway, as of ten minutes ago, Sean – or his mobile phone – was somewhere
in this area, between these three towers.’

It was still a large area, but it covered the area north on Scrub Road, corresponding roughly with Paul’s information.

‘Sean may not be where Gil is, though,’ she thought out loud.

‘No, on it’s own, it’s not significant. But I skimmed over some other data, and the number Sean called yesterday morning,
probably around the time he was released, was this number’ – he tapped one of the printouts – ‘and that phone is now in the
same area that Sean’s is in. What’s more, that phone – let’s call it phone A – has been regularly called by phone B, which
was in Sydney last night, and which is now in roughly the same place as Sean’s and phone A.’

Tony
. Phone B had to be Tony, and phone A Sergio.

‘Before you ask what you’re not supposed to, no, I can’t narrow the area down any further,’ Karl said. ‘But I know someone
who might know if there’s a specific place out that way.’

‘Luke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will he talk?’

Karl grinned and stacked his papers together. ‘Between your police glare and the threat of my cousinly thumps, probably.’

They found Luke at home, and he needed no thumps, threatened or otherwise. A night in the cells, and the reality of the charge
of aggravated sexual assault against Megan had frightened him enough to change his attitude, and made him eager to cooperate.

‘There is a place Sean hangs out,’ he told them. ‘I haven’t been there, dunno where it is exactly, but he said there’s a cool
house, with a home theatre and spa and all, but the guy that owns it doesn’t live there any more, so Sean uses it sometimes.
He reckons there’s a freight container, under a shed. He reckoned he might use it, you know, to make stuff.’

A freight container
.

She raced back to her office, grabbed Gil’s old maps and photos, found the relevant map mark and compared it to hers. Not
a Flanagan holding. Not currently, anyway, but it was in the right area and maybe the owner was a partner, willing or otherwise.

It didn’t matter. She’d found Gil, and now all she had to do was set up an operation to get him out of there.

They tied him to the chair. It went against the grain, not to fight them, but that unequal equation made it too much of a
risk. If he created trouble, they’d kill him in an instant.

Sergio leaned against the wall, idly observing while Tony stood in front of Gil, the will held high, and put a cigarette lighter
to it. The paper curled, burned upwards, eating the paper.

‘My father thought he was clever, but this is what his schemes have come to. A pile of ashes.’

‘Did you know she was your sister, Tony?’ Gil asked.

He dropped the will to the metal floor, watched the last of it burn. ‘That whore?’ He spat on the ashes. ‘She got all she
deserved. I made sure of that. But it’s your fault, Gillespie. You shouldn’t have interfered, got Vince involved. He got angry,
tried to tell me what to do, then he shouted his dirty little secret and said she’d get more than me. So she had to die, and
before him.’ He snorted. ‘You know, people pay to do a woman like that. Instead of costing me, I made money on it.’

Gil kept his face impassive, despite his revulsion. Tony’s slip answered some questions, and Sergio’s relaxed observation
answered a couple more.

Tony hadn’t killed his father. Sergio was the cool one, the planner, and must have arranged or carried out the assassination
without involving Tony. But with Vince on life support, Gil guessed Tony had panicked, desperate for Marci to die before their
father.

And Sergio had stepped in to clean up the mess, dispose
of the body, implicate another. He had to have a reason for indulging his far less effective cousin.

‘So, let me guess, Tony. You didn’t find Vince’s will until Saturday, is that right?’

Tony kicked the pile of ashes with his shoe. ‘The copies are destroyed, Gillespie. There is no will. I’m his son and I’ll
inherit. I’m going to enjoy spending my money.’

No, thought Gil. Sergio will wait long enough for you to get it, and then he’ll probably kill you for it. For all Tony’s anger
and violence, Sergio was the far greater danger.

Oblivious to anything but his own desires, Tony gave a twisted grin. ‘And the other thing I’m going to enjoy,’ he continued,
‘is watching you die. You cheated me, Gillespie. You took what was mine. That requires punishment, and I’ve been waiting a
long time to see you get it. And since Sean here has long desired to belt the shit out of you for killing his cousin, I’m
going to let him.’

Sean stepped forward, a wide smirk lighting his face, a heavy metal pipe gripped in both hands like a medieval sword. ‘We
might take this nice and slow, Gillespie. Make the pleasure last.’

Gil exhaled a slow breath through his nose. He could endure this. He was strong, healthy, and he had plenty to survive for.
He brought an image of Kris to his mind, and focused his thoughts, his energies on two words: Endure. Survive.

The pipe slammed into his gut and pain exploded, searing through every nerve in his body.

The good thing about Federal Police agents arriving on one’s doorstep, Kris discovered, was that they could make a lot happen
in a short space of time. She had the sense their own investigation was advanced, close to the point of moving in. Whether
it was the extra information in Vince’s detailed notes, or the fact of a hostage and the Russos in a known place that tipped
the scales, she didn’t know, but they decided the time was ripe. Phone calls flew, and the approval for a joint operation
came quickly.

But the unsettling aspect of a hastily convened operation was that Joe, Craig and Steve were automatically part of the team.
Not knowing, not being able to trust them, left her grappling with continued trepidation. The station was too small for the
dozen officers called together; they gathered instead around a table set up in the hall, the late afternoon light casting
a grid of shadows from the window frame across the documents spread before them.

‘We’ve raided these types of facilities before,’ the senior agent, Caitlin Jamieson, explained to the team. ‘There’s usually
only one entrance. With a hostage inside, that makes it risky. Tear gas is the best option. The next best is cutting the power,
throwing them into the dark.’

‘The tactical response group usually does this type of operation,’ Kris pointed out. ‘We don’t have tear gas, night vision
goggles or sharp-shooters.’

‘Can you get the TRG here in half an hour?’ Caitlin asked. ‘I don’t think we can afford to wait much longer.’

‘Not a chance. It’d be three hours, minimum, before they could be here.’ Steve drummed his fingers on the table. ‘But if we
cut the power and go in with torches, we’ll have the advantage of surprise, and glare. I was with tactical for a while, and
I think it’s the best chance we’ve got.’

‘Any other options?’ Caitlin asked the group. ‘Right, what do we know about the buildings, the area, and who is there? Do
we have any recent aerial photos?’

Kris spread out a few photos on the table. ‘It’s on the edge of the State Forest, and they did an aerial survey a year or
two back. We’ve got this shot here, with the house, and the various outbuildings. I’ve compared it to Gil’s photos from when
they were burying the container, and the placement of the buildings in the background of that image.’ She indicated a large
rectangle on the aerial photo, some distance from the house, not far from a thick band of trees and a reasonably sized dam.
‘I’m fairly certain it’s under this machinery shed. If we approach from these trees, here, we’ll have good cover, and any
view from the house will be blocked by the shed itself.’

An hour later, as the sun set, Kris scanned the shed and surrounds from the cool shadows of the trees, and breathed in the
scents of the bush. The still-damp leaf litter below her feet, not yet dry after the storm. The fresh scent of the cypress
trees around them. Something sweet-smelling. Another bank of storm clouds was rolling in across the sky, dark and flame-edged
from the setting sun, the rumblings of thunder becoming louder, more frequent. With luck, the thunder might cover any noise
they made.

Nothing moved around the house or the outbuildings. She could just see, across the clearing, the second team was in position,
ready to go in to the house. Near her, waiting for the signal, Caitlin, Steve, Joe and Craig made only the slightest noise:
breathing, the brush of fabric, the soft crunch of leaves as they shifted their feet.

Kris slowed her own breathing, made herself aware of her body, present in it. The familiar weight of the Glock in her hand.
The less familiar bulk and weight of the bullet-proof vest. The soles of her feet, firm boots, firm ground beneath them.

The soft beep on Caitlin’s phone gave the signal, and Kris set out across the open ground with her colleagues, quickly, quietly,
heading towards Gil.