Dark Country (43 page)

Ten
.

This time the pipe dislocated his left shoulder, maybe smashed it. The fresh blast of agony blazed thought from his mind,
sent
him spiralling, drowning, and he was almost too weak to fight back from it.

Survive
.

It hammered in his head, along with the screaming pain. He couldn’t let go of it. He had to hold on, not let go.

Survive. Endure
.

Ten. He’d survived ten. There’d be a space before eleven. Maybe a fist or two, a kick, but a space before the next pipe blow.
Sean gave him that space, gave him time to fully experience each agony before adding the next one.

He wondered if they’d go for his legs next.

Probably.

The voices drifted, the light swirled around dark spots in front of his eyes. Someone laughed.

He felt his mind slipping, fought it, clawed his way towards the swirling light, struggled to drag together a coherent thought.

Now, Blue. Now would be a really good time …

They burst through the door, Steve in front, the rest of them in quick succession, fanning out immediately in the space, torch
lights running a rapid scan to count and locate occupants, Steve shouting to them to drop to the ground.

Four, Kris counted. Four, plus Gil, slumped too-still in a chair in the centre of the bigger-than-expected space. The light
from the torches cut wild arcs around the walls, constantly shifting. People shouted, and gun shots exploded, deafening in
the reverberation against the metal.

Someone charged her, and she dodged, bringing her fists down on him as he passed, sending him sprawling. Then the torch was
torn from her left hand, the force of the bullet that hit it convulsing up her arm. It felt like a dead weight as she lifted
it to grasp her gun with both hands.

Through the surreal, slow-motion madness of noise, firing, and confusion, she heard Gil yell her name. In a sweep of light,
she saw the gun pointed at her … Gil, still bound to the chair, charging, throwing himself at the man … the sharp jerk of
their bodies, and the two of them falling, smashing against the wall.

She started for him. In the corner of her vision, she saw another gun raised, directed her way.

She spun around, squeezed the trigger, and shot Joe Petric.

It didn’t fall quiet when the firing stopped. The ringing in her ears continued, and the pounding of her heart, both competing
with all the other sounds – groans, swearing, Caitlin giving orders, handcuffs clicking into place.

The overhead lights flickered on, and Kris holstered her gun, crossed the floor and knelt by Gil. Still bound to the chair,
his arm at a crazy angle behind him, his hand smashed, he lay sprawled over a man she assumed to be Tony Russo. A large pool
of blood spread beneath them.

Too scared to even think, she lightly pressed her fingers to Gil’s neck, seeking a pulse. At her touch, he opened his eyes,
and a rush of light-headedness made the room sway in front of her.

‘Gil.’

His mouth curved a little. ‘Blue.’

She blinked the moisture away from her eyes to see more clearly, looked him over to identify his injuries. She didn’t dare
move him, or untie him, until she had some clue what was damaged. His skin was too pale and cold, and the marks on his face
would definitely bruise. His arm was a mess. At his waist, his hitched-up T-shirt exposed long red marks. She couldn’t tell
if his legs, twisted under the chair, were okay or not, but they’d carried his weight in his mad charge against Tony. The
blood beneath them was Tony’s, and he was quite dead.

Gil’s eyes had drifted closed again. She touched the only part of him she dared to, brushing a finger against his lips. ‘Hang
in there, Gil. Paramedics will be here any minute. We had them waiting not far away.’

‘Good,’ he murmured. He didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth made that small curve again. ‘Metal pipe. Ribs are broken, this
time.’

The dry reference to their conversation after the pub fight, an age ago now, almost made her howl.

His forehead creased, as he suddenly remembered something, and he forced open his eyes, searched her face. ‘Megan? Is she
…?’

‘She’s doing okay, Gil. Deb and Liam will be fine, too.’

He moved his head in a nod, closed his eyes again.

A hand dropped onto her shoulder, and Gary the senior paramedic crouched beside her.

‘What have we got here, Kris?’

She had to blink tears from her eyes again, made herself concentrate on a sitrep. ‘Repeatedly bashed with a metal pipe. Multiple
fractures – left arm, ribs, I don’t know what else. Pulse is weak, skin cold. Probably internal bleeding. He’s been
conscious, and coherent, until just now. The guy beneath him is a gun shot wound, deceased.’

‘Thanks, Kris. We’ll take it from here.’ Gary already had his box open, was pulling out equipment, and another paramedic joined
him.

Kris struggled to her feet, moved out of their way. The room seemed full of people, with the second police team and paramedics
adding to the number. Sergio Russo and Sean Barrett were cuffed, under Craig’s and Adam’s guard. Another man lay on the floor,
dead. And Joe Petric half-sat, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, but swearing very capably at a paramedic. A bullet-proof
vest might stop the bullets penetrating, but it didn’t stop the impact hurting.

With all the urgent tasks being dealt with, she couldn’t, for a long moment, think what to do.

Caitlin and Steve saw her standing there, but it was Steve who reached her first.

‘How’s Gillespie?’

‘Alive,’ she said. ‘But critical.’

She bit her lip, hard. She was a police sergeant. She wasn’t supposed to cry on duty, in a room full of people.

Caitlin stopped in front of her, hands on hips. ‘Are you injured?’ she asked briskly.

‘No.’

‘Good. Then perhaps you can tell us why you shot Detective Petric?’

Kris straightened her shoulders and met the agent’s hard stare evenly. ‘Because he was about to shoot me.’

The rescue helicopter made the flight out from Tamworth again, and carried Gil away.

The remainder of the evening blurred into a series of interviews, statements and reports at the Birraga station. The search
of the property revealed drugs and weapons – cocaine in boxes stacked in the container, semi-automatic rifles in the house.
On top of that, two deaths in a police operation, injuries, an officer shooting another – it all had to be investigated, documented
and analysed.

Kris expected to be suspended. However, as the hours passed and the interviews and investigation progressed, the evidence
against Petric began to mount. The Feds already had information pointing to a leak. Craig expressed concerns about some of
Joe’s behaviour, inconsistencies and procedural violations that had raised questions in his mind.

Kris had just emerged from an interview with Internal Affairs officers around ten that evening, when Steve met her in the
corridor and took her into his office. ‘Joe’s just confessed,’ he said. ‘They found a text message on Sergio Russo’s phone,
warning of the raid – from Joe’s phone. We’re lucky that there’s not much phone signal in a metal box underground.’

She didn’t feel any pleasure at the revelation, only relief, and nausea that a once-respected officer could have betrayed
them all.

She’d been in meetings and interviews almost constantly for hours, with no news of Gil.

‘Has there been any word from the hospital? Is Gil in Tamworth or Sydney?’

‘They took him to Sydney. I know he survived the flight. But Kris, you need to know – the Feds, they’re putting him into witness
protection. As of tonight. They’ve got Sergio and Petric, but they’ve still got one hell of a mop-up operation to run. Gil’s
a valuable witness, they can’t risk Russo’s associates getting to him.’

Witness protection. She sat down heavily on the edge of the desk, gripped its edges. It would be a private hospital somewhere,
a false name, and 24-hour security. As soon as he was well enough to be moved, they’d probably take him interstate to an anonymous
house or apartment.

But she wouldn’t know where. For his safety, she wouldn’t be able to see him, talk to him, have any contact whatsoever. It
might be for months. It might be for years. And if the investigation against the Russos left loose ends, it might be forever.

She knew the process, knew it was the logical, most responsible course of action to keep Gil safe.

She just never knew how much it would hurt.

Two months later
.

Gil flexed his hand, the warmth of the sunshine on it easing the stiffness and aches.

‘Are you sure about this, Gil?’ Caitlin Jamieson demanded. His minders had called her in for a last-ditch effort to dissuade
him.

‘You’ve said yourself that you’ve got plenty of hard evidence against Sergio. I’m a minor witness, with only old, insubstantial
evidence against Tony, and therefore of no real use to your case. You know that as well as I do.’

She gave a soft groan, but didn’t argue the point.

He closed his fingers around the coffee mug, lifted it without needing his other hand. Progress. Definitely progress.

‘You do understand that once you leave here, your protection arrangements cease?’

‘Yes.’

‘What will you do?’

He kept forgetting that his left shoulder no longer shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Places to go, people to see.’

People to see
.

Two months almost starved of news, and he’d learned something about himself: some people mattered to him. In those first few
weeks, once he was conscious, he’d harangued the Feds enough that they’d passed on a few snippets. Jeanie’s valve replacement
surgery had gone smoothly. Liam would make a full recovery. Megan, too. Internal Affairs had declared Kris’s shooting of Petric
to be self-defence, clearing her of any wrongdoing. But simple facts weren’t sufficient.

He put the mug down, and rose to his feet. His bag was already by the door. With his good hand he lifted it, his weaker one
strong enough now to grasp the door handle.

‘Good luck, Gillespie,’ Caitlin called, as he walked out of the apartment, into freedom.