Quick (11 page)

A T-intersection quickly approaches. Claude throws out the anchors and the little Hyundai skids to a halt, gravel thumping into the floorpan, a paved roadway before him. He can turn left or right. Left takes him towards the parachutes he can no longer see. Right takes him towards the one he can, the one the Australian is going after.

What should I do?

He flattens the accelerator and turns the steering wheel.

~ * ~

Red works the parachute’s guidelines, happy with the performance of the chute. It’s staying aloft beautifully, its glide ratio and manoeuvrability exactly as advertised. The other thing that’s going well is that Red isn’t being followed. He’s not
that
high, maybe three hundred metres above the ground, but can pretty well see everything that’s going on below and there are no vehicles in pursuit.

The three of them purposely split up during the getaway to send the authorities scrambling in different directions, though it now seems that the jump was so unexpected that the police were caught flat-footed and splitting up may have been unnecessary. Red hopes the other two are having a similar experience and don’t have anyone following them.

~ * ~

Billy’s eyes are locked on the white parachute. He can see that the gravel road curves left when he needs to be going right. To the side of the road there’s a dip after the shoulder, then a deep U-shaped drainage trench, then an old barbed-wire fence, then green fields that stretch into the distance, punctuated by the odd cow.

Without slowing Billy swerves across the road, drops over the shoulder, races down into the drainage trench, hits the bottom then slingshots upwards, pulling the bike’s front wheel off the ground and flying it over the fence.

‘Iron Rhino gibs you wings!’

It sure does, nice old Malaysian man, it sure does.

Billy feels a surge of adrenaline as he arcs over the fence like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape.
This is the single coolest thing he’s ever done. He just wishes there was someone around to see it.

He lands on the grass and the suspension compresses completely. His back screams in pain from the impact but he doesn’t have time to worry about that because the front wheel hits a sharp dip, the bike noses down and he’s almost thrown over the handlebars, like it’s trying to buck him off. ‘Christ!’ If he falls and injures himself he could die out here in this field, unseen from the road because of that drainage trench.

He’s ready to meet his maker, whoever it may be, has no fear of it, but not today. Today he’s going to run down that parachute because he’s sure whoever’s flying it is one of the guys who escaped him in Melbourne.

He wrenches himself back onto the seat, regains his balance, pulls back on the throttle and shoots across the green grass, keeps his eyes on the ground to make sure he doesn’t hit another one of those bumps.

He reaches the opposite end of the giant field in no time at all. He quickly moves through a gate, enters a paved roadway and turns right, guns the dirt bike towards the parachute, which is both closer and lower than before. He can now see how fast it moves across the sky, can just make out the parachutist. From his deft use of the steering lines Billy’s sure the guy knows exactly where he’s headed.

But where is that?

At full throttle, the Australian thunders under a tree canopy, which sprinkles the roadway with dappled sunlight. Billy can see very little above the leaves and quickly loses sight of the chute.

A flash of white. Through a thin crack in the canopy he glimpses it. It swoops to the right then he loses sight of it again. He looks right, sees a tall fence. He won’t be jumping that one. It’s two metres high and constructed of solid wood.

But what’s behind it?

He searches for a way to find out.

~ * ~

Red scans the ground for the landing position he prepared earlier. The parachute’s maybe a hundred metres off the hard deck now, but it has such great lift, and is so easy to manoeuvre, that there is plenty of time to find the spot. As expected, there are only a few people about and none of them have looked up. Now all Red has to do is land this thing without twisting an ankle, breaking a leg or hitting a tree, then leave and link up with the others. An entry gate.

It’s built of stone in a grand style. Billy sees it’s open and turns into the long red gravel driveway that leads to a large, single-storey building.

What is this place?

A pair of elderly ladies crunch along the gravel pulling golf buggies behind them.

It’s a bloody golf course. What a
fantastic
place to land a parachute. Plenty of space, few people around and most of them old and dressed in pastel, some trees to give you cover, but not too many to cause a problem when you’re descending. Very clever.

To the far right he glimpses the parachute, then loses sight of it behind a line of trees. Billy angles the bike towards a narrow tiled path, zips past the pair of ladies, one of whom flicks him the bird in annoyance, then searches for a way around the building at the end of the walkway, a building that can only be the clubhouse. Unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be an obvious way to circumnavigate it.

I’ll have to go through it.

The front doors to the clubhouse are glass. He skids to a halt in front of them, leans forward, pushes one open, rolls the idling motorcycle inside, then lets the door swing shut behind him. He’s greeted with a gust of chilled, fragrant air. Very pleasant. The place is beautiful. Rustic leather sofas, antique furniture, Malaysian artefacts hanging on the walls. Everyone inside, about ten people in total, turns to look at the shirtless man on the dirt bike.

Billy’s suddenly very embarrassed. ‘Sorry to disturb.’ He can see the French doors on the far side of the clubhouse. Best to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. He revs the bike and rides across the large room. ‘Pardon me.’

Halfway across he remembers he can’t let the parachutist see his face. If, somehow, he doesn’t arrest him, the guy can’t know what Billy looks like, otherwise the whole undercover operation will be blown on the first day. He needs some kind of disguise. But what?

He immediately sees what he needs. He swerves across the room, narrowly misses an ornate table supporting a large vase full of flowers and plucks the item off the wall. ‘Just gonna borrow this.’ He then swerves back towards the French doors. Thankfully an old guy sees him coming and opens them for him.

‘Thanks mate.’ Billy accelerates across the patio, jumps down a flight of three steps, cuts across the practice putting green, manages to avoid everyone’s golf balls, ignores the cries of anger from the members, then scans the sky.

There.
To the right, the parachute disappears behind a tree line. He sets a course for it, can’t believe he’s so close. He’s going to capture this prick!

On my first day!

~ * ~

Red looks down at the perfectly manicured grass as it whips past thirty metres below. The designated landing spot is just ahead. It’s all working out beautifully —

A noise, below. The throb and whine of an engine echoes across the golf course. It sounds like a two-stroke, except more urgent. Is it a lawn mower? Or a whipper snipper? Red glances down, searches for the source, sees nothing. He then looks behind.

What is that?

One hundred metres away a white dot races along the fairway towards him. It moves fast. Really fast. It’s not a lawn mower or a whipper snipper. It’s a dirt bike.

And the devil rides it.

~ * ~

6

The tribal mask Billy plucked off the wall of the clubhouse is tied onto his head with two fat ribbons. It is blood red in colour, has a shock of long dark hair, thick black eyebrows, giant mouse ears, flared nostrils and oversized ivory teeth that look like the fangs of a cartoon werewolf. The plaque said it represented the Malaysian version of the devil, which will do just fine for his camouflage requirements today.

The Australian wrenches the throttle back and gives the dirt bike full power. The parachute is close, barely twenty metres off the ground and forty metres ahead.

Adrenaline surges. He can
see
the bloody guy and his red helmet, the Schumacher helmet. He laughs, delighted by his own awesomeness. ‘Billy Hotchkiss, you magnificent bastard!’ It’s the same bloke from Collins Street but this time Billy has his gun so arresting him will be easy —

‘Oh no!’ Billy remembers he left it back at the Iron Rhino motorhome. ‘Come on!’ He takes a deep breath, can’t believe it. Yes, it’s a bit of setback, a huge one actually, but if he tackles the guy the moment he touches down he’ll still have the advantage. There’s no need for a gun. He’s got this far without one, hasn’t he?

Well sure, because I haven’t needed one yet.

He takes a breath. He just has to forget about it and move on. What’s done is done.

The parachute is now twenty metres ahead and ten metres above, and descending steadily. He can see the guy expertly work the canopy’s steering lines.

Where’s he headed?

Billy’s eyes scan the fairway ahead.

There.

A large, dense thicket by the side of the course, about a football field away. It looks like—is that a motorcycle hidden there?

So that’s his getaway plan.

Not today. Billy’s right on his tail. The guy won’t even get a chance to climb on that thing before —

The Australian’s dirt bike engine coughs.

‘No.’

Then splutters.

‘No!’

Then dies.

‘Please no!’

It’s out of gas.

‘Oh no no no! Not now! Not now!’

But that nice old Malaysian man said: ‘Yes, fuel enough, yes!’

Well, clearly not.

The bike freewheels, then slows, and the parachute flies on, drops lower but doesn’t touch down. It’s thirty, forty, fifty metres ahead now. It just keeps on gliding towards the thicket and that motorcycle.

‘Dammit!’ Billy jumps off the bike, lets it drop to the grass, then sprints after the parachute. It’s so bloody fast there’s no way he can catch it.
Now
he wishes he had his pistol so he could shoot it out of the sky. But he doesn’t so he can’t. And running with this mask on is a pain in the arse too. It’s made of solid wood, smells like old bones and cuts into his face like the facehugger from
Alien.
This whole situation is unravelling very quickly. What the hell does he do now?

There.
He sees something that might save the day. He veers across the fairway, cuts through a line of trees and sprints hard.

~ * ~

An old couple slide their golf bags into the rear of the golf cart —

It’s electric motor spins up and the tiny vehicle lurches away as quickly as a golf cart can, which isn’t very, and leaves them behind. Billy feels terrible and looks back at them: ‘Sorry! It’s an emergency!’

‘Ahhh!’ The old couple recoil in horror.

Billy thinks the reaction is a tad melodramatic, then he remembers the scary mask he’s wearing and raises a hand apologetically. ‘Bring it back in a sec.’

He drives on and quickly realises the cart isn’t as fast as he had hoped. He’s not even sure it’s faster than running flat out. His eyes lock on the parachute as it swoops low, picks up speed, skims the ground for twenty metres, then smoothly touches down.

~ * ~

Happy to be on solid ground, Red looks back along the fairway, searches for the bare-chested devil on the white motorbike —

There he is. Mask still on, it seems he’s swapped the dirt bike for an electric golf cart which buzz-whines towards Red.

But why? And why is he wearing that mask?

None of that matters. What matters is getting out of this chute and making a clean getaway. In a flash the chute’s harness is off and Red runs to the motorcycle, kneels beside it. He deposited it there late last night and is glad to see nobody has messed with it. That might have something to do with the fact it’s chained to the tree and secured with a combination lock. 3-7-4 is the number to unlock it. He works the three rollers and pulls down on the barrel —

Clunk.
It doesn’t open.
Christ.
He looks back to check where the golf cart is. It’s closer but still a good fifty metres away. He turns back and checks the numbers on the combination lock. 3-7-5. That’s not right. The 5 is adjusted to a 4 and the barrel is pulled down again —

Click.
It opens. Red drags the chain through the back wheel, discards it, grabs the motorcycle by the handlebars and push-runs it onto the fairway. Red planned the route out of here meticulously, though at no point was being chased by a shirtless man wearing a devil mask driving a golf cart figure part of the scenario.

Red glances at the guy again. Oh, he has exited the golf cart and now sprints towards him. Red climbs onto the bike and kick-starts it.

That guy will never catch this.

~ * ~

Billy’s so close to catching this Schumacher bastard he can taste it. He’s decided to call him Schumacher from now on, along with his mates Hunt and Senna, just to make everything simpler. Strangely, he finds the names easier to remember than the colours.