Hard Landing

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Half an hour later, Gary stood in the corridor outside of Patrick Arnott's apartment, pistol drawn, heart thumping. Was Arnott inside? Were Merton's thugs with him? Only one way to find out.

  He used the key that Madeline Arnott gave him to gently unlock the door and nudge it open. He slipped quietly into the apartment, wondering if he was about to die because of a frickin' cat. His heart thudded as he swept the living room with his pistol. The only living creature was the cat, sitting on the dining table, staring at him, oblivious to how much trouble it had caused. Its bony frame and loose skin indicated it had been on short rations. A weak "meow".

  Maybe Arnott didn't come here to rescue the cat, but went on some other errand. Then Gary saw an upturned coffee table and a toppled lamp on the floor. A Yankees baseball cap lay beside them. Jesus. The thugs working for Merton obviously cornered Arnott in this apartment and overpowered him. What did they do then? Did they kill him? Maybe they threw him off the balcony, like Tony Tam. Shit.

  Gary dashed onto the balcony and peered down. There was still no water in the pool, but no body either. Thank God. That mean the two thugs must have dragged Arnott off somewhere else. Where?

  Gary was strongly tempted to leave Arnott to his fate. He'd already saved the idiot once - and had to shoot someone in the process - only for the guy to ignore his advice and try to rescue a cat. The guy didn't deserve to be saved. The smart move was to go home, lay low and let this whole fiasco drift off into the past.

  However, Gary hated giving up and hated losing, particularly to scumbags like Trewaley and Merton who had caused him so much grief. He must have the last laugh.

  While pondering where Merton's thugs took Arnott, he strolled into the kitchen and saw the cat's food and water bowls were empty. He filled the food bowl with dry cat food from a cupboard and filled the water bowl with tap water. The cat materialised and munched away at the food, sides heaving.

  Gary realised that, right now, the thugs must be transporting Arnott to a secluded place for interrogation about the Trewaley file. Merton would want to know how many copies of the file Arnott made and what he did with them. Once Merton had that information, Arnott's future would go up in smoke.

  Merton was probably at his city office when the thugs seized Arnott. They would have contacted him and told him where they were taking Arnott for interrogation. Merton must have then decided to attend the interrogation, to assess whether the information Arnott provided was reliable.

  However, a busy man like Merton might not be able to leave work immediately. Indeed, if Gary was quick, he might get to Merton's office building in time to follow him. There was only a slim chance of that. But that was the only chance he - and Patrick Arnott - had.

  He raced downstairs, got into his van and zoomed towards the city centre. Thankfully, the traffic was light and it only took him 15 minutes to reach the office tower that housed Merton & Co. He parked across the road from the underground car park exit. While waiting, he rang up Vincent Drew and asked him to find out what properties Merton owned in the Sydney area.

  "Hah, that'll be easy. Won't even need to hack into anything. Just got to search the Land Titles Office database. In fact, you can look yourself."

  "I can, but I'm busy trying to save civilization. How long will you take?"

  "I'm busy. Maybe an hour."

  "Then you've got half an hour. This is urgent. Pretend you're working for James Bond."

  "That'll be hard."

  "Just do it."

  "OK, OK."

  Gary waited for another fifteen minutes and had almost given up hope of seeing Merton leave, when a black Toyota LandCruiser popped out of the dark maw of the building and slowly turned onto the street. Merton was behind the wheel.

  "Gotcha," Gary yelled.

  He followed the landcruiser through the narrow streets of the city centre, desperately afraid of losing it or being detected. Following the vehicle got a lot easier after it swung up onto the Sydney Harbour Bridge and headed north along the Pacific Highway. There weren't many traffic lights and there were plenty of other cars Gary could hide behind.

  Merton drove for twenty kilometres until he reached the outskirts of the city and shifted onto the six-lane freeway heading towards the Central Coast. After that, it was even easier for Gary to follow him.

  Sixty kilometres later, Merton turned off onto Entrance Road and drove through the rundown heart of Gosford City, thirty kilometres from the coast.

  Gary's phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. Vincent Drew. He answered the call. "Yes, mate, what kept you?"

  "Other clients, who pay better."

  Smartarse. "Maybe, but they don't respect you like I do. Anyway, what's the vibe?"

  "Merton owns four properties in New South Wales. Wealthy guy, huh? He owns a mansion in Potts Point, a farm in Kangaroo Valley, a holiday home in Bega and a beach house at Forresters Beach.

  If Merton stayed on the present road for another thirty kilometres, he would end up at Forresters Beach. That must be his destination. Gary felt relieved. He couldn't lose Merton now. "Excellent work. What's the address at Forresters Beach?"

  Vincent read it out and Gary wrote it on a piece of paper balanced on his thigh.

  Gary felt unusually generous. "Maybe I should pay you more."

  "We should discuss that."

  Gary sobered up. "When I get a chance."

  "I'll be waiting."

  Gary stayed about half a kilometre behind Merton, confident that, if he lost the guy, he could head straight for his beach house. Merton reached the coast and drove along it for a couple of kilometres, past million-dollar homes perched on low cliffs overlooking long beaches. Then Merton turned into the driveway of a large timber beach house nestled in bushland. It was the perfect place to interrogate someone before disposing of his body.

  Gary drove past and saw the driveway sloped down to a double-door garage tucked under the beach house. Merton had parked his landcruiser outside the garage, next to a Volkswagen Passat, and was now climbing a long flight of wooden stairs to the front door. He paid no attention to Gary's passing vehicle.

  Gary continued for another three hundred metres and parked around a bend. He turned off the engine and heard the cackle and shriek of native birds. The waning sun splashed faint light on the scenery. Through gaps in the bushland, he glimpsed a long, vacant beach dotted with driftwood.

  His hands shivered as he checked his pistol to make sure it was loaded, before slipping it back into his shoulder holster. He strolled along the road, past half-a-dozen beach houses, each about fifty metres apart, nestled in bushland and perched on a small cliff overlooking the ocean. Gary bet the cheapest cost several million dollars.

  Merton's beach house had a long window facing the road and a wide verandah wrapped around it. In case someone was at the window, Gary ducked into the thick bushes beside the driveway and worked his way around to the side of the house. There, he found a flight of wooden stairs leading up to the verandah.

  Gary slipped up the stairs as if they were covered in rice-paper, and pulled out his pistol. He put his back against a solid timber wall and listened. Someone inside the house was yelling something.

  He slid along the timber wall until it met a glass wall with a sliding door, slightly ajar. He peeked into a well-lit living room with white leather furniture and a pine floor. At the far end, another long glass wall overlooked the ocean.

  Patrick Arnott sat in an armchair, wearing a black eye and terrified expression, hands gripping the armrests. Merton paced up and down in front of him while his two thuggish helpers - Hatchet-face and Baldy - stood just behind him.

  Merton half-yelled: "You've caused me so much trouble, you little shit. I had to hire these guys to find you and Trewaley is unbelievably pissed off. His Chief of Staff phoned me a couple of days ago and said some fuckin' pastor, of all people, tipped him off that you stole Trewaley's file from my firm. The guy was not happy."

  Merton kept pacing. "Bu
t, in a way, this is all my fault: I shouldn't have hired you in the first place, because you're a total fuck-up. You always did crap work. I was going to sack you, you know? But you stole the file before I could."

  Arnott took off his fear mask and managed a scowl. "You bullied me all of the time and never gave me a chance to shine."

  "I gave you too many fuckin' chances. But you've always hated me, haven't you? That's why you stole the file, isn't it, to hurt me? Now, tell me: what did you do with it? Did you show it to anyone at the Tax Office or a journalist?"

  A pleading look. "I didn't show it to anyone, I promise. I mean, I mentioned it to the Pastor, that's all."

  Merton stopped and put his hands on his hips. "Really? Then tell me this: where's the file right now? Where are you keeping it?"

  That question surprised Gary. Several hours ago, in the Paddington cafe, Arnott showed Gary a flash drive which, he said, contained the file. When Merton's thugs caught Arnott, they must have searched him. Yet they obviously didn't find the drive. What happened to it? Did Arnott dispose of it somewhere?

  Arnott said: "I-I-I don't have the file anymore."

  "Why not?"

  "I, umm, lost it."

  Merton leaned forward and spittle-painted Arnott's face. "Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. Where the fuck is it? And where are the copies you made? Tell me now or these guys will kill you. No, let me correct myself: I will kill you, personally. I will take you outside and throw you off the cliff. It's fifty metres straight down onto rocks. You'll go splat."

  Arnott cringed and seemed to shrink. "OK, OK. If I give back the file, you'll let me go?"

  A wolfish smile. "Of course, as long as I get back the file and any copies you made."

  "H-h-how can I trust you?"

  A wicked smile. "I'm a businessman, not a killer. You've caused me a lot of trouble. But, if I get back my property, I'll forgive you. Of course, if I don't, you're dead meat."

  Gary knew Merton was lying. Nothing Arnott said or did would convince Merton that Arnott had returned all copies of the file he made. For additional insurance and because he was a nasty prick, Merton would kill Arnott.

  "OK, OK. I'll tell you where the file is. I've got it on a flash drive. It's in the kitchen of my apartment, in the, umm, cutlery drawer."

  "How many copies did you make?"

  "None, I promise."

  "Don't lie to me."

  "I'm not. After I ran away from the office, I was too afraid to go home, so I couldn't collect the flash drive and make copies."

  Merton stared hard at Arnott and finally stood up straight. "Alright, I'll get someone to look in the drawer. You'd better not be messing with me."

  "I'm not."

  Merton turned to Hatchet-face. "Mick, you can still get back into the apartment, right?"

  "Of course, Boss."

  "Good. Check the drawer. See if there's a flash drive."

  "Will do."

  "And hurry."

  "OK."

  Gary gripped his pistol tight and prayed Hatchet-face didn't try to leave the beach house via the glass sliding door. Thankfully, the thug pulled some keys out of his pocket and exited through a door on the other side of the living room.

  When he'd gone, Arnott looked up at Merton and rubbed his nose. "Can I have some water?"

  Merton hesitated and looked at the bald brute. "Get him some water."

  Baldy disappeared from the room and came back, thirty seconds later, with a glass of water that he handed to Arnott.

  As Arnott gulped the water, spilling some down his shirt, Gary heard a car outside start up and drive off. That was the signal he'd been waiting for.

  The glass door was already slightly ajar and it slid open soundlessly. Gary stepped into the living room, pistol extended, body humming with tension. "Don't move a muscle."

  Merton and his accomplice disobeyed him and spun around. The bald thug moved his hand towards the inside of his jacket.

  Gary yelled. "Don't."

  The thug stopped, eyes gleaming and hand shaking.

  "Smart move."

  Merton's voice quivered. "Who the hell are you? Oh, you're Maddox, aren't you - that private investigator? What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  "Shut up. I ask the questions because I've got the gun. Cause any trouble and I use it, understand?"

  Merton stared at the muzzle and shook. "Y-y-yes."

  "Excellent." Gary looked at Patrick Arnott. "You OK?"

  Arnott looked like he'd just been handed his life back, which he had. He put the glass on the floor. "Yeah. Jesus, thank God you're here. They were gonna kill me."

  "I heard. Now, come over here, but don't get in my line of fire, OK?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Crawl if necessary."

  Arnott got out of his chair and, after crawling in front of Merton, got to his feet and circled around to stand next to Gary, face flushed and panting hard. A smile covered his whole face except the black eye. "Thank you, thank you, very much."

  Gary wanted to call him a total idiot, but that would have to wait. He was confident Merton wasn't armed - he left the dirty work to his hired help - but Baldy obviously was. He looked at the bald guy. "Remember me? You hit me on the head in the apartment after throwing a guy off the balcony. Take out your pistol, very, very slowly and put it on the floor. Be very, very careful, because I desperately want to shoot you. Just give me a tiny excuse."

  Baldy's face glowed with fear and anger. "I don't have a pistol."

  Gary smiled, enjoying the situation. "You mean you were about to scratch yourself? I'll search your corpse if you want."

  Baldy scowled. "You're just talking big. You won't shoot me. You're just pretending."

  Gary admired his gumption and smiled. "There's only one way to find out, isn't there? Be a huge laugh if you're wrong."

  Baldy saw how steadily Gary held the pistol and realised he had made a serious error of judgement. A violent nod. "OK, OK, I'll take it out."

  "Good. And, like I said, do it very, very slowly. Thumb and forefinger only, understand? I'm very twitchy right now. This is no time to send the wrong signal."

  "OK, OK. Be cool dude, be cool." The bald thug put a shaking hand inside his jacket and used his thumb and forefinger to extract a Colt .32 pistol that he slowly bent down and laid on the polished floorboards.

  "Well done. Now, take five steps back."

  The bald thug slowly retreated, counting each step aloud to avoid confusion. Gary stepped forward, picked up the pistol and tucked it into the small of his back. He returned to stand beside Arnott.

  Merton looked at Gary. "Why the hell are you here? What do you want?"

  "Like I told you in your office: I was hired to find Patrick, that's all. Now, we're going to say goodbye."

  "You can't leave."

  "Oh? Why not?"

  "You know why he's in trouble?"

  "He stole Angus Trewaley's file from your firm?"

  "Yes. And if I don't get it back, you're both dead."

  The idiot acted like he was still in his office, pushing around employees. Because he had a lot of money and wore nice suits, he thought he ruled the world. Gary considered shooting both bastards in cold blood. Then he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. However, he wasn't in the right mental zone to do that, yet. He scowled. "You mean, you're threatening me?"

  Merton looked at Gary's pistol and blanched. "Umm, no, of course not. But surely we can sort this out. I've got money - a lot of money - in this house. Do you want it? You and Patrick can share it."

  "How would we earn that money?"

  "You two give me back the Trewaley file and every copy. Then we would let bygones be bygones."

  "You mean, you wouldn't seek revenge? You wouldn't try to silence Patrick?"

  "Definitely not. You'd both be fine, fine."

  Gary grinned. "Unfortunately, I have a problem with your proposal."

  "What?"

  "I can't trust you: you're
crooked; your firm's crooked; your clients are crooked; you hired goons who murdered an innocent kid. You heard what happened to Tony Tam?"

  "That was, umm, unfortunate."

  "It was murder."

  A deep frown. "I can give you half a million. It's in the safe. Take it and give me the file, and we'll be square."

  Gary wasn't interested in Merton's offer and preferred to frighten the dodgy bastard. "I do, of course, have another option."

  "What?"

  "I could force you to open the safe, take the money and then shoot you both behind the ear."

  Merton looked a shadow of the smug bastard Gary met several days ago on the 65th floor of an office tower. His lips trembled and he held up his palms, like a traffic cop. "No, no, don't shoot me, please. Like I said, I've got plenty of money here. Take it and let me live. I've got a wife; I've got kids. You won't shoot me, right?"

  "I still haven't decided. What would you do in my situation?"

  His face liquefied. "I would, umm, hand over the file and take the money."

  Gary urged himself to kill both bastards in cold blood, but couldn't override his scruples. He didn't want their blood on his hands. Instead, he'd make sure the Trewaley's file was made public. Hopefully, after that, Merton would be too busy drowning in shit to exact revenge. "Shut up. We're about to leave. And just remember this, if I ever see you or your thugs again, it will be the last ..."

  Gary sensed movement and turned to see Hatchet-face step back through the side-door, ten metres away.

  "Sorry, Boss, I forgot …"

  Hatchet-face saw Gary and his eyes exploded. With blinding speed, like a Western gunfighter, he grabbed a pistol inside his jacket, whipped it out and fired two shots at Gary. But he was overhasty. The two bullets buzzed past Gary, who raised his pistol and snapped off two shots in reply. The first hit the door frame; the second hit Hatchet-face in the chest and shoved him back against a wall. Eyes bulging and chest heaving, Hatchet-face tried to raise his pistol. Gary pumped another bullet into his chest. Hatchet-face dropped his pistol and slid down the wall.

  Gary's hand shook as he rotated to cover Merton and Baldy, who were both unarmed. Baldy dashed towards the glass side-door and Gary snapped off a shot that made Baldy flinch without slowing him down. The thug zipped through the doorway and disappeared off the verandah. Damn.

  Gary turned back and saw Merton pick up the pistol that Hatchet-face dropped and start to raise it. Oh, shit. "Drop it."

  Merton kept raising the pistol and Gary fired twice, hitting Merton in the upper chest and head. The accountant flopped onto his back.

  Thick, rich blood surged through Gary's heart. Every nerve tingled. Cordite tickled his nostrils.

  He remembered Patrick Arnott. What happened to him? He swivelled around and didn't see him. Then he looked down. Arnott lay on his back, with a big bullet wound in his left cheek and blood oozing from the back of his head. Oh, shit. Hatchet-face must have shot him.

  Gary bent down and passed a hand over blank eyes. Not even a flicker. Obviously dead. Gary had concluded Patrick was selfish and naïve, but the guy didn't deserve to die like this. Nobody did. Poor bastard.

  Gary strode over to the accountant to check his condition. Merton was even deader than Patrick. He had a big bullet hole in his forehead, about two centimetres above sightless eyes. Bloody hell. Bile flecked Gary's tongue and his chest went tight. He'd killed before, but not at this range. Christ.

  His adrenalin turned sour and his anger grew. He stared down at the corpse and almost kicked it. "You thought everyone was betting their lives except you, didn't you, you stupid bastard? You sure as hell got that wrong."

  He heard a car outside drive off. Must be Baldy making his escape.

  He went over to Hatchet-face, slumped against a wall with a big raw wound in the middle of his chest, eyes closed. Also dead as mutton. Gary shivered. If Hatchet-face had stayed calm when he started shooting, Gary would be dead right now.

  He straightened up, took some deep breaths and told himself to keep calm. Now, more than ever, he had to be patient and methodical. Nobody would turn up and disturb him. He had plenty of time. Use it. Make the right decisions.

  He considered calling the police and explaining that he shot dead two guys while defending himself and another guy died in the cross-fire. But that idea had a very short shelf-life. The cops would automatically charge him with three murders and invite him to entertain a jury with his defences. No jury was going to decide his fate. Only he would do that.

  His time as a cop taught him that fire is the enemy of police investigations. He went into the kitchen and saw the stove had a gas hot-plate. Great. He turned on the gas and snuffed out the flame.

  Then he descended some wooden stairs into a huge garage that housed a Honda hatchback and a jet-ski. Two large jerry-cans stood against the far wall. He took off a cap and sniffed. Petrol. Fantastic. He checked the other jerry-can. More petrol.

  He lugged the jerry-cans upstairs and poured the contents of one over the three bodies and the living room floor. Then he emptied the second can while retreating towards the sliding door. When he reached it, he stuck the muzzle of his pistol into a puddle of petrol and fired a round. The living room blossomed into a fireball. Heat washed over him and he scrambled back onto the verandah. His face was hot and he felt it for burns. It seemed alright. But he should have been more careful.

  When he reached his van, he looked back and saw flames sprouting from under the eaves and folding back onto the roof, before licking the sky. It was an impressive sight.

  He drove past the house and continued south. After a couple of kilometres he heard a siren rushing towards him. A minute later, a fire engine zoomed past, the scent of smoke in its nostrils.