K9 Blue: Duck and Weave

CHAPTER 1

The mid-morning sun burst intermittently through the tree’s that lined the Old Pacific Highway as it snaked through the national park on the northern outskirts of Sydney. The high-powered motorcycle screamed as it cut through the corners, sending sparks from the scraping foot pegs. Left then right, the rider leaned off the side of the bike using his knee scrapers to hold his line. Craig ‘crazy’ Williams held the throttle wide open on the stolen RSV4 Aprilia, resting his chin on the tank as he thundered along a straight, willing every bit of speed from his Italian steed. Although buffeted by the 205 kilometres per hour slipstream, he was sweating a small river from his shoulder blades to the small of his back.

Behind him the police V8 struggled to keep up, the four heavily armed tactical operators straining their eyes to catch a glimpse of the fleeing motorcycle. They were flung from side to side each time the big sedan forced itself around the tight twisting tarmac. The two men in the back of the car were beginning to wish they had airline sick bags as the g-forces played havoc with the contents of their stomachs.

‘For Christ’s sake, where the hell is the chopper? I feel sick,’ moaned Constable Steve Morris as the car swerved into yet another set of tight corners.

‘You blokes are red-hot,’ snapped Sergeant Tom Whatts as he planted his right foot into the firewall. ‘First you complain about sitting around for three hours in a basement with nothing to do, then you complain when something actually happens. You’re worse than my bloody kids!’

Both rear passengers looked at each other without saying another word, wanting to avoid an even harsher level of cornering by their cranky boss.

Ten minutes earlier the white one-tonne van had crawled through the mid-Saturday morning shopping crowd, then pulled up on the pavers beside the water clock at the centre of the mall. Leaving the engine left running, the driver slipped a motorcycle helmet onto his head, making sure the strap was secure before climbing through the seats into the rear. None of the shoppers took any notice, but 20 sets of eager police eyes could do nothing but study every inch of the van as it sat idling. With four separate exits available, whoever had picked this location had certainly done his homework.

In the back, Liam O’Brien checked everything over in his mind. Had he forgotten anything? Was everything in place? All he had to do was watch for the girl’s father, snatch the bag of money and get the hell out of there. Simple. His mate Craig was the getaway rider. Although Liam considered him an idiot, Craig was nonetheless one of the best motorcycle riders he had seen, and therefore critical to his plan.

Once Craig’s skills were no longer required, he could be dispensed with. Liam had done this a dozen times in Northern Ireland: take a hostage, threaten the family and force them to pay. Any double-crossing or police involvement meant death for the hostages — there were no second chances. Failure to come through for ‘the cause’ would at best mean a knee-capping, and worst a slow and painful death. The money was delivered to his commanders, with only a pat on the back and a pint on the house for thanks. Liam had started by delivering messages from one part of the organisation to another, then progressed to carrying weapons and explosives, until finally becoming and active IRA fighter.

Now that the troubles were over in his homeland, there was no place for him or his kind anymore. When he had tried to conform to a nine-to-five job driving a forklift, the boredom had driven him out of his mind. Since the age of fifteen, fighting for the cause was all he had ever known, and now he was thirty-five and starting a new life in a new country. His small amount of savings had bought him a ticket and a new identity, but breezing into Australia with yet another identity, Liam sometimes had trouble remembering who he really was. He would need plenty of money to live the life he wanted, but, with his shadowy skills and the balls to use them, there was nothing he couldn’t achieve.

Nodding to Craig, Liam watched as his short-term partner checked his helmet and leathers before giving him the thumbs-up. Beside him the terrified girl sat motionless, only the tears running from her raw, red eyes gave away any sign of life. Liam bent over, checked the gaffer tape covering her mouth, then moved his hands expertly over the device shackled around her stomach.

‘Now listen, my love, I’m going to arm the explosive. If you try to run, or even bend forward it will go off. Quite simply, it will gut you like a fish. If daddy brings the money, then I will give him an envelope with the disarming instructions. If he doesn’t, then I will leave and press this little remote — and boom!’

Holding the small transponder in his left hand, he flicked a switch and keyed in a code on the side of the small device. The detonator was easily stolen from a State Railway work crew who used them to warn of oncoming trains. Finally the whole electronic initialiser was set in a mould of homemade plastic explosive he had cooked in his very own kitchen. The device was attached to a hinged piece of rounded steel locked with a rivet, which dug hard into her stomach. A single beep confirmed it was now armed.

Amy King heard the words and understood. Paralysed by fear she was completely unable to respond in any way. Two days earlier she was the epitome of a fourteen-year-old girl from a wealthy family. She loved her doting parents, who, although busy running King Investments, always made time for their daughter. Sheltered from the harsh realities of life, she wanted for nothing, giving little thought to the type of people who now held her very life in their hands. This was something that happened to other people, to actors on TV shows, not her. She knew her father would pay the $2 million; it was almost petty cash for a man whose company turned a worldwide profit of $200 million a year. She closed her eyes, trying to visualise her parents and imagine how worried they must be, but, no matter how hard she tried, all she could see were the two men who had kidnapped her. She had never seen the leader’s face, only his black balaclava and motorcycle helmet. He had a strange accent that was at times hard to understand, but was now burned into her psyche. The other one — Craig — had let her see him and she would never forget his pock-marked face.

Gerald King slung the backpack over his shoulders; his whole body shook with fear and anticipation as he walked out through the shopping-centre doors into the mall. At fifty-five years old, his chest went tight and his breathing became more rapid as he stared at the white van. Although surrounded by people, he felt utterly alone — he just wanted to get to the van, give them the backpack and hug his daughter. He was a father and fathers would do anything to protect their children. The money didn’t matter, he would have paid ten times as much to save his little girl, he would have given up his company and everything that went with it to make sure his Amy was safe again.

His wife, Cindy, had run into his home office the day before and, ashen-faced, had handed him the phone as tears trailed mascara from her normally bright eyes. He put his arm around her, cocking his head to the side. She just pointed to the phone. Putting the receiver to his ear, he croaked an uneasy hello.

‘Mr King, I have just told your wife what I’m about to repeat to you. Do not interrupt me, and, if you value Amy’s life, you will do everything I say.’

Without breaking for a second, the heavy Irish voice at the other end of the phone continued in a calm monotone.

‘I have Amy. She is unharmed at the moment, but I can assure you that I will not hesitate to cut her fucking head off if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter. She is very pretty, so much so that I found a nice little birthmark under her beautiful left breast. It would be a shame if no one else ever got to discover how lovely her firm little body is, wouldn’t it?’

‘You listen to—’

‘Shut the fuck up, I told you not to interrupt!’ The voice exploded, before reverting to the monotone just as quickly.

Gerald King’s stomach churned then tightened into a solid knotted ball, and his legs shook as he started to pace back and forth.

‘Mr King, you have twenty-four hours to come up with $2 million cash. I don’t care what kind of denominations they are, but you must fit it into a backpack. Do not mark the money. Do not fit any kind of transponder or tracking device to the money or bag, as I will scan it when you give it to me. Do not contact the police or any kind of private security firm. If you break any of my rules, I will kill your daughter. If I even think you have broken my rules, I will kill your daughter. If you follow my rules I will give you back your daughter. I have an explosive device which I will fit to your daughter: if you follow my rules, I will hand you instructions on how to disarm it, once I have my money. I will contact you in twenty-four hours and tell you where and when. Be ready to move when I say. I’ll be watching you — you won’t know where or when, but I will be watching. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Mr King, don’t make the mistake of fucking with me. Everyone who ever has is now dead.’

The line dropped out as Gerald King fell to his knees and sobbed.

Twenty-four hours later, the telephone rang. Gerald King picked it up slowly, putting the handset to his ear. The same calm Irish voice spoke.

‘Mr King, I hope you have the money.’

‘I do, exactly the way you wanted it. Can I speak to Amy?’

‘No, you may not. Go to Hornsby Mall and wait near the water clock. At 10am a white Toyota van will park next to it. Bring the money and put it through the passenger window, then stand next to the window and don’t move. If all is correct, I will hand you the envelope and tell you where your daughter is. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

The line went dead. Gerald swallowed hard as he handed the phone to Detective Superintendent Phil Walsh.

‘The water clock, Hornsby Mall, at ten. A white Toyota van.’

Phil Walsh nodded, then started to make calls on his mobile phone. Gerald had not wanted the police involved, but his wife had panicked, ringing Phil, who was a family friend. After that it was out of his hands, the police were involved whether he liked it or not. Phil had come on his own, dressed in shorts and a singlet. Although angry at his wife, deep down Gerald was relieved that he was no longer facing such a responsibility on his own. It was 9.30am. The mall was only a five-minute drive from their home in the leafy Sydney North Shore suburb of Wahroonga.

‘Phil, for God’s sake just make sure your men don’t move until Amy is safe. I can’t lose her.’

Phil gave his friend a serious look.

‘Gerry, those guys know their stuff. Amy is their first and last consideration; I’d trust them with my kids.’

‘I suppose I’d better go and wait.’ Gerald hugged his sobbing wife, who buried her face into his chest.

‘Please bring her back … I don’t care what it takes — just bring her back.’

Gerald stepped back and nodded. Without another word he took the backpack and drove to the most important meeting of his life.

CHAPTER 2

Gerald heaved the cash-laden backpack off his shoulders and placed it on the passenger’s seat. A leather-gloved hand reached through the curtains behind the seat and dragged the backpack out of sight. Gerald stood holding his breath for what seemed like an eternity before the hand reappeared, dropping a white envelope on the seat. A second later a powerful engine boomed into life from behind the curtain, making Gerald jump. The rear cargo door opened up as a steel ramp fell from inside, slamming onto the pavement with a loud clang. A motorcycle slipped down the ramp with the rider stopping at the bottom, the engine burbling as a second black-leather-clad figure, wearing the backpack vaulted onto the pillion seat. A split second later and the cycle bellowed as it took off towards a laneway, scattering pedestrians in its wake. Gerald ripped open the envelope gasping with shock as he read the words. In the back of the van, Amy forced her bound hands under her buttocks and over her feet, thankful that all the years of ballet had left her with svelte hips and the dexterity of a contortionist.

Senior Constable Mike Winters ripped off the black beanie as he sprung from the table outside the small coffee shop, wearing shorts, runners and a black T-shirt. Flipping on his police cap, he listened to the instructions as they burst through his earpiece. His constant companion and partner, police dog Falcon, bounded up beside him, tethered to Mike’s hand by an old piece of rope.

‘Dog 26, they’re coming our way on a motorcycle!’ he yelled.

Beside him, also dressed in plain clothes, Constable Bill Riggs pulled his MP5 machine pistol from a canvas bag and likewise slammed a police cap onto his head.

At ten metres, Mike pointed at the rider of the bike and screamed at the top of his lungs: ‘Police — stop the bike, now!’

The rider was wearing a black visor on his helmet. Mike wasn’t sure whether he had seen them, but soon realised they had no intention of just giving up. The rider twisted the throttle, deafening the scattering crowd with the roar from the exhaust. The speed of the bike’s escape attempt took everyone except Falcon by surprise. He lunged from beside Mike, who let go of the rope, watching with satisfaction as Falcon hit the pillion passenger on the full, driving his canines deep into the man’s right arm. The man’s left leg came off the foot pegs as he lost his balance under the weight of the backpack. Falcon dragged him off the right side of the bike, hitting the pavement like a sack of cement.

‘Good boy!’ Mike yelled as he drove his right knee into the rib cage of the pillion, who thrashed his free arm and legs like a madman. Bill slung his weapon over his shoulder, grabbing hold of the man’s left arm, just in time to see him frantically pressing the switch on a small black box he clutched in his hand.

‘The bike’s north on Hunter Street. We have the pillion and money in custody,’ Mike spat into the police radio as a loud crack ricocheted off the shopfronts, making the two police officers duck involuntarily. Bill forced the man’s hand back over his wrist compelling him to drop the small black box.

‘You’re too fucking late, you Garde bastards.’ He laughed from behind the helmet’s visor. Mike grabbed the rope around Falcon’s neck as Bill tightened the plastic flexicuffs over the man’s wrists. Glancing back towards the van, he scowled as he saw smoke belching from its rear door. Police converged from every direction, flanked by ambulance rescue officers, who frantically entered the smoking van, emerging seconds later, dragging a charred, limp body onto the pavement. The civilians who hadn’t managed to flee the fountain stood in shock as the frantic drama played out in front of them. Over the radio Mike heard State Protection Group (SPG) 40 in pursuit of the motorcycle followed by Polair 1, the police chopper, which had been on station, circling twenty kilometres from the mall. Bill ripped off the man’s helmet before heaving him to his feet, and in the same motion flung the smirking red head back to the ground.

Mike held Falcon back from their prone prisoner, cocking his head as he listened to messages over the radio. A wave of red mist washed over him as the situation was explained.

‘There is a device around the victim which has failed to completely ignite. She has severe injuries to her abdomen from the detonator. We need the area cleared while the ambos and bomb techs work on her.’

Mike glared down at the man squirming at his feet.

‘Hey, shitbag, looks like your bomb didn’t go off — just the detonator. Looks like you build bombs as well as you escape.’

The wiry man stared at his tormentor, expressionless.

‘Well at least I had the pleasure of the young lady before she was ruined like that, eh? By the way, when I get the chance I’ll come after you and your family, children and all, no pr—’

Mike landed a well-aimed kick to the man’s jaw, snapping his head back into unconsciousness. Looking across at Bill, Mike nodded with satisfaction.

‘Can’t help bad luck, can you, Mike? I guess the fall from the bike must have taken its toll,’ responded Bill.

Normally, Mike would have laughed off such taunts and threats, but he knew that after the bloody terrorist attacks of 28/6, in the heart of Sydney, ‘normal’ was now but a distant memory. His temper was now on a hairline trigger most of the time, and the flashbacks to that day of carnage were never going to go away. Ever since, at the slightest provocation he would respond violently. Although he knew he was mostly wrong, he couldn’t stop himself, and lately he had started to enjoy using it as an excuse to deal with vermin like this one lying unconscious at his feet.

Craig ‘Crazy’ Williams scraped the bitumen with his knee as he forced the bike through a set of tight corners. Just a few more and he would be at the Brooklyn turn-off. The cops were out of sight and he was sure they’d overshoot if he could flick off the main road. A few minutes more would see him at the marina and a trouble-free escape in the boat.

The nimble helicopter flared thirty metres from the tarmac, washing off the speed of its descent as the pilot eased his chopper between the rock face of the cliff and the heavy line of gum trees. He kept descending until he was hovering just two metres above the Old Pacific Highway, dust and all types of loose debris sweeping up in the vortex created by the thundering machine.

‘Okay — go, go, go!’ the pilot yelled into his helmet mike.

The chopper rose slightly as the four tactical police vaulted off the skids, bent over under the hurricane from the rotors they sprinted to the relative calm twenty metres to the chopper’s front. The red-and-black bike they had been watching from three hundred metres just moments before shot out from the bend with the rider slung low over the handlebars and tank as he accelerated towards them. In an instant the rider sat up, pulling hard on his front brakes, the nose of the bike dipping low with the heavy abuse. The police helicopter swung its tail around, blocking the highway at ninety degrees while the officers on the ground formed a line with their weapons shouldered and aimed at the rider.

But ‘Crazy’ wasn’t finished with yet. He slammed