Stealth Read online

  STEALTH

  by John Hollenkamp

  "From darkness things creep up on you, before you know it, they devour you. A serial killer does the same..."

  This is a fictional story. All names, characters, portrayals, organisations, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations, businesses, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 John Hollenkamp

  The right of John Hollenkamp to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment ( Moral Rights ) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, John Hollenkamp.

  STEALTH: published by AKROKKA PUBLISHING

  www.johnhollenkampauthor.com

  Cover Graphic Realisation: Duncan Carling-Rodgers – Business Communications Management – bcm-online.com.au

  in consultation with John Hollenkamp

  Knife and blood images used under license from Shutterstock.com

  E Book Formatting: Duncan Carling-Rodgers – Business Communications Management – bcm-online.com.au

  Meaning of ‘stealth’: to proceed furtively, secretly, or unobtrusive. A fox uses ‘stealth’ and cunning to hunt its prey…as does a salt-water crocodile.

  Dedication

  To my father, JJ, who never got to read STEALTH

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred And One

  Chapter One Hundred And Two

  PROLOGUE

  Late January, South of Townsville, in the Haughton River catchment.

  The night was still.

  If you concentrated, you could hear the water lapping gently at the muddy edge of the creek. A subdued random splosh followed by a couple of plops would disturb the ghostly rhythm of the creek. A mudskipper most likely. Then stillness again. Until the waterway awakened with the sudden whoosh of bait-fish fleeing the shallow water’s surface from a marauding mangrove jack.

  Then back to that spooky quiet.

  Deeper into the night, you could hear a disturbance in the distance. A small sound. It interfered with the hum of the mangroves. The slight breeze carried the flat echo back and forth until the sound of a vehicle became clear snaking through the bush getting closer to the creek.

  The sound of crunching pebbles disturbed the quiet and the chewing of tyres on the gravel road gave way to a massaging sound. Tyres in the sand. The tapping sound of a diesel engine coming closer at low speed. A light beam dancing above the scrub-line, dipping out of sight occasionally. Soon the light beam disappeared altogether. The patter of the engine was gone too. The big four-wheel drive coasted quietly, creeping forward for another four metres or so and came to a halt.

  A near full moon. A clear sky.

  The shadow of a gaunt and tall man grew large on the ground as he slid out of the cab and straightened his body. Darren’s eyes had to adjust to the ambient darkness of the night. His breathing was silent and controlled. Grateful for the light of the moon, he listened intently while standing motionless. Closing his eyes for a moment he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of the surroundings. Satisfied, he moved to the side of the four-wheel drive and unbuttoned the straps from the aluminium side panel. After unzipping the vinyl canopy he reached for the large plastic container concealed in the tray. Quietly he lifted the dead animal from its temporary coffin. His concentration was disrupted by the eerie call from a wailing curlew. An ominous song in the open church of night’s darkness. It didn’t frighten him, but the suddenness of the call gave him goose bumps as if a ghost just brushed past him.

  The walk to the edge of the creek was short. Maybe fifty metres. Darren carefully negotiated his way through the scrub and probed for the gnarly roots of the mangroves with his front foot so not to get caught in them or trip over them. Although the moonlit night was giving him some visibility, a torch would have been better.

  His back was straining from the weight of the dead wallaby. At the water’s edge, he flipped the carcass from his shoulder. Roadkill, abundant and scattered on any country road. Darren had returned to this remote spot for the fourth time in a week. A feeding schedule. Like at a zoo. The thud
on the muddy bank from the dropped carcass coincided with a disturbance on the surface of water, startling Darren into momentary shock. He saw the large swirl and the disappearing tip of the crocodile’s tail. Very slowly, Darren backed away from the water’s edge keeping an anxious eye on the creek; his heart was thumping, his mind racing to figure out how to evade the explosive assault from an angry croc without tripping over mangrove roots. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

  Then, Darren felt the brushing of a mangrove against his head and it scared the shit out of him even more. I got to get out of here! Darren turned and ran as fast as he could through the scrub to his truck. Panting and relieved, he decided that his ruse had worked. That croc would be waiting for his next feed. Only the next feed wasn’t going to be a wallaby. His next meal would be more of a treat – a treat, not just for the reptile.

  CHAPTER 1

  A BARGAIN FOREVER

  The bus stop cubicle was grimy. The only passenger waiting stood close to the edge of pavement and casually turned his head to glance at the mess left overnight by late night drunks. His revulsion of the rubbish was clearly displayed on his tense face.

  Martin had made an early start to the day on purpose. He wanted to make sure he was on time to claim his prize. Two weeks ago, he saw it sitting there, waiting to be held, cared for. But he didn’t have any money then; now he had enough in his pocket to buy it at full price.

  The big blue bus pulled up right in front of him; he felt the rush of air as it stopped a few centimetres from his nose. A noisy squeal from the bus brakes was followed by the pungent smell of diesel smoke. The front door of the bus swooshed open and Martin looked up at the empty stare coming from the bus-driver.

  “Where to?” A robotic blurt from the bus-driver.

  “Surry Hills. Where the markets are,” said Martin handing over his coins. The driver grunted and took the change.

  As Martin moved toward the back of the bus few of the passengers dared to look him in the eye; they stirred nervously in their seats as he passed.

  Twenty minutes later, Martin was standing on a street corner deciding his way. He spotted the narrow laneway from the last visit; a seedy shortcut to the markets. His boots felt heavy as he marched towards the alley-way with his eyes focussed on the ground in front of him. Most people looked ahead with eyes forward when walking. Martin was different. In fact, Martin was not anything like most people.

  Halfway through the cold laneway he caught a glimpse of something moving awkwardly at the base of a skip-bin brimming with rank-smelling rubbish. Martin’s sense of twisted curiosity was tickled. He stopped and quietly hissed, “Oh, hello little mouse. What are you doing down there?” Martin stood erect with his head cocked peering down at the injured rodent. Aware of the imposing shape above, the mouse tried to escape without much success. Its hind legs appeared misaligned and broken. “Trying to escape?” Martin spoke with menace. Slowly, he inched his right boot towards the petrified mouse. Martin hovered the front of his military-style boot over the mouse and gently rested the edge of the sole on the back part of the rodent. The mouse froze. Martin felt the slightest of pressure against his boot as he squeezed down on the torso of the small creature. Like popping a zit, Martin mused. He lifted his boot and stomped twice obliterating the little rodent. After a quick glance at the bloodied, squashed splatter of fur and guts, Martin turned on his heels; he continued on his way to the market.

  At the Surry Hills Markets most stallholders had barely finished setting up, but the bargain-hunters were already gathering. The morning air smelled crisp and of freshly brewed coffee. None of that was of any interest to the skinny young man of slight stature with a shaved head. It’s still here. Quietly jubilant, he stood in front of a small wooden trestle table and his black, lifeless eyes had zoomed in on a switch blade displayed in and amongst a dozen hunting knives. The stiletto knife paled in size compared to the others. The black handle was plain and dull, but the glistening blade was mesmerising.

  “G’day mate, back again aye?”

  Martin didn’t look up, instead he asked, ”Can I hold it?”

  The burly stallholder reached over and rested his fat finger on the switchblade, “This one, little buddy?” And his intense hazel eyes locked onto Martin’s shaved head.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Martin replied without looking up.

  “Sure little buddy, just pick it up. But, be careful, it’s very, very sharp,” the burly stallholder warned in a patronising tone.

  Martin’s white, scrawny fingers gently wrapped around the cold handle of the stiletto knife; carefully, he lifted the knife from the table bringing it up closer to his face making him nearly go cross-eyed. “I really like it.”

  The broadening smile on the stallholder’s face signalled his glee with an impending sale. “A hundred and fifty smackers, my young friend, and it’s yours to keep. A bargain, don’t you think?”

  “What about a pouch? Does it come with a pouch?” Martin still hadn’t made eye-contact.

  “Sorry, mate, no pouch. Maybe I could find something that will fit. Maybe.” He paused, and then, “But it’ll cost ya more.”

  Martin finally raised his head and put the switchblade back on the table. His intense, angry gaze unsettled the sly stallholder, who took a step back.

  “Okay, if I find something that fits I’ll throw it in with the blade.”

  “No!” Martin snapped. “It has to be a matching pouch. One that was meant for it.”

  “Righto. But I don’t think I have one.” The stallholder rubbed his beard.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just give me the knife,” Martin hissed.

  “Sure little buddy. A hundred and fifty will make it yours.”

  Martin retrieved his wallet and fished out three fifty dollar notes, his expression menacing. No sooner than the notes had passed from his hand, Martin snatched the stiletto from the table. With one last look at the stallholder’s fearful face Martin turned away and soon disappeared into the crowd of shoppers, leaving the burly stallholder with one whispered thought, “Just don’t kill anyone with it.”

  The glass panel on the shopfront window looked crowded out, and weird. The mannequin behind the glass wall was scantily dressed. Facing the shopfront from the sidewalk, Martin moved aside to be next to her. The mirror image was perfect within the glass frame. He admired his new attire; dark brown lace-up boots from the military disposable shop. Like the jackboots from the Nazi flicks. He mused. His hands ran down the creased khaki knee-length shorts and then his fingers clasped around the dark-brown belt and with a firm grip he gawked at his stature in the glass. The short-sleeved T-shirt was tight around his skeletal body.

  Martin turned his attention to the near nude mannequin; his beady eyes zoomed in on the shape of her mound, which was barely covered by the lace undies on display. He moved his right arm and placed his hand in front of her pretending to cup her crotch.

  Suddenly a dark realization overcame him and his face pouted. She was taller. Taller than him. He moved closer to the glass panel to make himself looker bigger. His reflection was less clear, other than his dark, round eyes. Martin stepped back from the glass. He ran his fingers over his shaved head, feeling the smooth surface contour of his skull. A rhythmic sound from far away carried by the breeze distracted him momentarily. Music. I hate music. A still night on the coast, it carried sound from a mile or more.

  Martin took one last look at himself in the glass gloating at his dapper new duds. I am a skinhead. Be afraid of me. With that thought he turned and marched towards the pub, towards the noise. His hand touched the back pocket of his shorts; he couldn’t resist sliding his hand into it to feel his new stiletto.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE MONA VALE HOTEL, SYDNEY

  As Nick Powell walked from the bus-stop across to the pub he delighted in the beautifully still evening on the northern beaches of Sydney. That calm was quickly replaced by the throbbing of loud rock music coming from the Mona Vale Hotel on this sultry
party night. As he neared the car-park at the entry side he could feel his head and shoulders moving subtly to the beat. A peek at his watch showed that it was near 9.30. Not late, but he was surprised to see that the crowd had already drunk themselves into a frenzy. The taste and following haze of half a dozen schooners at the RSL not long ago had not been lost on him either. Nick Powell was feeling pretty good.

  Gently pushing his way through the mayhem in front of the bar, Nick listened to the dwindling sound of the music from the stage. An upcoming blues band called Victor and The Metallic Blue Vipers had just finished playing an acoustic solo rendition of ‘Born under a Bad Sign’, and the lights had been dimmed right down for this performance. After a brief lull in sound the crowd applauded the last set. Nick picked his way through the electric and pumped up crowd. He held his can of Victoria Bitter up high for fear of having it knocked out of his hand by raucous and intoxicated party-goers. The clapping and chanting around him increased in intensity and began to sound like a war-dance accentuated with sharp whistles. Nick rubbed his eyes with his free fingers. The acridity of the smoke-filled room was already getting to him. The cold metal of the can in his hand felt good in contrast to the stuffy and sweat-filled room. He tipped the cold liquid from the can into his mouth and drank half, savouring the cool, carbonated flavour as it glided down his throat.

  “…Right, our next”… and the announcement got drowned into the cheering crowd. Clapping, chanting, and whistling… the room exploded with the raw scream of the electric guitar drowning out the noise of the crowd followed by the throbbing of a bass guitar; the bashing of cymbals and thumping of the bass drum fell in to complete the tight musical act of Victor and The Metallic Blue Vipers in the auditorium. The foursome, mesmerised by their own noise, in a trance, feverishly smashing out their new tune to the screams of the crowd.

  Everyone in the crowd was moving to the beat. Everyone except a scrawny young man with black, beady eyes, named Martin. His eyes darted from left to right searching through the faces and between the shifting bodies. Martin thought he recognised a face in the crowd. Just as fleeting as the recognition, the face disappeared into the crowd. Frustrated by not being able to see over the taller party-goers Martin decided to move around, which wasn’t hard because the crowd would part to let the scary-looking skinhead dressed in a Nazi uniform through. Holding his stubby he advanced towards a small group. Martin stopped a few metres short of one man standing with his back to him. That’s him. There he is, that mongrel. I’ll fucking show him. Martin squeezed the bottle cap between his fingers and flicked the metal cap to his target’s head. The projectile hit its mark. Martin watched his target react with a quick slap to his ear, as if he was swatting a bothersome fly.