A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Read online

  “No mate. I’ve been to see Gibbs. She told me about some bloke in a Falcon she’d pulled over …”

  “You been to see Gibbs?”

  “Just shut up and listen. A bloke in a Falcon attacked her.”

  “Did she say what colour?”

  “Fuck. Lemme think for a sec! Yeah. Orange. I’m sure she said orange.”

  “Bloody bingo.”

  “Bingo what?” Darren replied.

  “You are not going to believe this, but I’ve just come out of Wilder’s office; his niece had just called him, upset and scared because she’d been bailed up at her office by a man who wanted your address.”

  “Who is she? His niece.”

  “The fucken real estate agent, you know, Cynthia from the Sunshine mob. Threatened her with a knife.” Joel couldn’t get the words out quick enough.

  “My address? What the fuck does he want with my address!”

  “Don’t know but it’s the same bastard who stuck a knife into Gibbs.”

  “Something else Gibbs mentioned, it’s to do with the Abo kid. She said you’d know.”

  “Shit. Daz, you’d better get your house. And fucken quick.” Joel started running to his car.

  “Which address? Jesus. Fuck. I can’t remember which address I gave her.”

  “Whadda ya mean?” Joel let out a heavy breath from his run.

  “Either Dougie’s or Ruby’s. Oh fuck, it’s Ruby’s day off!” Darren bolted to the cab.

  CHAPTER 62

  DON’T MESS WITH THE DOG

  Patch lay spread-eagled on the concrete driveway. It was a hard life soaking up rays in the morning, especially after a belly-full of chicken giblets.

  Ruby spied the canine from behind the window, she adjusted the venetian blind and thought about her next activity for the morning. Lucky dog, you don’t have to clean house. Patch suddenly sprang to attention. Ruby watched the dog try to snatch an insect, his jaws snapped at the air around him. Until it was all too hard, and he lazily flopped back to the warm concrete pavement. Ruby laughed a little, but before resuming her household chores she noticed a bright orange car driving past slowly.

  ***

  Slice got a fleeting glimpse of the face behind the window as he idled the big eight in first gear, past the house. The dog could be a problem, he realised. Sneaking up to a dog was fraught with an unpredictable outcome, unless he could neutralise the threat with a gun and a suppressor. Risky. I still have to get close enough to shoot it.

  The dog raised its head, ears perked, its eyes following the car.

  There was no XC Falcon parked in the driveway either, indicating that his target may not be there. The woman behind the glass was also new to the scene. So, he decided on another tactic. A cold call, pretend to be lost, or looking for a person. This way the dog wouldn’t present a problem either; he could get close.

  Slice parked the car around the corner, but before getting out he reached to retrieve his kit, under the passenger seat. He unzipped the black toilet bag and took out a fine steel-wire coiled with two small wooden dowels attached. That’ll take care of you, mutt. Carrying a .357 Magnum stifled his style. Slice preferred getting close, so he could hear the last breaths fading from his victim’s lungs. And that included the occasional dog. He had never been a great fan of dogs. He stuffed the wire garrotte in the back pocket of his khaki cargo trousers. His special knife was neatly tucked away in a custom-made sheath attached to a harness strapped around his upper body. While dressed in a normal, slightly loose shirt, it was impossible to tell that he was wearing a concealed weapon. The knife itself was made from the best stainless-steel money could buy, and forged by an expert in the craft of traditional sword-making. Slice’s favourite knife was traditional, a design adapted from a Japanese ‘moroha’ tanto knife: a 24cm double-edged blade made for piercing, but just as effective in slicing someone’s throat.

  ***

  Ruby dragged the vacuum cleaner by the hose, one of its wheels had hooked onto the doorjamb; she freed the appliance with a couple of tugs and pressed the foot-button without response. Shit. Plug must have pulled out. She cursed under breath. Dropping the hose to check the plug, her trot to the other room was interrupted when she heard a knock on the door. Must be the postman.

  “Oh hello.” Ruby was surprised by the stranger at the door. “Who are you?”

  She deliberately snuck a quick look past the man to find Patch. Not there.

  “I’m a bit lost. Trying to find this guy,” The stranger said producing a torn bit of paper. “Lives in this street.”

  Eying the man briefly, Ruby leant forward to read the scribble. The little voice on her shoulder said: remember your training, take all for what it doesn’t look like.

  Poised, breathing deep, in Aikido style, Slice shot both arms forward with open palms twisting out, connecting hard with the woman’s upper chest. The impact from his sudden attack met with an unexpected un-resistance. It was like he had pushed air. Had he lost his touch? The woman should have been thrown off her feet, lying on the floor, screaming hysterically, begging for his mercy. Instead, she had propelled herself backwards, using his force. Aikido.

  Angered, Slice continued through the door opening, swinging the door shut, once in. He eyed the petite woman. She was just a plain Jane in a K-Mart outfit.

  Ruby had steadied herself at several armlengths away from him, defiantly brushing her lips with the back of her hand. Her blond hair was tousled and wild, her eyes burning with fury, she slowly inched her feet in retreat. Standing firm at each small move, her legs began shaping to a defensive stance, her eyes studied all of him.

  “What do you want!” Ruby snarled, her heart was pounding in her chest. The blood in her veins flowing to every muscle in her body, she tensed breathing deep and slow. Yes, she feared him. It would be folly if she didn’t.

  “Where’s the taxi-driver?” The assailant’s question was calm and cold.

  “What taxi-driver,” Ruby bit back. Her hackles up, every breath, every second in wait bolstered her courage. Fear, the best weapon for survival. Her stint in Iraq taught her: fear and courage under fire, don’t think, react and survive. Here and now, a split second of flashback – her first encounter with an enemy, a crazed towelhead had jumped out of a crowd screaming ‘allahu akbar’, running at her waving a large knife, without drawing breath she shot him in the chest with a burst from her L85A2 assault rifle. The memory of her attacker’s chest exploding in a continuous flurry of red blood splatter, had remained a permanent vision in her mind. She could still imagine the hot weapon in her shaking arms, her trembling body. It wasn’t at all like in the Indiana Jones movie.

  Now all she had in her hand was sweat.

  The man’s eyes were intense, he had the worst hairstyle she’d ever seen, perhaps it was a wig. Loafers and baggy corduroys, shorts, of all things. He deserved a good kicking just for his sense of fashion. No, his eyes and face told her all she needed to know. The clothing camouflaged the frame of a fit man, with the disposition of a killer. Was this the same man? The same killer Darren had spoken about.

  Slice evaluated his predicament, the defiant woman in front of him was half his weight and size, possibly martial arts proficient. What could she possibly do to thwart his expertise with a knife? But it was information he needed right now, not a dead woman who couldn’t talk. Besides, Sal didn’t pay for collateral damage. Slice slid his hand into his shirt front and pulled out the razor-sharp knife. He brought the glistening blade to his lips, feeling the touch of the cold steel.

  “I am after the taxi-driver. He drives an old Ford. He has a debt to pay,” Slice spoke as he lowered the knife, pointing it towards her. “I have no use for you, nor a reason to kill you. So, you tell me where your friend is and I’ll disappear.”

  “There’s no taxi-driver here. No men live here. Just me and my dog,” Ruby replied, she flexed her shoulders and squeezed her buttocks.

  “I don’t believe you. Your abode smells of a man.”


  No more talk, Ruby leapt forward, arm tucked into her chest as if going into a somersault, throwing herself into a roll onto the floor, upside down in front of him, her legs followed with one leg up smashing into her home-invader’s chest, while the other leg on the ground swept behind the man’s ankles in giant a scissor sweep, knocking him off his feet. Bowled over backwards, his head hit the front door. The complex move, she’d learnt from her unarmed combat instructor, saw her body ending close to her adversary, nearly on top of him. It was then, she felt a piercing sting entering deep into her upper thigh. Ignoring the sharp pain, she pounced on him and brought her elbow down into his face, breaking his nose with a sharp crack. She raised herself, and began raining punches on his eye-sockets and cheek-bones. What she lacked in power she made up for in speed and repetition. Like a human Uzi, maximum bullets in the shortest time. For seconds, Ruby yelled hysterical, feverish with fear, rage and survival. Out of breath with one final blow, she clenched her fists, bringing both elbows down on his bleeding face. He roared like a wounded bear.

  Stopping for a second, Ruby sucked in more oxygen.

  Her lungs full, ready for the next round – not ready for the thrust of the blade into her side, slicing through the top of her hip, slashing out from the fleshy part of her love handle.

  Agony and panic, pumping a surge in adrenaline, Ruby managed to push herself off him, throwing herself into a floor-roll away from his wild stabs. Panting and bleeding, her hands groped for the armrest of the lounge chair. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man who was bleeding from every orifice in his face, getting up.

  Stumbling onto his feet with one arm against the door, he was dazed, blinded and swaying, and waving for something to touch. He knuckle-rubbed his swelling eye with the back of his knife-wielding hand, one eye-ball rolling around in white, through his bloodied eye-socket. Glowering like a monster from hell, he fell back against the door barely standing. The smashed-up lounge was listing like an old sloop.

  He mouthed, “You fucking cunt. You’re dead meat. I’m going to cut you open from arsehole to chin, so you can see what your innards look like, before I cut your head off.”

  As much as his words were articulate, Slice’s world was in a spin, the shape of her was blurred.

  Ruby pulled herself up from the side of the chair. Get out. Get out of the house! The frantic scratching at the door. Angry barks and growls. Patch! Thank God, you’re alright. She righted herself, her mouth drooling, the sharp pain from the gash to her side was breath-sapping. No time to feel. Get out. Her tracksuit pants soaking up the blood from her cut.

  Dragging her right leg behind Ruby went for the back door through the kitchen. One hand on the wet and bloody wound on her hip, she got the doorhandle with her other and reefed the door open. Breathing heavily and feeling faint she moved forwards, and fell over. Patch was on top of her in seconds, licking her face and whimpering.

  She spat and slurred, “Good boy. Good lad. Come on…we have to go…”

  Ruby crawled to her knees to get up.

  “Where do you think you’re going, bitch!” Standing behind her against the doorway, steadying himself, knife at his side.

  Patch went ballistic, teeth bared, growling and snarling, every single strand of hair on his back and neck were up. Ruby turned herself around while still on all fours, her face in shock.

  “Truly awe-inspiring, the dog and his bitch together, a last stand.” Slice laughed like the devil.

  From the ground, Ruby spied the big screwdriver lying amongst the empty paint-tins, projecting like a beacon in the night, only a metre away from her. She willed her adrenaline, she was pumping and pumping, a last stand was right.

  “Don’t mess with the dog!” She snarled.

  Ruby dived forward from her crouch, snatching the 36cm long screwdriver. Out of breath now, not getting to her feet, the mind wanted to, but the hip was fucked. Unsteady, clumsy, falling back to the ground.

  Slice had rushed to foil her leap for the screwdriver, his knife ready to slash her open, as she’d rise. He had swung the blood-stained knife in a wide and long arc bringing it back where the razor edge would slice through the nape of her neck, inflicting a mortal wound, partially severing her head from her body.

  That was the plan.

  Plans don’t always work out.

  She had fallen to the ground.

  Patch’s jaws clenched until nearly shut, the human’s flesh exploded into a mass of blood squirting from his leg.

  It was unexpected, the grab and hold of his left leg calf muscle was instant. Immobile in half sprint posture, Slice looked aghast at the cattle-dog with his teeth sunk deep into his muscle tissue. Furious, he slashed his knife wildly while trying to turn, pull his leg away. Tearing more flesh.

  Patch rode the leg every time the man tried to wrestle it off him.

  Unbalanced and unhinged, Slice’s wild swings to stab the dog failed.

  Ruby heard his screams behind her, scrambling to her feet, she turned, saw his whitened, blood smeared face, eyes burning red. Now, frenzied with wild rage slashing through air. Ruby grabbed his hair, pulling his head down bringing her knee into the back of his head. But it had no impact. She was near spent. Holding the screwdriver, her weight bearing on a wounded stilt of a leg. She’d walked back into his world.

  Neither could remain standing any longer.

  Slice took her down to the ground, pinning her against the hard paving, with his back to her, lying on top of her, Ruby’s arm holding the screwdriver was free. Without drawing breath, she brought the make-shift weapon around to his face, the flat end finding the soft tissue of his right eye-lid.

  Slice felt the cold implement, pressing on his eye. And what are you going to do with that piece of blunt metal?

  Ruby shut her eyes, clenched her teeth and steeled herself. She held on tight to his forehead, digging her fingernails into his skin. With all her might, she thrust the screwdriver as far as it would go into her assailant’s eye-socket, hearing, remembering the squishing sound from the blunt tool as she pushed further and further, until it could go no more.

  Then, she blacked out.

  ***

  Darren saw the orange Falcon parked on the grass around the corner from Ruby’s place. The cab screeched to a halt, and Darren dashed to the house a hundred metres away. Running towards the squat timber fence, everything looked normal. But where was Patch? He ran to the side of house, bursting through the timber gate.

  Immediately drawn to the sight of two bodies on top of each other, next to the shed, he slowed his long strides, panting to a halt.

  Patch was sniffing over Ruby’s face, nudging her. Bent over at the knees, Darren collapsed next to her. The slain mystery man was lying with his back half on top of her. Blood was pooling around Ruby’s abdomen. She’s not moving! A big yellow-handled screwdriver was sticking out of his eye-socket, its shaft embedded. His other eye staring at the sky, as if waiting for an answer.

  Stunned, Darren couldn’t breathe.

  “Good boy, Patch…” A strained voice stirred from the ground.

  “Ruby!”

  Darren sprang to life.

  “Oh fuck! Jesus, thank Christ you’re alive.”

  A familiar voice bounded from over Darren’s shoulder, “Looks like a fucken warzone.”

  Joel scurried around the bodies, “Help me get this bastard off Ruby.”

  Darren snapped to his feet, kicking a bloodied knife away, grabbing the dead man’s arms, while Joel gripped the man’s ankles. Both lifted the limp body off, dropping it heavily onto the pavement a few metres from Ruby.

  Joel got on the blower straightaway, “Medical assistance required…”

  Darren tore his shirt off to stem the bleeding from Ruby’s wound on her hip.

  Patch stood near, watching his master.

  “I’ll be alright…flesh wounds, you know,” Ruby mumbled. “Told him not to mess with the dog.”

  CHAPTER 63

  DEAD END STREET


  Salvatore’s hairy, stumpy fingers fondled with the mobile phone on the desk. It was out of character for Slice not to return contact after repeated phone calls and messages. Seven days with no response. Since Salvatore’s dealings with Slice were of a very secret nature, checking the hitman’s whereabouts would have to be discreet, and in this case Salvatore could only turn to his nephew, Matteo. A casual phone call asking about his visitation with ‘Steve’ could shed some light on his sudden disappearance.

  ***

  Matteo’s suspicions were now confirmed. Steve had been sent on an errand, he wasn’t clear on why, but now he was convinced it had something to do with Simon’s killing. His uncle’s call had been awkward and evasive. The interest by his uncle in Steve’s well-being had sounded odd. And when Matteo had taunted him about the real reason Steve was in Townsville, his uncle got angry, because Matteo had hit the nail on the head. You don’t trust your own nephew. What am I to think?

  Matteo stood in front of his reef-tank, away in deep thought he noticed plumes of algae had started growing, it brought him back. I must do some housekeeping. Until the other day, he’d not given his uncle’s friend’s visit a second thought. Steve had acted strangely, turning up without notice, and funnily had got bitten by a whistling spider. The whole event was surreal. As bizarre as Simon’s unexpected murder. Matteo had only few met Simon on several occasions, they were planning a closer association to widen their drug distribution network. Their first deal had been a great success. Matteo had managed to break up and sell half a kilo of cocaine in no time – with customers wanting more.

  Steve wasn’t able to answer his question that night: Why are you here? Conveniently, pain from the spider bite wiped the answer to that question from the board. Not finding the package in its rightful spot had rung alarm bells.

  Matteo went to great lengths to keep distance from his uncle’s far-reaching criminal tentacles. Hooking up with Simon Rowe had been a stroke of luck. A party on the island had facilitated that random introduction; the island was small, any regular visitors from Townsville would eventually mingle and melt into the local scene, especially where drugs were concerned. As far as Matteo knew his uncle had no connections or activities up in North Queensland, so he felt confident he could peddle a few drugs without attracting the ire of his uncle.