No Man's Land

1

Four and a half hours later Carter was gunning his white Ford Falcon ute down the straight black line of the two-lane highway heading for Boggabilla, population six hundred and fifty-seven.

He’d managed to hitch a ride back to his place at Lennox, where he grabbed the daypack he kept hidden at the back of his bedroom closet and combined its contents with the one Wayan had given him. It now sat on the seat beside him, containing a Glock 18, binoculars, a noise suppressor, a blowpipe, poison darts, throwing knives, a balaclava, lock picks, three gas canisters, twelve hundred dollars, an iPad and his passport. He’d brought his cell phone, too, even though the battery was low. If he was lucky, there’d be a chance to charge it soon. You couldn’t always rely on a satphone.

The blazing sun beat down overhead and the hot, dry breath of the outback blew through the open cabin windows. Outside, the temperature must’ve been pushing forty degrees Celsius.

He’d been driving nonstop for over three hours, well above the seventy-mile speed limit. He was working on the presumption that the clan had taken Thomas and Wayan to the cattle property near Boggabilla.

The first thirty-six hours following any abduction were critical. After that the odds of rescue diminished dramatically.

His plan was to track Erina down and go from there, but her old cell-phone number was no longer working, which came as no surprise. Members of the order often switched their numbers and used prepaids when out in the field.

To get Erina’s current number, he’d been trying to reach the order’s operations and logistics man in Bali, Jacko MacDonald, but his phone kept going straight to voicemail.

Jacko was the closest thing Carter had to a true friend and brother. They’d covered each other’s backs on dozens of assignments throughout South-East Asia. No job was too big, too small or too hard for Jacko. He always came through.

Carter reached for the bottle nestled between his thighs, took a long pull of tepid water and reminded himself he needed to stay in the moment. Take it one step at a time.

The wilder and more out of control the world was around you, the calmer and stiller you needed to become inside.

He looked out at the monotonous flat brown plains stretching out to the horizon on either side of the road.

Boggabilla was a local Aboriginal word meaning “full of creeks” — he was sure he’d read that somewhere. Ironic, because the district was famous for getting either not enough rain or too much. Drought and the occasional flood were a way of life for the locals — a harsh reality that hung over everything they did, making them as parched and stubborn as the arid land they worked.

He tried Jacko again without success and checked the phone’s battery. It was getting close to red.

Jacko had grown up in surroundings as flat and unyielding as the country rushing by Carter’s windows now. He had sometimes talked about his home in Central Queensland, and his love for the place was clear, though it sounded tough, and its climate unrelenting.

The MacDonalds had worked their cattle property for three generations until crippling debt forced them off it for good, compelling Jacko to join the army when he was twenty. He’d eventually become a warrant officer in the SAS before entering the order.

A huge semitrailer loomed ahead on the other side of the road. The driver tooted, gave a friendly wave and sped past. The wind generated by its slipstream buffeted Carter’s ute, causing him to tighten his hold on the wheel.

He stretched his jaw, relaxed his grip on the wheel and pressed Jacko’s number on redial for the sixteenth time.

2

The phone answered on the fourth ring.

“Jacko. It’s Carter.”

“Carter, you old bastard.” There was a pause. “I’ll call you right back on a secure line.”

Thirty seconds later the cell phone started vibrating in Carter’s lap. He switched on the speaker and answered after the second ring.

“Mate, great to hear from you,” Jacko said. He sounded exhausted.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a serious shit storm going down.”

His blokey tone, usually full of laconic Aussie humor, had a brittle edge to it.

“What’s up?” Carter asked again.

“Some fuckin’ wack job drove a car bomb into our rural joint near Ubud at five-thirty this morning. It has to be the Sungkar clan.”

Carter did the time-difference calculation in his head. It was almost the exact same time as when Thomas’s property had been hit, which explained why Carter hadn’t been able to contact him.

“Shit,” Carter said. “Everyone whole?”

“Six people are in the local hospital.”

“Are they going to be okay?”

“Mate, it’s pretty ugly. Multiple fractures, third-degree burns, that sort of thing. Josh is the biggest worry. There’s some internal bleeding on the brain. But he’s one tough bugger.”

Silence hung over the line.

“Where are the others?” Carter finally asked.

“Jean, Teck and Hiroshi are doing a job along the Thai — Burmese border. Patah and Lui are in East Timor. Can’t get hold of anyone else. Thomas and Erina are on the north coast of New South Wales with Wayan, but I can’t raise any of them. Thomas’s satellite phone’s not answering and the other two are reporting directly to him, so I don’t have numbers for them. I wish to fuck they’d remember to tell me when they get new prepaids — it would make my job a hell of a lot easier. Right now I’m the only one manning the fort, bung leg and all.”

Jacko had been shot in the left knee two years ago and the injury made it impossible for him to work in the field. That meant Carter and Erina were now the only active operatives on deck.

“I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news,” Carter said.

“Shit … Hit me with it.”

Carter filled him in on what had happened to Thomas and Wayan, including a brief summary of the events leading up to the abduction.

“Bloody hell,” Jacko said. “You reckon they’re still alive?”

“Hard to say, but I suspect if they’d killed them, they’d have left their bodies behind.”

“That sounds right. Where do you reckon they’re taking them?”

“My best guess is the cattle property in Boggabilla.”

“Makes sense. Did Thomas tell you they’re shooting a movie there or some such bullshit?”

“A movie?”

“Yeah, some Indonesian martial-arts feature film. Apparently half-a-dozen Sungkar clan members are working on the shoot. And that dysfunctional dipshit Alex Botha has been spotted a couple of times in the area. Did Thomas tell you about him?”

“Yeah.”

“Having him running around on the loose with those fanatics is a real worry. He’s a bloody good operator and he knows our systems inside out.”

Out of nowhere two kangaroos hopped across the road in tandem. Carter hit the brakes and the car slowed, letting them pass.

Alex’s involvement with the clan took the threat they posed to another level and explained how they’d managed to break through the order’s defenses so easily, both at the country property near Lennox and in Ubud. Carter would have to deal with Alex at some point. But for now he needed to get as much information as possible from Jacko before his phone cut out.

He accelerated and asked, “So what’s the story with Trident? Any idea who might’ve turned?”

“Earl Callaghan, the CEO, strikes me as being one dodgy unit. Been divorced a couple of times and his finances are in a right mess. Plus there’s been talk his only kid has gone AWOL in Bali. She’s seventeen and a bit of a wildcat. Last seen outside a nightclub in Kuta.”

“Blackmail?”

“Could be.”

Kidnapping was one of the clan’s specialties.

“Tell me what you know about Samudra’s sister,” Carter said.

There was a brief pause, then he heard the click of a cigarette lighter.

“Kemala Sungkar has an MBA from Stanford — she’s one smart cookie. Over the last year she’s become pretty tight with Thomas. First woman I’ve seen get under his skin.”

“Under different circumstances that’d be big news.”

“Huge. She’s worried about where her lunatic brother is taking the clan. Thomas was going to hook up with her in Jakarta tomorrow, but he’s been unable to make contact.”

“Maybe her brother nabbed her as well.”

“Quite possible. She’s got a local working for her undercover on Batak Island where Samudra’s set up his training compound. I’ll try and contact the guy directly.”

“Who’s he?”

“Name’s Djoran. He grew up on the island and knows it like the back of his hand. You’d like him. He’s smart as a whippet with a ton of guts. He’s a Sufi, too, which is how he met Kemala, at some conference in Jakarta six years ago.”

Carter was familiar with Sufism. It was a mystical branch of Islam whose adherents strived to be close to God in every moment and every movement. A Sufi acquaintance in Jakarta had once said to him, “I possess nothing in the material world and nothing possesses me. Sufism is not the wearing of wool and shabby clothes, rather the excellence of conduct and moral character.” But why would a Sufi get involved in something like this?

He looked at his phone. The battery was now showing red.

“I’m about to cut out. So where exactly will I find Erina?”

“She’s operating out of the film’s production office, pretending to work for Screen Australia. Using the name Nicole Davey.”

“So where is it?”

“Sorry, mate. All I know is that it’s somewhere between Boggabilla and Moree.”

“Okay, I’ll hit the first pub I see in Boggabilla and gather some local intel.”

“Don’t get caught in a bloody shout with a bunch of bushies. Once they buy you one beer, they’ll expect you to be there until closing time.”

Carter almost smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Good luck.”

“You too. Give my best to the guys in the hospital. I’ll be in touch.”

The phone went dead. Carter dropped it on the passenger seat and took a sip of lukewarm water. Knowing Jacko was on the case in Indonesia allowed him to focus exclusively on Boggabilla.

He glanced at his daypack and patted it like an old faithful dog, then concentrated on the black line of road shimmering into the distance.

3

At a little after 2 p.m. a sign flashed by. Boggabilla 10 kilometres.

A few minutes later the ute crunched to a halt on the gravel opposite a faded yellow cement-rendered building. A name was painted above its door: The Wobbly Boot.

Carter ran his eye over the old-fashioned pub, noting the peeling artwork — a brown laced-up workboot overflowing with frosted frothy beer.

A dozen cars were parked outside, mostly dusty utes with large roo bars and black tarps stretched over the back trays. There were also a couple of road bikes — a Harley-Davidson and a souped-up Yamaha 750.

He stepped out into the dry, burning heat and looked around. The air was still and he saw no sign of a living creature. He leaned back into the cabin and grabbed the daypack from the passenger seat. When working for the order, he made it a habit to carry it with him wherever he went.

After locking his car, he slung the pack over his shoulders, walked across the street and pushed through the pub’s door.

The chill of air conditioning welcomed him, along with the loud buzz of indecipherable chatter and the country twang of Hank Williams singing “Honky Tonkin’.”

He crossed a green sea of sticky shag-pile carpet and walked toward the counter. Twenty or so white males were gathered around the bar, dressed in shirts, jeans, moleskins and bush hats, all drinking schooners of frothy beer.

In the far corner three middle-aged Aboriginal men sat under a well-used dartboard, drinking longnecks. Two bikies sat at a table near the jukebox. They didn’t look at him directly, but he sensed they were checking him out.

He maneuvered his way to the bar and read the blackboard menu. Wobbly Boot Sportsman’s Special, Pie and Chips with Gravy.

A rake-thin woman in her late forties stood behind the bar, looking his way. She had fine mousy hair and the deeply lined, sallow skin of a pack-a-day-plus smoker.

“What’ll it be, love?” she asked, without a drop of warmth in her voice. “We’ve got cans of Fourex and Fourex on tap.”

“Any chance of getting a feed?”

“Kitchen closed at two.” She let out a hacking cough and pointed at the vending machine across the bar. “We got chips, nuts, Twisties and Kit Kats. Help yourself.”

“Just give me a large bottle of water then.”

She reached into the fridge behind her and placed a bottle on the counter.

From the other end of the bar, a voice boomed, “Mate, this is a pub. Not a flaming milk bar!”

Suppressed laughter and a faint cheer rippled through the room.

Carter thanked the woman, grabbed the bottle, undid the cap and took a long, cool swig. Then he turned toward the voice.

A barrel-chested bushie with a curly mop of rust-colored hair stared at him.

“Really?” Carter said. “I suppose a chocolate malted milkshake is out of the question then?”

A couple of people groaned at the attempted joke.

Must have been his timing.

The guy started walking toward him and the crowd parted in silence.

The breadth of his shoulders, his bulging biceps and powerful chest suggested he’d been tossing steers in his backyard since he was five.

He pulled his six-foot-six frame to its full height, stood unnecessarily close to Carter and eyeballed him. Judging by his swaying swagger and the glazed look in his eyes, he’d already put a good few beers away.

“Mate, I thought that was pretty funny,” he said. “But I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

Carter smiled.

“You here for that kung-fu movie?” The bushie waved his arms in circles in the air in a mock martial-arts move. “You pretty good at kung-fu?”

“Just passing through.”

A big smirk appeared across the guy’s sun-lined face.

“Fair enough.”

He put out his big meaty right hand.

Carter took it. The big bushie clamped down hard, as if trying to break the bones in his fingers.

“Don’t hurt him, Bluey!” someone yelled, then laughed. “We don’t want a bloody ambulance and a bunch of medics interfering with our drinking.”

Carter adjusted his grip and drilled his thumb into the pressure point between Bluey’s thumb and forefinger.

Seven long, silent seconds passed.

Bluey grimaced, turned away and said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck me …”

But he didn’t let go.

Carter glanced around the room. All eyes were on them. If this turned into a fight, it’d be on for young and old and he’d find out nothing.

He eased the pressure. Bluey let go.

Carter took half a step back.

Bluey flicked his hand in the air and glared at Carter.

“Let me buy you a beer,” Carter said, “and we’ll call it quits.”

Bluey said nothing. Carter watched the cogs turning slowly in his beer-addled brain.

“No,” the man said. “It’s my shout.” His face broke into a broad grin. “You sure you’re not in that kung-fu movie?”

Carter smiled and shook his head.

Bluey beckoned to the woman behind the bar. “Cheryl, pull us a couple of schooners would you, love?”

“Mate, gotta fair way to drive,” Carter said. “Let me buy you one. I’ll stick with the water.”

While on assignment, Carter rarely drank. Alcohol muddied his perception, slowed him down and cut him off from his higher instincts. After his binge the night before, the last thing he needed was more alcohol.

“Round here we find it hard to trust a bloke who won’t sink a schooner or ten with you,” Bluey said.

Carter needed information and Bluey seemed as good a source as any to gather it from. He nodded at Cheryl. Fourex was the glue that bound men in these parts.

“A schooner of Gold,” he said.

Bluey patted Carter on the back.

Cheryl pulled two foaming beers and placed them on the counter.

Bluey grabbed one of the frosted glasses and downed a third in one gulp. He leaned on the bar. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“I’m looking for someone on that film shoot.”

“Won’t find them here, mate. Mostly Indos on that gig. They never venture far off the reservation. Mostly stick together and say their prayers.” Bluey lifted his schooner level with his eyes. “This is my god.”

“You know where the production office is?”

“Maybe I do. But someone who doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the sacred amber fluid is no friend of mine. Not someone I can share my truth with, if you get my drift.”

Carter took the hint, realizing this was one argument he’d never win. Drinking great quantities of cold beer was the religion of the bush and the passport to the pub brotherhood.

He raised his schooner toward Bluey in a salute, put the ice-cold beer to his lips and drank down the lot.

Bluey’s face lit up like he’d found a soulmate.

Carter placed the glass on the table and said, “You were about to tell me how to find the film’s production office?”

Bluey nodded at Cheryl. “Another round, love.”

Cheryl placed two more schooners on the bar.

“It’s at Jambaroo Springs, a cross between a motel and a resort built on a natural hot spring.” Bluey picked up his fresh schooner and again downed a third in one go. “Buggered if I know why anyone would pay good money to sit in a tub of hot salty water.”

Carter picked up his beer and drank half of it. “Where is it exactly?”

“You head down the Boomi Road for about thirty-five clicks and hang a left at the sign. Can’t miss it. When you plan on going?”

“Right now.”

“You got an invitation?”

Carter shook his head.

“Security’s pretty bloody tight and they don’t welcome strangers. They’ve got a ten-foot fence around the joint. Are you looking for someone in particular or you after a part in the flick? You look scruffy enough to be an actor.”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

Bluey winked and gave him a playful shove. “Aren’t we all? Tell you what, mate, I can give you a leg in. A good buddy of mine, Dazza, is manning the gate. I’ll give him a bell.”

“Thanks, mate,” Carter said. “Appreciate it.”

Carter didn’t need to see Jambaroo Springs to know whatever security they might have was unlikely to present a problem. Breaking into places like that without a fuss was what he did. But it was always better to take the easy route and enter through the front door.

Bluey drained his schooner, let out a satisfied sigh and thumped the glass on the counter. “That hit the spot.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Carter noticed the two bikies heading toward the front door.

“You know those two?” Carter asked.

“Never seen ’em before in my life.”

Carter wondered if they could be somehow mixed up with the Sungkar clan.

Bluey pointed at Carter’s half-empty glass. “Come on, mate. Get that beer into ya. A man could die of thirst waiting for your shout.”

4

Two schooners and one hour later, Carter drove along the highway toward a sign that read: Jambaroo Natural Spa and Hot Springs, 200 metres.

He turned left off the highway following Bluey’s directions. If all went according to plan, he’d enter the resort, locate Erina and then leave with her, without attracting undue attention.

The ute rolled down the drive. Harsh sunlight shimmered off the white walls of a large, drab two-storey building with a ten-foot wire fence running around the perimeter.

He pulled up in front of a red boom gate next to a white gatehouse. A lanky guard dressed in a short-sleeved khaki shirt, long grey pants and a broad-brimmed hat strolled toward him. It could only be Dazza.

Carter grinned at him. “G’day, mate. How’re you doin’?”

The guard stood just back from the car, swatting flies. “Fair to middling. Has to be forty degrees in the flaming waterbag. And you must be Bluey’s new drinkin’ mate? He warned me not to shake your hand.”

Dazza’s infectious good humor made Carter smile. “I wish someone had warned me not to get into a shout with Bluey.”

Dazza chuckled. “He loves a beer or twenty. Who is it you wanna see?”

“You know Nicole Davey?”

Dazza nodded. “Good-looking sort. You want me to try and get her on the blower?”

“Yeah, give it a shot.”

Dazza ducked back into the guardhouse, leaving Carter in the stifling heat.

Less than a minute later he stepped back out and said, “The receptionist reckons she can’t track her down. She wants to know your name. What’ll I say?”

“Tell her I had to shoot through. I’ll be back later.”

Dazza disappeared into the guardhouse again. When he emerged thirty seconds later, Carter asked, “Nicole is actually somewhere around, I presume?”

“Came in two or three hours ago and hasn’t left. Maybe she’s avoiding you?”

“Maybe she is. You know women. You can never tell what they’re thinking.”

“You’re not wrong there.”

“Any chance of letting me in so I can surprise her?”

“Gettin’ you through the gate ain’t a big drama. But I gotta warn you, unless you’ve got an appointment, getting past the receptionist to see someone unannounced is like being granted an audience with the Pope.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Dazza pressed a button on a handheld remote and the boom gate lifted.

“Cheers, mate,” Carter said. He gave Dazza a two-finger salute and drove into the grounds.

Carter picked out a deserted corner of the parking lot and pulled in under the shadow of one wing of the resort.

He locked the car, slung his daypack over his left shoulder and walked through the dry, harsh heat.

A glass door slid open. Once again, the welcoming breath of air-conditioned cool came as a pleasant relief.

He headed straight for the front desk, where a woman sat behind a shiny white counter.

She looked Indonesian, around thirty years of age, and wore a dark blue blazer and white shirt. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. She lifted her attention from the computer screen and gave him a questioning stare.

“Good afternoon, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m here to see Nicole Davey.”

“Your name?”

“Sinclair. Brett Sinclair. From the Commonwealth Bank.”

She typed something into the computer, then looked up and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have no appointment. You can’t see anyone here without an appointment. That is company policy.”

Her mouth smiled at him, yet her dark eyes were ice-cold. He had no idea if she knew who he was, but he understood her culture and could read her manner. She wasn’t going to let him in and intended to report his appearance to her immediate superior as soon as he left.

Whatever he said would fail to budge her one inch. But nothing was impossible if you knew the correct approach and used the appropriate language. He suspected she wouldn’t say no to some quick cash on the side.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted a crisp fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the table.

She looked at the money and then at him, unmoved.

He placed another fifty on top of the first.

She glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was watching.

In any act of bargaining the trick was to know a person’s limit. If you offered too much or too little, you lost respect.

More slowly this time, he lay down a third.

She raised an eyebrow and glanced at the money, then at the black book on the table next to her iMac.

Her hand reached out for the money like a hungry snake stalking a mouse.

He snapped his hand back over the notes before she got even close.

“Where will I find Miss Davey?”

Carter raced two steps at a time up the stairwell that led to the third floor and Erina’s office.

He spotted the minute eye of a camera attached to the concrete ceiling and wondered if Erina had hooked it up to her computer, enabling her to track anyone’s movements as they came up the stairs.

As well as being an expert in the martial arts, she was an IT whiz, and with Alex in the vicinity she couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.

She stood waiting for him as he entered the open door of the bare rectangular room. The window gave her an uninterrupted view of the grey concrete wall of the other wing of the building.

She was leaning on the edge of the black desk, facing the door with her arms folded, glaring at him.

He took a step back and studied her disguise.

She wore a shoulder-length black wig with a fringe, red-rimmed glasses, a white blouse, black jacket and a matching pencil skirt that just covered her knees. Her shiny black shoes had three-inch heels; red lacquered toenails peeked from the open toe. An unfamiliar small tattoo of two hearts entwined sat just above the inside of her right ankle and her daypack lay behind her feet within easy reach.

Her outfit created the impression of a woman making her way up the corporate ladder. The major difference being that Erina would have at least two lethal weapons concealed on her body.

She pushed off the desk and stood upright. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Great to see you again too,” he said.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to Sydney.”

“Change of plan.”

He walked behind the desk, free of clutter except for an open bottle of still mineral water, a set of keys and an eleven-inch MacBook Air hooked up to a screen and keyboard.

She followed his every move.

He took a long sip of cool water from the bottle, screwed on the lid and placed it back on the table. He then unplugged her laptop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

Paying off the receptionist had bought him a little information and some time, but not a whole lot more, certainly not her loyalty.

He picked up her keys and laptop and held them out. “Your film-industry days are over. We need to get out of here.”

Erina understood him well enough to recognize when it was best to take notice of what he said and follow his lead.

She took her things from him and said, “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

5

Five minutes later Carter was driving along the two-lane highway at seventy-five miles an hour, several car lengths behind Erina’s black four-wheel drive. They were heading toward a local restaurant, which she said served breakfast and lunch all day. He was in need of food. He hadn’t eaten anything except for a banana he’d grabbed when he went home that morning to pick up his daypack and ute.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror for the third time. An iron-grey van maintained an even distance of a hundred and fifty yards behind him. It suggested his visit to the resort hadn’t passed unnoticed.

Erina would’ve spotted the tail as well.

Up ahead he saw a sign for the Billabong Restaurant and Guesthouse.

Erina’s four-wheel drive turned right and headed toward a clapboard cottage with a bullnose verandah sitting a hundred yards in from the highway. A parking area in front of the verandah was marked Restaurant Visitors. A single-storey red-brick motel wing had been built to the left of the restaurant, looking like it’d been tacked on as an afterthought without any effort to match the original homestead-style architecture. It had a flat roof with a large white satellite dish placed on top of it at the far end of the building. There were car spaces in front of each of the six rooms, none of which was occupied.

Further to the left of the motel there was an additional parking area marked Coaches and Truck Stop, which backed onto thick scrubland. That was empty.

He pulled into a car space in front of the restaurant between Erina’s car and a white Winnebago motorhome covered with fine red dust, the only other vehicle.

After switching off the ignition, he looked in the rear-view mirror. The van slowed while it passed the restaurant, then accelerated away.

Carter pulled the binoculars from the bottom of his daypack, stepped out of his ute and watched the van speed off toward the horizon.

Erina climbed out of her vehicle and stood next to him. “Great work, Carter. First you blow my cover and now you pick up a tail. I hope you’ve got a good explanation.”

“Let’s grab a table and I’ll fill you in.”

Carter followed Erina up three wooden stairs to the verandah, which led into a surprisingly modern sun-drenched interior. He paused inside the front door and noted three potential exit points: the entrance, kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen and bathroom were both situated at the rear left of the square room.

An elderly couple, the only other guests, sat eating their meal in the middle of the restaurant, facing a floor-to-ceiling window at the back. It framed a natural billabong, a small pond created after a river changes its course. It was surrounded by tall spindly gums and low-lying bush. Soft jazz played in the background.

Carter and Erina exchanged a look and chose a table at the front of the restaurant near the right side wall. Erina’s high heels clipped over the polished wooden floorboards. They both sat facing the entrance, their backs to the billabong, giving them a clear line of sight out to the highway.

“Okay, we’re sitting down,” Erina said. “Start talking.”

She sounded angry, but Carter didn’t respond. He was waiting for the van that had been following them to return.

“Don’t even think about messing with me,” she said.

“What are you going to do? Knock me out again? Trust me, I’m not here because I want to be.”

“Just tell me what’s happened.”

“Erina, you need to chill out.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He’d forgotten how fired up she became if she felt he’d slighted her.

A young waitress approached and handed them a menu. With a warm smile, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Outside, above the hum of the air conditioning and the light clatter from the kitchen, Carter identified the sound he’d been expecting: the purr of an engine and tires crunching on gravel.

They both looked out the window at the same time. Erina had clearly heard it too. It was the grey van.

“We’ll order in a minute,” Erina said to the waitress, who nodded and walked away.

Twenty yards from the restaurant the van veered along the path that led to the truck and coaches parking area, out of sight from where they sat. The vehicle’s windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside.

Erina stood, took off her glasses and placed them on the table.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to check it out.”

He stood up. “Let me do it.”

“Why?”

“I’d hate to see you ruin your outfit. Especially the heels.” He looked her directly in the eye. “You look good.”

She stared back at him without acknowledging the compliment.

After a few seconds’ thought, she sat back down and with the hint of a smile said, “Okay, it’s about time you did some work.”

She pulled her phone out of her shoulder bag. “I’ll call Thomas and find out why the change of plan.”

“You do that.”

He slung the daypack over his left shoulder and perused the menu while he stood. “And while you’re at it, order me two turkey sandwiches on rye and a double-shot, extra-hot coffee.”

Without waiting for a response, he headed for the rest room at the back of the restaurant.

6

Carter pushed through the door of the men’s room and locked it behind him. There was an opaque glass window high up above the single toilet’s cistern. He grabbed the handtowel from next to the sink and shoved it into his daypack.

He closed the toilet seat cover, stood on it and examined the window. It was open a few inches at the base, as far as it would go without breaking. Carter lined up the heel of his hand with the window base and struck hard. The cheap lock and hinge exploded, dropping to the ground, and the window snapped wide open.

He stepped onto the cistern, squeezed his head and shoulders through the opening and studied the terrain. A dirt path ran behind the restaurant, in front of the billabong, and continued behind the back of the motel. It led to the coach and truck-parking stop, which he couldn’t see from the window. A thick cover of scrub surrounded the back of the property on the other side of the dirt track. It’d provide good cover.

He tossed his daypack out the window, then stuck his head and shoulders through again and inched his torso forward, to a point where he was half in and half out. The top of his thighs balanced on the window ledge. He looked down at the ten-foot drop to the ground, hanging in limbo for two breaths, then pushed himself further forward until gravity kicked in.

His body began sliding toward the ground. He raised his legs, arched his back and pressed his hands against the outside wall.

His slide gathered momentum.

At the critical moment, just before he started to freefall, he shoved hard against the wall with both hands and, tucking his head onto his chest, used his stomach muscles to force his legs over his head into a pike, doing a backflip in midair. He landed on the balls of his feet and stumbled a few steps forward to regain his balance.

It’d been a long time since he’d done something like that. He looked up at the open window and gave himself a 7.6 out of 10 for the effort.

Then he switched his attention to the roof of the motel. He needed to climb up and see what he was up against. Once he knew the strength, size and nature of the threat, his next move would become obvious.

A rusty drainpipe ran up the middle of the fifteen-foot-high brick wall of the motel. He tested the pipe’s strength with both hands. The metal was hot enough to brand a cow, but it’d hold his weight and get him to the roof.

He took the handtowel from his pack, ripped it in two and wound the two halves around his hands. Then he climbed the wall, using the drainpipe for purchase.

When his head came level with the guttering that ran around the roof, he checked the ground below him.

Right then left. All clear.

He pulled himself onto the flat tiled roof, padded across it and squatted behind the satellite dish that sat above the last guestroom, closest to the truck stop, glad the fierce sun was at his back.

He removed a small leather pouch from his pack, hung it around his neck and peered around the satellite dish. About a hundred feet away he spotted two men leaning on the hood of the grey van. He recognized them as the two bikers from the Wobbly Boot.

Just two things were different. They’d traded their bikes for a van and had handguns shoved down the front of their belts. The taller of the two handed a packet of tobacco to the other, who started rolling a cigarette.

A third guy was walking away from them and heading toward the back of the motel. He was short and stocky and wore a battered akubra hat, blue jeans that sat below his potbelly and scuffed riding boots. He held a lit cigarette in his left hand and a pump-action shotgun in his right.

If there was one weapon Carter hated coming up against, it was a shotgun — a lazy weapon that required no skill or finesse. All the person holding the weapon had to do was point the thing in the general direction of their target and pull the trigger. Even an incompetent amateur could neutralize the most highly skilled adversary. Carter rarely used one because of the danger of injuring others nearby.

The shotgun glinted in the sunlight. The man reached the back wall of the motel directly below where Carter crouched.

Carter blinked the sweat out of his eyes and held himself perfectly still, breathing softly. He ignored the flies crawling over his face. He needed to take the guy out before he knew what hit him. But first the guy had to move forward another few paces so he was hidden from his two mates.

Carter shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and adjusted his position as he watched the guy walk past him slowly.

The man tossed his cigarette on the ground and held his weapon with both hands, like he was expecting trouble.

Then he turned and looked up at the roof.

Carter realized his body must have thrown a slight shadow across the ground. Something he should’ve anticipated. He was out of practice.

The man squinted and started to raise the shotgun to his shoulder.

7

Carter’s body responded without conscious thought. He leaped off the roof, flying feet first through the air.

The guy wasn’t so well trained. His eyes widened and his body froze.

The heel of Carter’s shoe smashed into the guy’s temple, hitting the vulnerable point level with the top of his right ear.

Carter hit the ground hard, landing on his back.

The shotgun dropped onto the track and the man’s body collapsed backward like a sack of potatoes, making little sound.

Carter moved behind the guy and grabbed his head and shoulders, clamping his left forearm under the guy’s chin and around his neck, ready to pull back if he met any resistance, but there was none. He was out cold.

Carter released his hold, reached into the leather pouch around his neck and extracted a drug-tipped dart. He removed the plastic tip with his teeth and jabbed the sharp point into the guy’s neck. That’d keep him out of action for at least a couple of hours.

He rolled the unconscious man over, emptied the pockets of his moleskins and found a set of keys, a cell phone and a leather wallet. All of which went into his daypack.

He dragged the guy into the shadowy space underneath the restaurant’s rest room and hid the shotgun in the bushes. Then he moved down the path to the end of the motel and checked that the guy’s two mates were still at the van. They hadn’t moved.

He veered to his right into the thick undergrowth and circled around the coach and truck stop until he reached a position on the far side. The van was about twenty yards away now, and his two targets just in front of it. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted across the hot air.

The two men stood staring in the direction of the restaurant, looking away from where Carter was.

He opened his daypack, took out two thin black cylinders and screwed them together, creating one of his favorite weapons, a twelve-inch blowpipe.

Next he extracted two darts from the leather pouch, removed the plastic tips with his teeth and started counting down his breaths. Ten, nine, eight …

When he got to three, he started walking out of the bushes toward the van, treading lightly to make as little noise as possible on the gravel. He stopped at the back of the van, only feet from them, and stood motionless.

“What I wouldn’t do for a few cold beers,” one of the men said.

“How about after we grab these fuckers, we head into town, go to the whorehouse, get drunk and fuck ourselves silly?”

“Have to twist me arm.”

They laughed, like this was a great joke.

Carter slipped one of the darts into his mouth, lifted the blowpipe to his lips and sucked in a lungful of air.

He stepped out from behind the van. The men were still watching the restaurant while they smoked.

The bigger of the two started to turn in Carter’s direction.

Carter blew hard.

The guy grabbed his cheek. “What the …”

His body slumped forward.

The other guy turned, opened his mouth and reached for his gun.

Too late.

The second dart caught him in the throat.

He collapsed onto the ground on top of his mate.

Carter dragged the two men behind the van and into the scrub.

Like their mate, they’d be out of action for at least two hours. He’d give them a wake-up dose if he needed to interrogate them.

He searched their clothing and came up with two handguns, both high-caliber Smith & Wessons, two cell phones, two wallets, two sets of keys and two packs of gum, one spearmint and the other extra-white, for a brighter smile.

He stuffed the phones, the wallet and the guns into his daypack and the gum into his trouser pocket. Then he stood up.

The three guys would keep until after he’d eaten.

8

Carter walked back toward the restaurant, pushing his hair back into place and brushing the red dust and grime off his T-shirt and trousers. He was wondering how Erina would take the news when he told her about Thomas and Wayan.

Erina was ice-cool in the execution of her duties — even clinical — but this wasn’t an ordinary job. Thomas was her father.

Carter had only seen Erina really lose it once, but it had genuinely frightened him. One time, before their brief affair, they’d busted a pedophile gang in Bangkok. A ringleader led them to a secret underground chamber where he kept a select number of underage workers for his own pleasure, some as young as six, lying naked and mute in steel cages. Erina exploded, blowing their cover and jeopardizing the operation. She would’ve killed him but for Carter’s intervention.

Erina’s past was even more challenging than his own. When she was fifteen and Carter twenty, she’d been kidnapped by an organized crime gang off the streets of Bangkok. They had used her as a bargaining chip in an effort to force the order to drop an investigation into one of their leaders. It had taken Carter and Thomas two weeks to track her down and rescue her from a property near Chiang Mai, from where she was taken to hospital and examined. No serious injuries or evidence of sexual abuse were found, but she’d refused to this day to speak about what had happened.

A month after Erina’s return, her American mother had announced that she was leaving Thomas and returning to Boston, taking their only child with her. It proved to be a defining moment in Erina’s life. She refused to go. She’d always been Thomas’s daughter, a fighter who had more courage in her than most adults.

She’d begun training from the age of five and was already highly skilled in the martial arts at the time of her abduction. The experience motivated her to work even harder to become a sanjuro and fight for those unable to protect themselves. It’d also made her wary of physical and emotional intimacy with anyone she didn’t trust completely.

Carter entered the cool of the restaurant and exchanged a nod with the grey-haired couple paying their check, then headed toward the table where Erina sat holding a fork in one hand, hovering over a green salad, while staring at her cell phone as if willing it to ring.

She looked up and ran her eyes over him. “You’ve certainly made a mess of yourself.”

“Better me than you,” he said, brushing at the stains on his shirt.

He settled in the seat opposite her, drank down the glass of water the waitress had left and took a bite of his turkey sandwich without really tasting it.

She placed her phone on the table. “What happened?”

He opened his daypack, checking that the two guns and cell phones were there on top, then slid the bag along the floor toward her.

She peered inside. “So they weren’t making a social call?”

He took a sip of lukewarm coffee. “You could say that.”

“Where are they now?”

He jerked his head toward the bushes outside. “Sound asleep.”

“Caucasians or Indonesians?”

“Caucasian.”

“I’m sure I know who they work for.”

He took another bite of sandwich, waiting for her to say more. She looked at him sideways.

“Something’s happened to Thomas, hasn’t it?”

He pushed his plate to one side and gave her his full attention. “Yes.”

She mouthed the word fuck and said, “Tell me everything.”

He gave her a detailed run-down of what had unfolded since she’d driven off from the property outside of Lennox that morning, including the attack on the order at Ubud. He knew better than to try to keep anything from her.

She sat in silence while he spoke and never took her focus off him.

When he finished, he leaned back in his chair and let what he’d said sink in.

She kept her voice low and controlled. “Those Sungkar bastards.” Then she put her glasses and phone in her shoulder bag and stood up.

Carter got to his feet. “What are you doing?”

“I know where the clan will be holding them.”

He grabbed her keys from the table. “Sit down. I saw how they operated at Lennox. They’re far from amateurs. We need to think this through.”

They stood looking at each other without moving. Neither said a word.

The kitchen door swung open. The waitress walked across the dining room and said, “Is everything all right?”

“Can I get a fresh coffee, please?” Carter asked. “Erina, you want anything?”

She shook her head.

The waitress forced a smile and said, “Be right back.”

She turned and walked back to the kitchen.

He placed his right hand on Erina’s shoulder. “We’re going to get them back,” he said. “I promise.”

Her head dropped and she took a deep breath.

“Whatever it takes,” he said. “Now sit down and talk to me.” He guided her back into her chair. “So, who do you reckon these guys work for?”

Erina put out her hand. “Give me their phones.”

9

Carter watched Erina work the phones and the computer, her expression cold and dispassionate now.

Like him, she’d witnessed firsthand the inhumanity and depravity of the human race. She’d seen many friends and enemies die. And even though she’d learned to suppress her emotions to get the job done, there was no doubt it had affected her at a deep psychic level.

From the restaurant’s kitchen he heard pots and pans clang and the hiss of an espresso machine. He sipped his fresh coffee and ate his second turkey sandwich slowly.

Erina checked a final number and dropped the two cell phones into his daypack. She pushed it across the floor toward him and said, “Just as I thought. The phones lead to Hamish T. Woodforde, owner of the property where the film is being shot. I’m sure Thomas and Wayan have been taken there.”

She reached into her daypack and handed him a manila folder. He pushed his cup and plate to one side and opened it.

A large photo of a heavily jowled man in his early fifties stared back at him. He had a ruddy complexion, thinning grey hair and a protruding beer belly. His most telling feature was a look of smug entitlement.

“Hamish Woodforde,” Erina said. “The motherfucker has a finger in half-a-dozen crooked pies. Brothels, gambling, drugs and stolen goods. He even supplies alcohol covertly to the Aboriginal community.”

“Greed is an ugly religion.”

“He controls several businesses and spends a great deal of money in the district. When I questioned a handful of local shopkeepers, publicans and the local police, they clammed up at the mention of his name.”

“So we can assume the police are in Woodforde’s pocket.”

“The best money can buy.”

Carter put the photo to one side and scanned the two-page dossier. He finished reading and asked, “How does a fourth-generation farmer in the middle of the outback get into bed with the Sungkar clan?”

“Believe it or not, through playing polo. He met Arung Sungkar at the exclusive Nusantara Polo Club near Jakarta nine years ago. He ended up marrying Arung’s cousin.”

“Arranged?” he asked.

“Yeah. Not exactly a match made in heaven.” She paused. “For her, anyway.”

“But good for the family?”

“Very. It’s allowed the Sungkar family and various clan members to move freely in and out of Australia for a number of years.”

He slid the folder back toward her. “What’s in it for Woodforde?”

She put the dossier back in her daypack and said, “The clan saved his arse. He prefers the ageing playboy lifestyle to working his butt off on the family farm. He owes the Bank of Queensland four million dollars and couldn’t keep up with his payments — he was on the verge of losing it all. Arung obliged and bailed him out, making him the managing director of a clan-controlled transport company, Rapid Transfer, now based on Woodforde’s property.”

“The perfect cover.”

“We suspect the trucks distribute stolen and illegal goods throughout Australia.”

An image of the truck at Thomas’s property flashed across his mind. The name Rapid Transfer had been painted on its side.

“What’s his relationship with Samudra like?” he asked.

“Basically, he does whatever the clan ask him to do and they tolerate his gross behavior.”

Carter shook his head. “The God of the fanatic moves in mysterious ways.”

“When it suits them.”

He glanced out the window. A black ute flashed down the highway. Guys like Woodforde, motivated purely by greed, pissed him off even more than terrorists. At least most religious fanatics acted out of the misguided belief that they were doing God’s will. Which made him think of Alex Botha.

“Talking of arseholes, what’s the latest with Alex or Abdul-Aleem or whatever he goes by now?” he asked.

“All I know is that he’s Samudra’s right-hand man. Been in the production office a couple of times, but I’ve managed to avoid him. He left the property with three Indonesians this morning in a big truck. It could be an advance party for a possible terrorist attack.”

“We can’t worry about that until we get Thomas and Wayan back.”

“Agreed.”

“What’s the set-up at Woodforde’s property like?”

“Considering it’s in the middle of nowhere, the security is incredibly tight. Fenced-off compound and all. You’d think Woodforde was a Colombian drug lord.”

Carter finished his coffee. “So rushing in now will only tip them off.”

“We need to go in late tonight.”

They sat in silence. Carter ran through everything in his mind.

“Do you reckon this film is legit?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re well organized and the paperwork appears up to date. I’ve seen boom mikes and cameramen filming guys in military uniforms running around carrying automatic rifles. The film could be legit — maybe fundamentalist propaganda — or it could be a front for getting members of the Sungkar clan into the country and marshalling them for a terrorist attack. Whatever they’re up to, the irony is the Australian and Indonesian governments are funding it.”

She finished her glass of water.

“Let’s move,” she said. “I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

Carter stood up. “Okay, let’s grab the sleeping beauties outside and find out what they know.”

“I’ve got just the place for a quiet chat. Follow me.”

She slipped her computer into her daypack and stood up. “By the way, where are you staying?” she asked.

“Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You’ll stay with me. I’ve got a suite in Moree.”

It wasn’t a question.

She turned and walked toward the “pay here” counter.

10

Just after 8 p.m., Carter sank into the soft embroidered lounge in Erina’s spacious motel suite just out of Moree on the Newell Highway. She said it was the only room she could find in the area that wasn’t a gloomy soulless box with a low cement-rendered ceiling.

The sound of the kettle boiling and the smell of fresh ginger wafted into the living room from the kitchenette. Crockery rattled. The fridge door opened and closed. She’d insisted on making tea before outlining how she intended to break into Woodforde’s property. He knew better than to rush her, but hoped the plan she came up with wouldn’t be too elaborate. He preferred the simple direct approach.

He looked through the open sliding door toward the outback sky. The sun had melted into the horizon, creating a spectacular red, yellow and black sunset, the colors of the Aboriginal flag.

The relative cool and stillness of the end of the day evoked a sense of calm, giving him the opportunity to run through in his mind the information they’d gathered. He’d interrogated Woodforde’s men while Erina had prepared the night’s assault on the property.

The three guys were hired standover men who basically did whatever Woodforde told them to do without question. It didn’t take a lot to get them talking. Just a bit of pain and the threat of far greater injury if they failed to cooperate.

They confirmed that a Rapid Transfer truck had arrived at Woodforde’s property around lunchtime, but they hadn’t been told who or what was inside. All they knew was that Alex had left that morning with three Indonesians and that Samudra and two of his men had flown in by light plane two days before.

They had also provided some key pieces of pertinent information.

Woodforde slept on the top floor of the main homestead, they had told him, in the master bedroom above the entrance, usually with a much younger woman. His wife was in Indonesia and no one else slept in the house.

The property’s employees lived in the shearers’ quarters at the back of the compound. The visiting Indonesians bunked down in a barn on the northern boundary. Alex and members of the Sungkar clan occupied the visitors’ cottage behind the main homestead when they stayed.

Four of the large barns spread around the property were used to grow marijuana hydroponically and to store stolen goods. The three men said this was why Woodforde had installed the state-of-the-art security system.

Footsteps padded across the carpet. Carter turned to see Erina walking toward him carrying two mugs of steaming tea. She’d ditched the wig, suit and shoes and changed into the more familiar loose black pants and white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung over her right shoulder.

Carter thought she always looked good, regardless of what she wore.

She handed him a mug and sat down facing him, tucking her legs under her and draping her free arm on the back of the sofa.

“What’ve you come up with?” he asked, resting the mug on his thigh.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

She flicked her ponytail behind her shoulder. “One of the security guys took a shine to me when I paid the property a visit a few days ago and was good enough to show me how their security system works.”

“You can charm the pants off any man when you want something.”

She brought the mug to her lips and drank a mouthful. “But you’ve become immune?”

“I’ve managed to build up some resistance.” He lifted his mug and crossed his legs away from her. “So what’s your plan?”

“The guy told me he was on duty tonight at the gatehouse and asked me to pop in and say hi, if I was free.”

Carter took a sip of tea and said, “Go on.”

“After a few polite niceties, I’ll put him to sleep and shut down security. Then we wake up Woodforde for a chat. Make him tell us where Thomas and Wayan are.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

As far as plans went, he had no problem with it. But in a situation like this the plan was usually only the starting point. Something always went wrong, but there was no point worrying about it now. She knew that too.

“We leave at the usual time?” he asked.

She nodded.

They always made night-time incursions at 2.30 a.m. It was the time when people were at their most vulnerable.

He took another mouthful of tea and looked out through the sliding door. The sun was no longer visible. A reddish tinge was all that remained on the horizon. It was nearly half past eight.

“We should get some sleep,” he said. “I suppose I’m bunking down on the couch?”

“You’ll get into less trouble there.”

“Who says I’m afraid of trouble?”

“Carter, are you trying to flirt with me?”

“I said I’ve built up some resistance — I didn’t say I was immune.”

She smiled, revealing her dimple.

He watched her stand and walk toward the bedroom.

She turned just before reaching the door. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

11

Carter sat in the passenger seat in the air-conditioned cool of Erina’s four-wheel drive. It was 2.06 a.m. He’d slept for four and a half hours on the couch and felt wide-awake and ready for whatever lay before them.

The headlights’ high beam lit up the road ahead and the surrounding narrow band of stark, flat farmland. On their left a “beware of kangaroos” sign flashed by.

He glanced at Erina, intent on the two-lane highway ahead, gunning the four-wheel drive through the inky blackness toward Woodforde’s property. The speedo hovered just under ninety miles an hour. They’d travelled in a comfortable silence for fifteen minutes. Both liked to still their minds and clear their thinking before a job.

Before leaving, Carter had watched Erina put on the black wig for her encounter with the gate guard. She then slid a small Beretta into the Gore-Tex holster under her left armpit and finally placed a pack of drug-tipped darts, an Emerson throwing knife, a cigarette lighter and a packet of Marlboro into her leather shoulder bag. She didn’t smoke, but cigarettes often came in handy when you needed information from an uncooperative source. His weapons were tucked into his daypack, lying at his feet.

A still, bright light loomed ahead of them to the right, a blazing beacon in an ocean of dark. Erina veered off the bitumen, hit the brakes and killed the headlights.

Carter felt a slight rush of adrenalin quicken his heart rate.

She pointed at the light, about half a mile away at a diagonal angle from where they were parked. “That’s the gatehouse where my dream date awaits me.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t turn into a nightmare.”

“Whatever, I’ll handle him.”

Carter grabbed his daypack and stepped out of the vehicle. He climbed onto the four-wheel drive’s crash bar, took out his night-vision binoculars and studied the small building. Two bright lights mounted on its roof threw out a fifty-foot arc of light, illuminating a high barbed-wire fence, which presumably cordoned off Woodforde’s inner compound.

Erina stood on the road beside the four-wheel drive. “To get there,” she said, pointing down the highway, “we turn right up ahead, travel three hundred yards along a dirt road and cross a cattle ramp.”

He scanned the grounds beyond the light and noted the dark shadows of two utes parked about fifteen yards from the gatehouse.

“I thought you were expecting just one guard,” he said.

“That’s what he said.”

“Looks like there’s two. Maybe your boyfriend was thinking along the lines of a threesome.”

Erina ignored him.

He turned his head and looked out into the darkness. To his left the moon shone behind a single majestic gum, creating a ghostlike silhouette. Already the plan was bending out of shape.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, “there’s no time for second-guessing. We have to go in. Now.”

He turned to face her. “Agreed.”

It took Carter three minutes to organize himself in his hiding place underneath the chassis of the four-wheel drive.

He lay in a sling he’d created from a hessian bag, suspended eight inches above the black bitumen with his feet pointing toward the front, parallel to the highway. His nose just cleared a hot metal pipe and rope dug into his back, thighs and calves.

The engine purred to life and the vehicle moved down the highway toward the turn-off to the gatehouse at around twelve miles an hour. He twisted his head in an effort to avoid the harsh fumes of engine oil. Not exactly first class, but it would get him through the front gate.

In his left hand he gripped one of the suspension ropes. In his right he held the Glock 18 close to his chest, fitted with a silencer. He hoped he wouldn’t need the weapon but it was best to be prepared. The four-wheel drive’s spare keys were tucked away in his pants pocket.

He felt the vehicle brake, then they turned right off the smooth highway and rumbled along a gravel road.

The four-wheel drive decelerated further, rattled over a cattle grid and then came to a halt.

He heard the front window slide down and an intercom buzz. “I’m looking for Pete Stanley,” Erina said. “He’s expecting me.”

A hoarse, raspy voice crackled, “State your name.”

“Nicole Davey from Screen Australia.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Come on in. Don’t exceed five miles an hour and stop at the gatehouse. Understood?”

“Absolutely.”

Carter heard the gate click open. The four-wheel drive rumbled slowly along the gravel and came to a gentle stop.

Light flooded underneath the vehicle.

Two sets of dark boots strode toward the four-wheel drive.

Carter heard the distinct sound of a pump-action cocking and a shell crunching into the chamber ready to fire.

Shotguns weren’t part of the plan.

“This is all very melodramatic,” Erina said, her tone playful and light. “I just came by to see Pete.”

A hoarse voice answered her. “Pete’s not here. Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

Carter ran his forefinger over the well-oiled barrel of his Glock.

“Really, guys,” Erina said, “I’m just coming back from Brisbane. Pete said he was on night shift this week and asked me to drop by.”

She hadn’t missed a beat.

“Get out of the car,” the hoarse voice repeated.

The driver’s door opened and Erina stepped out.

“Leave the bag on the seat.”

“Why are you making such a fuss?”

Carter imagined her staring down the barrel, calculating the odds, deciding whether she should attempt to take the guy out.

A set of boots moved toward her.

Carter hoped she’d play it low-key and bide her time. With a shotgun pointing at your head, the percentages were too low to make a move, but eventually an opening would present itself and they’d sort it out. He was counting on her having faith in him, even though they hadn’t worked together for two years.

“Put the shotgun to her head, Smokey, and if she moves so much as a muscle pull the trigger and blow her pretty head off.”

“No worries, Mick.”

Carter watched a pair of boots move to Erina’s left. The other boots stepped forward.

Mick’s husky voice said, “What’s this?”

Carter figured he was frisking her.

“She’s got a gun under her armpit.”

Erina’s Beretta landed on the ground and a boot kicked it away.

“A woman in the bush needs to protect herself,” Erina said. “You have no right to—”

The sharp crack of an open hand hitting flesh made Carter hold his breath.

A moment of silence followed.

“Fucking arsehole,” she said.

Another sharp crack rang out. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch, or I’ll spread that cute little nose across your face.”

Adrenalin coursed through Carter’s veins and his pulse quickened, but his mind was crystal-clear. He needed to rescue Erina before either of the guards called the house and warned whoever was there.

A handcuff clicked open and then closed.

“Smokey, check the car.”

A set of boots strode toward the car. The door opened.

Smokey stepped inside — a big guy judging by the downward movement of the vehicle.

Carter slipped his finger around the trigger of the Glock.

Half a minute later the car bounced up and the door slammed shut.

“All clear, Mick,” Smokey said. “The bitch is alone.”

“Sweet. I’m going to radio the house and find out what the boss wants us to do with her.”

“Don’t start feeling her up without me.”

“No need to get your tits in a tangle, Smokey — I’m not greedy. I like to share.”

Their laughter had a strange, almost hysterical quality.

“You stay here,” Mick said. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Yep.”

Carter saw Erina’s running shoes move away, followed by a set of boots that presumably belonged to Mick.

“Hey, mate,” his friend called.

The boots stopped.

“You reckon we should have ourselves a bit of fun before handing her over?”

“Why not?” Mick said. “You’re only young once. Just stay alert and you can go seconds.”

“Roger that.”

“Remember the boss reckons there’s a guy with her. Some dangerous motherfucker. Might be following her. You need to cover my skinny arse while I lighten my load.”

“It’s not like I’m going to fall asleep. I’ve had enough goey to keep me awake for a week.”

Goey was slang for speed. That accounted for the mad edge to their voices and laughter. These guys were wired on amphetamines, making them unpredictable, but also prone to mistakes.

Carter saw a hand pick up the Beretta. A pair of boots and Erina’s shoes crunched across the ground toward the gatehouse.

12

Carter untied the knots in the rope supporting the sling and lowered himself inch by inch toward the ground.

His back touched down on the hard gravel surface. He rolled onto his belly, slid his legs around behind him without making a sound and stared into the brightly lit night toward the gatehouse.

Smokey’s black boots stood two body lengths away from Carter, pointing toward the four-wheel drive.

They shuffled back and forth.

Carter peered toward the open door of the gatehouse, a further four body lengths away. All he could see was Mick’s broad back filling the doorway, obscuring Erina.

“Get your fuckin’ hands in the air,” Mick said.

Erina’s clear voice carried through the still night. “What are you doing? I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Raise your fuckin’ hands in the fuckin’ air or I’ll jam this butt into your fuckin’ gut.” He chuckled. “Hey, I’m a fucking poet and don’t even know it. But that don’t mean I’m soft. Now lift ’em.”

Carter saw her handcuffed hands extend above Mick’s head.

“That’s a good girl.”

Mick took a few steps back. Still aiming the shotgun at Erina, he grabbed a length of rope, looped it through her handcuffs and slung it over a pipe that ran parallel under the ceiling.

Carter breathed out slowly, glad Erina hadn’t tried to take Mick out. It was too risky. If either of the two armed guards fired a shot, the element of surprise would be lost and their plan would unravel.

Mick yanked down on the rope, pulling Erina to full stretch, and tied it off behind the open door. He moved to one side, giving Carter a clear view of Erina. Her head swiveled to the left and then to the right as if she was trying to figure out a way of striking back.

“You guys are in deep shit,” she said, her voice full of controlled defiance. “But you can still save yourselves. Let me go right now and I’ll forget this incident occurred.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Mick asked. “Waltzing in here as if you own the fuckin’ joint.”

“I just popped in to say hi to Pete.”

“At two in the fuckin’ morning? What did you want to see him for?”

“We struck up a bit of a friendship. I wasn’t tired. Just wanted a bit of company and maybe a coffee.”

“Yeah, and I’m the next fucking king of England.”

Erina didn’t reply.

Mick moved back in front of her. Carter had to strain to make out what he was saying.

“You figure we’re a couple of rednecks with shit for brains,” Mick said. “Well, don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll give you more than fucking coffee. The party’s about to begin.”

Mick turned to his left and started rummaging through a set of cupboard drawers.

Carter caught a glimpse of Erina’s face and the look of steely determination etched across it.

He shifted his attention from Mick to Smokey’s black boots. They still pointed toward him, shuffling back and forth.

“Don’t even think about it,” Erina said. “I won’t warn you again.”

Carter shifted his focus back to the gatehouse.

Mick moved behind Erina, wrenched her head back and slapped a strip of metallic tape across her mouth.

He then put one arm around her throat, ripped the front of her shirt open and yanked her bra up, exposing her breasts.

Carter swallowed hard.

Mick grabbed her right breast and squeezed.

For a moment the night continued still and silent.

Then Erina went wild, thrashing about like a wounded tiger, hurling her body back and forth. When her rage exploded to the surface, she became far more dangerous and at the same time more vulnerable.

Even in a fight where you were at a severe disadvantage, you couldn’t allow your opponent to dictate terms. By fighting back, she’d seized the initiative and potentially opened up a space for Carter to act. The danger was that her actions could provoke Mick into lashing out at her with his knife or even shooting her.

Her foot kicked out at him.

Once.

Twice.

Both times she hit nothing but air.

Mick let go of her and laughed.

Big mistake.

The third kick struck his shin.

He doubled over, clutching his leg.

Erina had picked her target well. The shin was a weak point.

Carter glanced at Smokey’s boots, still pointing toward the four-wheel drive and jiggling up and down as though he was moving to a musical beat. Carter figured he must be listening to an iPod.

Carter grabbed a handful of small stones with his left hand and turned his attention back to the gatehouse.

Mick stood to one side of Erina. “I’m going to make you pay for that, bitch.”

He looked like he was about to grab her.

Carter held his breath.

She reared her head back. Her forehead flew forward, catching Mick square on the nose.

The sickening crunch of bone smashing on bone made Carter wince.

The forehead was the hardest bone in the human body, a lethal weapon. It would’ve been the last thing Mick expected from a handcuffed woman.

A high-pitched male scream cut through the night.

Erina was on the balls of her feet, facing him, her body coiled like a spring.

Carter was pleased to see she’d regained control of her anger and was ready for his next move. He couldn’t see Mick but could imagine the look of bewilderment on his battered face. Headbutting a man while handcuffed was a calculated act of extreme courage.

It was what he loved about her.

“You stupid fucking bitch,” Mick yelled. “You’re going to be so fucking sorry you did that.”

Judging by the rage in his voice, the wired-up Mick was capable of anything.

Carter looked back at Smokey’s boots.

They’d turned a hundred and eighty degrees toward the gatehouse, his heels facing Carter.

They’d stopped jiggling.

The window Carter was waiting for had just opened.

13

Carter propelled himself from underneath the right-hand side of the four-wheel drive and sprung to his feet, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

The spotlight lit up Smokey, striding away from him toward the guardhouse. He was a big paunchy guy carrying a pump-action shotgun loosely in his right hand. He’d pulled his earphones out and they hung over his chest.

Carter needed to take him out before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and lobbed the handful of stones ten yards to Smokey’s left.

An old trick, but it worked.

Smokey spun around, lifted his shotgun and aimed it at the point where the sound had come from.

Carter moved toward him from the opposite direction, holding the Glock’s barrel in his right hand and making barely a sound.

In four strides he closed the gap between them to a body length and started to lift his arm, preparing to strike.

But before he had a chance, he stepped on something hard.

A brittle stick gave a distinct crack.

Smokey stopped dead and turned, backlit by the gatehouse light behind him.

His jaw dropped. He started to bring his shotgun around when Carter smashed the butt of the Glock into his temple.

The shotgun went flying.

Carter lunged forward and caught the weapon by the barrel with his left hand, midair, before it hit the ground.

Without dropping his own weapon, he simultaneously grabbed hold of the dazed Smokey, still standing but swaying. He twirled the shotgun around and smashed the butt into his other temple, delivering a knockout blow.

Smokey’s body went limp. Carter lowered him to the earth like he was putting a sleeping baby to bed. Except this baby weighed over two hundred and twenty pounds and dark blood oozed down his face from the wounds he’d just received.

Carter turned toward the illuminated gatehouse.

Mick had been busy. He’d tied rope around Erina’s neck to form a noose, pulled it tight and fastened one end to the pipe near the ceiling. He’d also wrapped gaffer tape around her ankles, rendering her helpless.

He stood behind her, pushing his blue jeans down over his skinny backside.

Carter weighed up the odds and decided it was too risky to fire at him or try to take him out with his bare hands. He needed to maneuver him out of the gatehouse.

He sprinted ten yards to where one of the utes was parked and slid under the chassis feet first.

In one smooth movement he rolled onto his stomach, lay prone next to the driver’s wheel and adjusted his position so he had a clear view inside the gatehouse.

Mick was yanking Erina’s black cotton trousers down. She threw her hips back and forth, but there wasn’t much she could do.

Carter reached into his cargo pants with his left hand, pulled out the four-wheel drive’s keys, aimed the remote device at the vehicle and pressed the button.

The vehicle quacked twice.

Mick spun around and stared into the night. His jeans were bunched around his ankles and his pale blue shirt hung over his thighs.

If the stakes weren’t so high, the image would’ve been comical.

Mick pulled up his jeans and held Erina’s Beretta to her throat. He quickly cut the tape holding her ankles and the rope forming the noose, then yanked her pants up and pulled her in front of him as a shield.

“You try anything,” Carter heard him say to her, “and I put a bullet through you.”

The guard pushed Erina through the gatehouse door and stopped just outside.

The bright spotlight lit up her exposed breasts. Her bra hung around her neck, her torn T-shirt fell off her arms and her trouser belt was undone. Blood dripped down from her shoulder, and tape covered her mouth.

Mick pressed the barrel of the Beretta against her chin. Her eyes flicked from right to left, seeking Carter out.

Lying on his stomach under the ute, Carter dropped the keys and lifted the Glock to eye level with both hands. His elbows rested on the rock-hard ground to form a solid base.

He took aim at Mick’s head, but there was no clear shot. Erina was still in the line of fire.

The guard’s darting eyes reflected his agitation. They looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets.

“Smokey,” he said, “where the fuck are you?”

In his addled state he’d obviously missed his unconscious colleague sprawled in the dirt.

He pushed Erina forward and shuffled across the open ground behind her, making sure she continued to shield him.

Three feet from his partner’s body lying spread-eagled on the ground, he stopped.

“What the …?” he muttered.

Carter’s finger caressed the trigger.

A shot was still too dangerous. He needed to wait until Mick had moved away from Erina.

Unfortunately, Mick did exactly what Carter had hoped he wouldn’t. He backed into the gatehouse with Erina and shut the door.

The only option was to hang tight and hope that Mick was too drug-addled to call the house for backup.

From inside the gatehouse Carter heard feet scuffle, followed by a brief silence.

The door swung open.

Mick again pushed Erina out of the gatehouse in front of him.

He was now holding the point of a knife at her throat with one hand and his shotgun in the other, the barrel poking out from under Erina’s right armpit. Mick’s chin was just above her shoulder. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, staring into the night.

Carter lined up a spot above Mick’s right eye.

The angles looked good.

If he hit his target, the bullet would take out Mick, miss Erina and pass harmlessly into the night. Ideally Erina would somehow put a little more space between them before he opened fire to reduce the margin of error.

Mick swung the shotgun in an arc in front of him.

“If you don’t want me to cut the bitch,” he snarled, “you’ll come out with your hands high in the air. I’m gonna count to three.”

Carter remained motionless.

“And I promise you. I will do it.”

14

Carter relaxed his shoulders and focused on his target. He’d made tough shots like this many times.

The distance, the tight angle between him and the target and its size weren’t the issue.

He was.

The last time he’d fired a handgun had been well over a year ago. It wasn’t the physical challenge that concerned him. Rather the mental, emotional and spiritual readiness required to take a shot when someone’s life was at stake. Especially when that person was Erina.

He needed to be still and clear.

His mind flashed back to a training camp he’d done on a tiny uninhabited island off the western coast of Sumatra when he was seventeen years old. Thomas had been instructing him in the finer points of shooting a crossbow. His task had been to lie prone on the ground and hit a coconut with a red cross painted on it dangling from a tree seventy-five yards away.

After he’d missed the target twenty times, Thomas knelt beside him, touched him on the shoulder and whispered, “A true marksman shoots with his whole being. Not just his eye.”

The memory made Carter relax and take a deep breath.

“The count starts now,” Mick said. “If you don’t show your fucking face, I’ll start by cutting the bitch’s tit off.”

Mick dropped the knife from Erina’s throat to below her left breast and used the flat of the blade to push it up.

Carter saw her body tense and willed her to remain still.

“One,” Mick said.

Carter inhaled into his hara, the point below the bellybutton, which was the center of a man’s chi, the subtle energy system the ancient Chinese described as a man’s life force and the true source of his power.

He exhaled slowly and felt the air passing through the fine hair of his nostrils.

His shoulder muscles relaxed.

Everything around him slowed.

Mick’s bushy eyebrows, his high forehead and the dark stubble on his chin came into sharp focus.

Carter caressed the trigger.

No conscious thought intruded. No emotion upset the calm and clarity of his mind.

There was just him, the gun and the target, united through his even breath.

“Two.”

A smile twisted Mick’s face. He turned the knife over and jabbed the point into Erina’s skin just below the nipple.

Her head and body jerked upward, causing Mick to throw his head back.

Erina seized the moment. She threw her body forward, breaking Mick’s grip, then spun around on her left foot and kicked him in the throat with her right.

Thrown off guard, Mick reeled back.

Carter kept the sights on Mick’s head, waiting for the right moment to shoot.

Erina kicked Mick’s wrist and he dropped the knife, but he managed to raise the shotgun, aiming it at her stomach.

Erina dived forward, giving Carter a clean line of sight.

He squeezed the trigger.

The silenced shot made a short pssst sound like air rushing out of a tire. The lights lit up a mist of pink spray and Mick dropped to the ground.

Erina collapsed on the ground next to him.

A chill passed through Carter. He feared he’d taken out both of them with the one shot. He slid on his belly from under the vehicle, jumped to his feet and sprinted to her.

She lay facedown on the bare earth, perfectly still.

He crouched beside her and gently pulled off her wig. To his relief, she moved her head.

A set of keys lay on the ground behind her. He grabbed them and gently rolled her over.

Her eyes were open. Their gaze locked for a brief second. He gripped one end of the tape between his fingers and peeled it back far enough to get a firm grip. She winced as he ripped it off.

“You okay?” he asked.

Her face was red where she’d been slapped and there was a swelling the size of a golf ball on her forehead from headbutting Mick.

She moved her mouth back and forth. “Yeah. Soon as I get some feeling back into my lips.”

He stayed put on his haunches, giving her some space to recover from the shock.

“You sure took your time,” she said.

“And that’s the thanks I get?”

“You nearly shot me.”

He tried one of the keys in the handcuffs.

“But I didn’t, did I?”

He tried another key in the handcuffs and then another.

“Maybe you got lucky,” she said.

The fourth opened the lock.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he said.

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. She turned away from him, adjusted her pants and maneuvered her bra back in place.

He slipped off his T-shirt and held it out for her.

“You keep it,” she said. “I’ve got one in the car.”

She looked down at Mick’s body.

Hollow-point bullets expanded outward on impact, destroying surrounding tissue and shattering bone. Carter had hit Mick right in the center of the forehead, blowing his head apart. A pool of blood and brain matter soaked into the earth beneath him.

“What a sick motherfucker,” she said.

Carter pulled his T-shirt back over his head. “Not anymore.”

“What about the other guy?”

They walked over to where Smokey lay spread-eagled on the ground, barely breathing. Blood trickled down both sides of his face. His mouth hung open.

Carter wasn’t a doctor but recognized a fatal injury when he saw one. He crouched beside Smokey, tried to find a pulse on his wrist and stood up.

“He’s history too,” he said.

“Can’t say I’m sorry,” she said, tying her hair back in a ponytail. “Give me two minutes to disable the security system, and then we’ll go make Woodforde talk.”

15

Carter drove one of the black utes parked near the gatehouse down the gravel drive, using only the light from a three-quarter moon and the unlimited abundance of outback stars to guide him toward Woodforde’s house. Erina sat beside him in the passenger seat.

If anyone on the property spotted them, the car would be recognized as belonging to one of their own and was unlikely to arouse suspicion.

The ute’s cabin smelled like the aftermath of a one-man party, reeking of stale hamburgers, marijuana smoke and beer. Carter rolled the driver’s seat window down and breathed in the warm night air.

Adrenalin raced through him after the encounter with the gate guards and he consciously slowed his breathing to bring his heart rate back to normal.

He turned toward Erina. “You okay?”

“Apart from the fact I have a golf ball on my forehead and that killing those guys means at some point we may have a police investigation to deal with?”

“We’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”

“Those arseholes deserved to be put down.”

She turned and looked through the passenger-seat window, signaling an end to the conversation.

Carter concentrated on the road ahead. He wasn’t one to talk about his feelings. He’d learned not to dwell on the fate of people like Mick and Smokey. They’d made their choices and paid the ultimate price.

In a fight where the stakes were life and death, you couldn’t hold back and hope to get the job done — but every time you took a man’s life, a part of you died with him. Something you never got back. A fact of life he’d learned to live with.

The single light blazing on the porch of the large Queenslander brought his thoughts back to the present.

He parked near the eastern wall of the house, well away from any lights, and turned off the engine.

Erina checked her watch and broke the silence. “Three twelve a.m. Only twenty minutes behind schedule.”

She took two cotton balaclavas from her daypack and handed him one. He pulled it over his head and shoved the Glock and a six-inch knife into a black pouch, then clipped it onto the front of his web belt. They exchanged a nod and stepped out of the car.

He crouched next to her beside a large tractor parked twenty yards from the side of the house and studied the layout.

The moonlight reflected off the wide master-bedroom window on the top floor. The blinds were drawn, making it impossible to tell whether anyone was awake.

There was no sign of movement outside the house. He doubted they’d have lookouts posted inside the grounds.

They walked without rushing to the front door. Erina used a lock-picking device from her daypack to jimmy it open in three seconds and led the way in.

Carter closed the door behind him. It was pitch-black inside. The only sound came from a ticking clock.

Erina switched on a pencil-thin flashlight, lighting up a short hallway and a coat rack. They followed the narrow beam into a large living room.

A colorful Indonesian carpet and a rug made from steer’s hide lay beside each other on dark wooden floorboards. Christmas tinsel hung over a painting of a bush landscape. A three-foot-high fir tree sat in one corner, decorated with baubles and stars.

Erina pointed the flashlight toward a wooden stairway. She led him up the stairs, walking on the side of her feet to avoid making a sound. They padded side by side along a carpeted hallway and stopped outside Woodforde’s bedroom.

The dull light from a muted television leaked out under the closed wooden door. Carter heard the quiet hum of air conditioning and someone snoring.

Erina stepped to one side.

Carter adjusted the balaclava so that his mouth was completely free of the rough cotton, opened the door and poked his head into the bedroom.

A large plasma television sat on a waist-high chrome stand at the end of the bed, lighting up the room. On screen, the talk-show host David Letterman sat at his desk, armed with his coffee cup, interviewing a smiling male in his late twenties.

Carter stepped inside and walked over the thick shag-pile carpet. Erina took up a position just inside the door. The smell of hash, cigarette smoke and stale sex hung in the air.

In the flickering light of the television, Carter made out two bodies, one much bigger than the other. Both asleep. A two-foot-wide valley of bed separated them. On the left side a large male snored. On the other a much smaller figure, a woman, lay on her back, also asleep.

The leftovers of a party lay on the floor and bedside table — an empty condom packet, male and female underwear, a half-full bottle of Bundaberg Rum, cigarettes, a block of hash and a pipe.

He placed a dart between his teeth and crossed the thick carpet, stopping beside the messed-up bed, next to the sleeping woman.

She was young and blonde, with headphones in her ears. She looked like she was in her late teens. Clearly not Woodforde’s Indonesian wife.

Carter took the dart in one hand, reached out and pricked her neck, just below the ear.

He counted to three and pinched her cheek.

She was out cold.

He moved to the other side of the bed and pulled back the sheet and blanket, exposing Hamish Woodforde sprawled out on his back snoring, naked except for a black eye mask and a pink condom attached to his flaccid penis.

Woodforde was over six foot and would’ve weighed more than two hundred and forty pounds. There was a fair bit of fat, but also plenty of muscle. Not a guy to be messed with lightly.

Carter slapped him hard across the face and Woodforde’s whole body twitched. He struggled to pull himself up, reached for his eye mask and began to open his mouth.

Before a word came out, Carter lined up the pressure point two inches above the jaw and let go a rabbit-punch.

Woodforde’s head snapped back and dropped to the pillow.

Carter walked to the television, lifted the set off its stand and placed it face up on the thick carpet, giving him light to work by. He slung Woodforde’s limp body over his shoulder, carried him to the waist-high TV stand and laid him on top. Woodforde’s arms and legs dangled over the sides.

Carter used an extension cord from the DVD player to strap him to the stand, trussing him up tight. He then went to the ensuite bathroom and came back with two full glasses of water, a bath towel and a couple of small handtowels.

He took a long drink from one glass, threw the contents of the other into Woodforde’s face and slapped his cheek twice. He pulled the knife from his web belt and held it four inches from the man’s right eye.

Woodforde opened his eyes, looking like he’d just woken from a strong anesthetic. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room before focusing on the point of the knife.

He glared at Carter and tried to move his arms and legs without success, appearing more angry than scared.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said.

His gruff tone indicated he was a man used to giving orders rather than taking them.

Carter jabbed the knife through the air, stopping half an inch from the man’s eye. Woodforde flinched.

“Keep the volume down,” Carter said.

“What do you want?” Woodforde asked in a loud whisper.

Carter leaned forward. “Information.”

“You really think you can bully and intimidate a man like me?”

“That’s the plan.”

16

Carter looked down at Woodforde’s hairy belly through the slits of the balaclava. The man lay completely naked and vulnerable, lit by the soft glow of the television. His limp penis hung to one side. The condom had fallen off in the bed. His breath came in short sharp wheezes.

Torturing another human being never sat well with Carter, but it was the only viable means of extracting information from an unwilling subject in a short amount of time.

There was little grey area in this case anyway: Woodforde’s conduct in his business and personal life crossed the bounds of human decency. His actions threatened the lives of Thomas, Wayan and potentially countless other innocent people, meaning that Carter could assume the role of judge, jury and torturer with a clear conscience. Still, he hoped the threat of intense physical pain alone would convince Woodforde to supply the required information, without the need for much actual violence. It’d call for a high level of theatre.

Carter ran his fingers over the cool blade and placed the point of the knife against Woodforde’s stomach, just below the bellybutton.

Woodforde glared at him. “You know how much I’m worth?”

Carter slid the knife tip down his belly, tracing carefully around his genitals and bringing it to rest just below his scrotum.

Woodforde’s eyes bulged.

Carter knew the man would be loath to betray the brutal and unforgiving Sungkar clan — but for most men, future dangers paled into insignificance in the face of imminent excruciating pain and permanent disfigurement. The hardest people to break were usually religious fanatics and patriots — people with a commitment to a higher ideal, to something bigger than themselves. Woodforde fitted neither category.

Carter pushed the point of the knife into the top of Woodforde’s muscular thigh, near the pubic bone, drawing blood. Woodforde flinched again.

Carter wiped the bloody blade on the man’s unshaven cheek and asked, “How much do you reckon a functioning penis is worth?”

Despite the cool air conditioning, beads of sweat formed on Woodforde’s brow and above his top lip. His eyes jumped from left to right and he swallowed hard. The sight and smell of a man’s own blood tended to remind him of his humble place in the universe.

“We can do this the easy or the hard way,” Carter said. “Tell me what I need to know and I won’t hurt anything except your pride.”

Woodforde struggled against his bonds.

“Are you going to cooperate?”

Woodforde set his jaw. “You touch me again, you’re a dead man.”

Carter made the honking sound of a buzzer in a game show. “Wrong answer.”

He rolled up the handtowel and leaned in close enough to smell the rum and tobacco on his captive’s breath.

“There’s only one thing you need to know about me,” Carter said, stuffing one end of the handtowel into Woodforde’s mouth and speaking slowly. “If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it. You want this to stop, blink twice. But make sure you’re prepared to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.”

Woodforde’s attention flicked to Erina, standing by the door, before returning to Carter.

“We’ve just killed two of your guards and I’d prefer to do this without maiming you.”

There was fear in Woodforde’s eyes and sweat rolled down his face, but he didn’t blink. The guy was far tougher and had more arrogant pride than Carter had given him credit for. Plus, he’d be well aware of the clan’s harsh reprisal should he betray them.

To get him talking freely would require more than the mere threat of pain.

Carter glanced back at Erina. She gave him a short nod.

He put the knife down on the television stand next to Woodforde’s head and stared at him.

In a blur of movement he clamped his hand over Woodforde’s left wrist and turned the palm up.

His skin was hot and sticky.

Carter used the heel of his hand to push the little finger back, close to breaking point.

Woodforde threw his head from side to side and tried to pull away.

“Are you ready to talk?”

Woodforde stopped moving and turned his eyes toward him.

Carter pushed hard.

There was a snap, like a large twig breaking.

Woodforde thrashed back and forth. He screamed through the gag. The sound came out muffled and indistinct.

Carter gripped his wrist tighter and turned the hand over.

Shaking, Woodforde tried to clench his good fingers into a fist. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Carter drilled his thumb into a pressure point at the top of the wrist. The hand snapped open.

Carter slid the heel of his hand up Woodforde’s palm and pushed it against his index finger. “Look at me,” he said.

Woodforde did so. The anger and arrogance had disappeared. The only emotion in his eyes now was sheer terror.

Carter pushed the finger almost to its breaking point, then paused.

Woodforde squirmed. His body tensed.

Carter shoved back hard.

Another snap.

There could be no letting up. The subject had to believe the pain would only cease when he cooperated.

“I’m going to take the gag out,” Carter told him. “You scream, I’ll break your nose, then your thumbs. Got it?”

Woodforde moved his head.

Carter removed the gag and kept his fist cocked four inches from Woodforde’s nose. “We’re looking for a man in his sixties and an eighteen-year-old boy. Are they on the property?”

Woodforde’s response came as a hiss. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carter stuffed the gag back into his mouth.

He looked over at Erina.

She walked across the carpet and stood over Woodforde’s head.

“I was hoping to do this the easy way,” Carter said. “But it looks like the easy way isn’t working, and my associate’s preference is that you pay for your sins.”

Erina placed a Marlboro through the slit in her mask and between her lips. As she lit it, the flame of the cigarette lighter illuminated her dark eyes.

“And by the way,” Carter said, “she doesn’t smoke.”

17

Erina drew on her cigarette, held the glowing end two inches from Woodforde’s face and blew the smoke into his eyes, causing him to squint.

She placed it on the television stand next to his head and grabbed the remaining handtowel. She wrapped it round her right hand, reached down, took hold of Woodforde’s scrotum and squeezed hard.

He struggled against his cords like he had an electrified cattle prod shoved up his backside. Tears poured down his cheeks and he made a pathetic moaning sound through the gag. The cigarette fell from the stand.

Erina wasn’t holding back.

Woodforde’s pleading eyes jumped to Carter, who stood by the door with his arms folded. He seemed to hope another man might feel sympathy for him.

Without letting go of his scrotum, Erina knelt and picked up the cigarette from the carpet. She stood back up, inhaled until the cigarette glowed bright and then placed the burning end less than an inch from Woodforde’s barrel chest.

The hair crackled and flared, releasing an acrid smell as it singed and burned. His chest heaved and he threw his head sideways.

Erina leaned in close and spoke slowly and softly. “Are the two men my associate spoke about on the property?”

Woodforde stared at her, wheezing.

“I’m going to count to three,” she said. “If you haven’t answered by the time I do, I’m going to stub this cigarette out on the end of your limp dick, then turn your hairy balls into mashed potato. And if that fails to motivate you, I’ll shove a six-inch needle into your left eye. Followed by your right. You get the picture.”

Woodforde’s body went rigid.

“Are they on the property? Two blinks means yes. One no.”

Woodforde appeared to be holding his breath. His face was bright red.

He blinked once.

Erina stiffened.

“I’m going to pull the gag out,” she said. “You yell out, or do anything to upset me, you’ll wish you hadn’t been born. Understood?”

He blinked twice.

She put the cigarette in her mouth, pulled the gag out and placed it on his chest. She continued to hold on to his testicles with her right hand.

Woodforde coughed and gulped mouthfuls of air.

She took the cigarette out and asked, “Where are they?”

“You have no idea what Samudra will do to me if he finds out I’ve betrayed him.”

“You think I give a shit?”

She squeezed his testicles just enough to get his attention, but not enough to make him thrash about.

“Where are they? Last chance.”

Woodforde swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

She moved the cigarette to his eyeball. He closed his eyes, but Carter knew he’d feel the heat from the lit end.

“Open your eyes,” she ordered.

He obeyed.

She pulled the cigarette slightly back. “I asked you a question.”

Woodforde looked at her. Carter could see that his resistance was broken.

“Two people were flown out at ten o’clock.”

“Where to?”

“Batak Island.”

She glanced at Carter, who walked to the other side of Woodforde.

Carter asked, “With Samudra?”

“Yes.”

“You know what he’s planning?”

Woodforde swallowed. “Samudra tells me nothing.”

Erina squeezed his testicles again, causing his body to arch. “Don’t even think about lying to us!”

He gritted his teeth. “I’m telling the truth. I swear. Samudra is crazy. Thinks he’s going to be the next Osama bin Laden.”

Carter put his hand under Woodforde’s bristly, sweaty chin and turned his head toward him. “Where’s the South African headed?”

“Sydney.”

“What’s in the truck?” Carter asked.

“I saw them loading explosives and automatic weapons. Plus some other stuff.”

Erina leaned over Woodforde. “What’s the target?”

He shook his head, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I swear on my mother’s grave I don’t know. The only thing I heard was something about a great victory for the new year.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all. I swear. You’ve got to believe me.”

Erina released her grip on Woodforde’s scrotum, shoved the gag back into his mouth and held the lit cigarette in the air for a moment.

Then she dropped it onto the carpet and ground it out.