Defender (33 page)

"Shoot him for fuck's sake!" cried Lundt. The driver fired, twice.

"Alex, no!" Arena screamed.

Both rounds missed Morgan, impacting instead into the body of the Land Rover, sending shards of jagged debris hurtling throughout the rear cabin.

Suddenly, amidst the bedlam and commotion of it all, Morgan was gone.

With the deft proficiency of one who'd had enough of a recalcitrant, Commander David Sutherland dispensed with any consideration of Cornell as a star witness, and dropped the man with one well-placed strike. Now, on the corner of Hyde Park, at the entrance to Museum Station, Sutherland had Cornell face down on the wet pavement with cuffs on tight, just in time to see Alex Morgan propel himself onto the back of the escaping Land Rover.

Jesus Christ, he thought. What the hell is he doing?

The traffic was frenzied and horns were blaring, while up on the footpaths, people were too busy rushing clear of the storm to realise that they were heading into the middle of chaos. Unmarked police cars from Counter-Terrorism and Special Tactics were all over the intersection, with red and blue lights flashing and heavily-armed police swarming through the park, bringing the gunfight to a rapid close. Arrests were being made and bodies found. Three dead, two seriously injured, and an unknown number on the run.
It
had happened in minutes.

Dragging Cornell to his feet, Sutherland pushed him impatiently toward one of the police cars.

"He's all yours," Sutherland yelled over the rain to one of the officers he recognised as John Stojakovic's right hand, then shoved Cornell like a sack of wet spuds into the back of the car. "Don't let him out of your goddamn sight, bud! You got medics inbound for your boss?"

"Yeah," came the shouted reply. "Two guys are with him now and the ambo's are on the way."

"Good," Sutherland said, biting back the shooting pain in his knee, clapping the young Police Officer on the back. "Now, I need a car and your best driver to get after Major Morgan, and I need to speak to whoever is flying your chopper!"

*
* *

Morgan fell backwards from the Land Rover, and bouncing across the hood of a BMW, forced its unsuspecting driver to brake sharply, narrowly avoiding a rear-ender collision for her troubles. Morgan tumbled left and then right, eventually rolling to a stop in the gutter. His body ached like hell and the pain in his shoulder was agonizing. The storm was hammering Sydney, and, with peak hour approaching, there was little hope that things would get any better. Ignoring it all, Morgan shook his head clear and raced across the street to see the Land Rover disappearing down William Street towards Kings Cross.

*
*
*

Sutherland rode in the passenger seat of a police vehicle driven by an uncompromising, tough officer named Tony Mugan. Mugan was tearing through the traffic, sirens blazing. "He's down there, bud," Sutherland yelled, pointing. "Left here!"

Mugan executed a perfect sideways slide against the red light and around into College Street.

"There he is, mate," said Mugan. "On the corner. Hang on."

The car raced into a clear space ahead of oncoming traffic. Sutherland was straight on the radio to the police helicopter, POLAIR, a Kawasaki BK-117 of the Police Air Wing that was on station high above Sydney, calling the play.

"Keep your eyes on that Land Rover," Sutherland was saying into the radio. "Stay on his tail and let me know the moment it stops or anyone gets out. Copy?"

"Copy that," came the urgent response from the chopper. "But you guys better get moving because he's heading towards the Cross and I may lose him in the tunnel. Stay on William Street."

"Shit!" Sutherland looked at Mugan. The policeman's eyes said, 'Got 
it'. Suddenly, Mugan brought the car to a screeching halt at the top end of William Street.

"Get in!" cried Sutherland, leaning across his seat to throw the back door open. Morgan dived in.

"What took you so long?"

"Traffic," Sutherland replied dryly, leaning through the seats. "You're bleeding, man. You hit?"

"Shoulder. It's nothing. I've got some movement back in the arm," Morgan replied, unconcerned. 'TU sort it out later." He looked straight at Sutherland. "He's got Arena, Dave."

"What!" Sutherland exclaimed. "How the..."

"Don't know. They must have lifted her from the hotel..."

"The traffic'sforced them north," the radio blared with directions from the POLAIR chopper. "They're off William Street, before the Coca-Cola sign, and have gone left onto Darlinghurst Road. Copy?"

"Got it," said Sutherland. "Got any moves, Tony?"

Mugan remained silent, but yanked the wheel hard left and took a back road, avoiding the gridlock between them and Darlinghurst Road. He saw gaps between cars and buildings materialise before they existed, and guided them effortlessly through it all. The wailing siren with flashing red and blue lights chartered a course through the narrow streets and eclectic buildings forming the periphery of King's Cross.

Seconds later, they bounced out onto Darlinghurst Road gaining on Lundt and his men as they powered past Fitzroy Gardens. Amongst the congestion of the roads and hellish weather, Mugan was unfazed. He planted his foot hard against the floor and squeezed them through the centre of both directions of traffic. Despite the siren, the other drivers erupted, their unanimous protests hollering as one.

"Piss off!" Mugan cried to no one in particular, and drove on. He dragged the car fast through the sharp left alongside the HMAS Kuttabul Navy Base, and then, with the finesse of a world-class rally driver, had them through the hairpin turn onto the Cowper Wharf Roadway.

"This is POLAIR, you've got 'em! They're in the centre of Woolloomooloo, aiming for Finger Wharf Could be going for a boat? Yep, he's stopped. Someone's getting out. Looks tall. Dark hair. He's dragging someone else with him. A woman. Blonde. She seems out of it."

"Oh, Christ! Come on, Tony!" Morgan cried. "Stamp on it!"

Mugan responded. The storm had set in and the city was on the verge of darkness. The police car slewed and swerved dangerously through the wet, tight roads as the officer struggled to regain his vision.

"Dave," Morgan yelled over the noise of siren, storm and engine, "if he gets to a boat, we've lost them. There isn't time to get a police launch out. I'm going on foot, but you'll need to get that chopper to put down somewhere close. We're going to need it."

Sutherland grabbed a portable radio. Mugan saw the Land Rover taking off. He slid the car across two lanes of traffic and handbraked to a dead stop.

"Stay with the Land Rover, man!" Sutherland yelled back at the police officer as he took the hand-held radio and hobbled onto the wharf. Morgan had already disappeared into the hammering walls of rain.

Finger Wharf at Woolloomooloo was as good as empty but for the well to-do few, riding out the storm from inside the exclusive restaurants along the western edge of the pier. Those who stayed on were intrigued by the appearance of a man racing past with a woman draped across his shoulders. Was it a prank? Or was there something sinister at play?

During the precious seconds they spent in considered speculation, safe and dry, another man sprinted past in pursuit. What on earth? Is it police business? Could I have another red, please?

Victor Lundt was too focused on finding a boat to worry about looking behind him. With the girl on his shoulders and the kicking he'd just received from Morgan, his progress was not optimum. But there were a dozen luxury cruisers moored alongside the wharf and his predatory stare scanned for the opportunity that he knew would arise. By now, the rain was attacking horizontally across the harbour, firing in bursts at his face and eyes. He stumbled with exhaustion and the strain of the girl's weight bouncing up and down on his battered back. He had no idea that Alex Morgan had just stepped onto the pier and at that moment was hurtling towards him at breakneck speed.

Then, Lundt saw his chance.

Two men, wealthy corporate types, had just pulled a fancy cruiser alongside, having aborted what would have been a sunny afternoon on Sydney Harbour. By the way they were carrying themselves, Lundt surmised that they'd been drinking.

Perfect!

With Arena limp across his shoulders, Lundt stomped along the jetty, straight for the cruiser, a late model Sea Ray 355 Sundancer. Not much change out of half a million bucks, 35 feet long with Twin Mercurys, each with 320 horsepower. It was ideal. Hell, he would take it as far as he could, and ditch it before anybody even knew it was missing. But he had to be quick, and he didn't need passengers.

"Oh, thank God!" Lundt yelled as he arrived alongside, looking dishevelled and, above all, genuine. "Guys, I need your help," he said. "My wife's in a bad way and the bloody traffic is a killer..."

"You got it, mate," said the older of the two men, blearily. "Get her on board and tell us what we can do."

The two men, a father and son, reached out and took Arena from him with caring, neighbourly hands. Stepping around an assortment of camping gear and a barbeque securely roped off on the deck, they laid her down on a luxuriously padded bench seat before bringing Lundt aboard. The Sea Ray was thudding so hard against the jetty they almost dropped Lundt as the waves lifted the boat without warning. The men were trying to mask their inebriation and respond seriously
to
the plight of this poor man.

"So, where can we..." But the son didn't get to finish the sentence.

No sooner had Lundt climbed aboard than he produced the Walther P99 and without a word fired a single round into the head of each man, killing them instantly. Manhandling their bodies to the side, he dropped them both into the water. He left Arena on the bench and turned straight for the cockpit.

Suddenly, powerful exterior lights came on across the length of the pier. Morgan could make out a large figure running towards the boats.
It
was an unusually large outline, top-heavy and moving at a low shuffle. Lundt! He had Arena across his back. He saw Lundt reach one of the boats, where willing hands took what Morgan knew to be Arena, his Arena, from Lundt's shoulders. Lundt climbed aboard awkwardly after them as powerful winds tossed the Sea Ray against the jetty. Then Morgan saw the unmistakable flashes of a weapon being fired and a split-second later he heard the shots - two shots in quick succession. A single shot to the head of each man. Good Samaritans? Gunned down by Lundt. Was Arena dead, too? No, Lundt wouldn't heave a dead body around. There was no point to that.

Morgan, still sprinting, turned hard onto the pier and saw only the rear decks of the Sea Ray dead ahead at the jetty's end. He could make out an ominous black silhouette against the vessel's pristine white background; Lundt dropping the dark bundles of his dead Samaritans over the side.

Sickened, Morgan was driven by the unthinkable scenario of Arena being the next to look down the barrel of Lundt's gun. He was closing fast and reached the corner of the finger-shaped pier, just metres from the Sea Ray. Morgan, lungs bursting and blood streaming from his shoulder, saw Lundt at the controls and heard the big twin engines power to life with a deep rumble. Morgan was almost there, closer and closer, the last few metres vanishing underfoot. His legs were on fire, he prepared to leap, weighing up the distance, the seconds, his chances.

Lundt turned his head back to the pier just in time to see Morgan. The fucking lunatic was going to jump aboard! Lundt raised the Walther again in his left hand and fired indiscriminately as he punched his right hand down hard upon the throttle. Orange and white sparks peppered the pier about Morgan's feet. He sprinted on, inexorably, faster and faster. He reached the end of the jetty and, in a move reminiscent of an Olympic highlight, launched into the long jump. His right foot bit into the edge of the pier at full speed, catapulting him powerfully forward. He was outstretched, airborne over the churning water, reaching for the boat. Then, the sleek bow of the sports cruiser lifted out of the water as the twin Mercury engines dug in, propelling the vessel into the seething waters of Sydney Harbour. Morgan hit the churning white water hard, missing the boat and knocking the air from deep within him. He was lucky not to have landed amidst the screws.

"Damn it!" he bellowed, spitting water and swimming back to clamber onto the jetty. He watched in abysmal frustration from the waves as the Sea Ray disappeared into the distance with Lund t at the controls, no sign of Arena.

"There he is!" yelled Sutherland. "He's at the end of the pier! Can you see him?"

"I see him," replied the POLAIR pilot, cautiously. "This isn't going to be easy. You better hang on. This weather's a bitch."

The Kawasaki BK-117 was pounded from side to side, buffeted by intense winds bombarding the exposed banks of the harbour. The pilot, Paul 'Chuck' Bowler, was a temple of concentration, flawlessly manipulating the controls, bringing the chopper up from the street where he'd just picked up Sutherland, and back in low, heading straight for Morgan at the tip of Finger Wharf. Bowler's intense focus was softened only by the glow of the instrument panel.

"What the hell has he got with him?" said Sutherland from the cargo hold. "Are they bodies?"

With the NITESUN search light illuminated beneath the chopper, Chuck brought them onto the pier alongside Morgan. The helicopter bounced dramatically before Chuck was able to steady it, but Morgan simply dived in through the open cargo hold door, and they were airborne again in seconds.