No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (10 page)

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.