No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (9 page)

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.”