As she ran onto the open balcony, she could see that the wind was building, whipping up the tree tops, its howl heralding the arrival of the storm. She instinctively crouched low, and grasping at the balustrade rail, peered through the glass to see what she could, through the thick, green canopy, just as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.
There were more gun shots, and then more. Cracks and bangs bit through the howl of the growing winds.
It
sounded like Chinese New Year. People were screaming and she could see them fleeing across Elizabeth Street. The busy traffic came screeching to a halt as drivers swerved and braked to avoid them. One hand went to her mouth. Her breathing shallowed while her other hand grasped tightly to the railing. Oh, my God! What was happening down there? Alex!
There came a sharp, unexpected rap at her door. Shock rippled through Arena's body.
"New South Wales Police, Miss Halls," said an authoritative voice. "Could we come in? It's urgent."
There was a moment of uneasiness as Arena went toward the door, feeling both relieved and fearful. Police? But Alex hadn't mentioned anything about the Police coming for her. She stopped and stood rigid, inches from the door. If anybody, it would be Sutherland who would come for her. Or perhaps, with everything going on there'd been ...
More knocking, louder and more insistent. Thump. Thump. Thump. "Miss Halls, please," came the same deep voice. "We must talk to you.
There's been a change..."
"Yes?" said Arena. She opened the door.
*
* *
Lundt was driven to action.
The Malfas had arrived from nowhere with guns drawn and Lundt's back-up crew had immediately stepped up. Now the park was awash with hornets of intermittent gunfire.
At the sound of the first shot, Lundt dropped into a well-practised fire position, wrenching the P99 from beneath his coat. He brought the weapon up and aimed directly at Cornell's chest. But like a myotonic goat seized by fright, the hapless civil servant's knees buckled under him and he fainted, falling straight into the Lake of Reflection. Lundt swore but didn't have time to hang about dealing with Cornell. The chance had passed. He had to get away from the middle of the shit storm.
In
a split second he was on the move.
*
*
*
Gregory Cornell came to with a massive gulp for air and pulled himself from the water, coughing and spluttering like a young child who had slipped in the bath. He dragged his sodden, wretched body up onto the pool surround and, seeing that Lundt had disappeared, gathered all the strength he could muster and ran from the park.
He saw nothing but the exact tunnel of empty space that opened between trees, people and things, taking him away from the centre of the battle zone. He was on the verge of hysteria, scarcely able to comprehend what had happened or what he'd found himself in the middle of. He couldn't believe he was still alive but all he could think of was the inevitability of a shot from Lundt's gun. He imagined every detail: the sound of the shot meant for him, the crack as it fractured the air between the end of the barrel and his back. The wind forced from his lungs in an animal cry and his body contorted from the pain of that tapered fist of metal, taking him to the ground. Cornell let out an involuntary "No!" and kept running.
Dave Sutherland appeared from nowhere.
With his left knee strapped tight, barking commands on his radio and choking back the pain of barely healed surgery, the former US Navy SEAL flew into action the moment the news of a gun battle blasted across the police radio waves. There was no way he was about to leave Morgan out there without him, and there was no way he was about to let Cornell slip through their fingers either. Cornell was their prize witness, INTREPID's only hope of untangling the network that they now knew included Lundt, and were certain, included Johnson. Sutherland was under no illusion that despite cooperating to date, Cornell would do anything to extract himself from the centre of it.
Cornell saw he was heading to the underground railway station sign posted MUSEUM. If he could get onto a train, he'd be rid of them all.
The clamour of the gun battle receded into the background, overpowered by the sound of Cornell's own breathing and the thud of his feet jarring into the wet ground. The rain was falling now, heavily. Cornell had to blink away the raindrops from his eyes in order to see.
* *
*
A short distance away, Alex Morgan's gaze fell upon the scene. Time came to a standstill. His limbs felt heavy, but his every instinct catapulted him forward, towards Victor Lundt.
"Lundt!" Morgan bellowed, tearing his SIG Sauer P226 from the holster concealed beneath his jacket. He sprinted toward Lundt, desperately trying to secure a fixed aim at him. Hitting any of the civilians now fleeing the area was unthinkable. "Lundt!"
Lundt looked around for a second, confused by that voice. Morgan? No, couldn't be. He has to be dead. Then there was a movement nearby. A sudden movement.
It
was too close. No mistakes. No room for error. With the cold economy of a professional killer, Lundt instinctively spun toward the movement and fired without provocation at a young man, the wrong man, no more than a teen, who in all the confusion made the fatal mistake of getting in the way. Lunde fired three rounds at point-blank range and the kid fell dead upon the soft, green grass. The dark eye of Lundt's gun stayed on target, and for a macabre instant Lunde was hypnotised by the stunned expression frozen upon his victim's face as the body crumpled to the ground. Not Morgan. Too bad.
"Jesus!" Morgan exclaimed, raising his weapon to aim upon the retreating figure of Victor Lundt. Morgan was a blur of rage hurtling headlong for Lunde. There was no way he could shoot without risking others. He was too far away.
Morgan's heart was exploding in his chest. He couldn't contain the fury he felt at witnessing this latest killing, or his memories of Malfajiri and Lundt's chilling admission as he left Morgan to die - 'I was the one who got these savage bastards to put your mate out of his bloody misery. Watched 'em cut his throat and feed him to the dogs'. The sheer enormity of Lundt's cold-blooded disregard for human life drove Morgan on.
The intermittent crack-crack of exchanged gunfire continued through the park. Sprinting after Lundt, Morgan registered that there were three groups going head-to-head: the police, a group with Lundt, and the Malfas. The Malfas seemed more intent on engaging Lundt and his crew than the police.
Still running, an almighty thump slammed hard into Morgan's right shoulder. The sudden impact spun him viciously on his axis and sent him cartwheeling into a heap. Morgan felt the air burst from his lungs as his left hand grabbed at a bullet wound. Blood spilled through his fingers. Momentarily dazed, he cursed and searched for the shooter. But there was no sign.
Morgan struggled back to his feet, right arm hanging by his side. It felt like the bullet had only skimmed the muscle, his bones and shoulder joint were still intact. That was a blessing, but the pain would come. Until then, he had to keep moving. He had lost sight of Lundt. It was all happening too fast.
* *
*
John Stojakovic saw Lundt murder the kid, too, but now he had him.
He could feel it.
Lundt was visibly slowing, exhausted by the unexpected effort of the chase. He was heading straight for an escape vehicle. Stojakovic saw a Land Rover moving fast along Elizabeth Street to meet up with Lundt at the edge of the park. They were now clear of the main fight. If he could get to Lundt before he reached the Land Rover, Stojakovic knew he could take him. The desire to get the bastard was overwhelming. The man showed no remorse, no hesitation, absolutely no regard for the consequences of his actions. If anything, it looked like he'd enjoyed killing that kid. To Stojakovic, a career cop who'd seen it all, this guy Lundt had no right to draw breath.
Stojakovic felt his chest tighten. He hadn't had to run like this for a long time, but he knew he had more left in him, more than Lundt. How could this have gone so wrong, so suddenly? The escape vehicle was closing on Lundt. Soon he'd be away and lost in the traffic, but just another 30 feet and Stojakovic would be on top of him.
Lundt spotted the Land Rover. It was screeching to a halt. The rear door burst open and a pair of gloved hands reached out, clawing for him.
Stojakovic raised his weapon.
* * *
Across the park, Morgan watched the battle between Lundt and Stojakovic unfolding.
Morgan was dazed, pain was reaching from deep within, when he broke into a sprint around the edge of the war memorial. He, too, could see Lundt tiring from the contest, and a Land Rover coming in along the edge of the park. The traffic around the Liverpool and Elizabeth Street intersection was clear and the escape vehicle's erratic movement continued unimpeded as it headed to collect Lundt. Morgan could see Stojakovic was weighing up whether to continue with the chase or just shoot. "Shoot, John! Shoot him!" Morgan cried. Stojakovic had him, but Morgan saw that the Land Rover was too close. There was a flash of movement from within the vehicle. Stojakovic didn't see it.
"John! To your right!" Morgan cried, sprinting at the top of his range. "To your right!"
The shot was barely distinguishable above the clamour of the traffic, but the bullet found its mark and Stojakovic buckled. The policeman's hands instantly gathered inwards and, dropping his gun, clutched at the centre of his ruptured stomach. His feet lifted from the ground, his back arched and his jaw clamped shut before he fell forward, flat on his face, and lay still.
Lundt had not turned or even halted at the shot. He kept running those last few feet to the Land Rover. At the front passenger window, a gloved hand retracted, still holding a heavy-calibre revolver.
Alex Morgan was powering on pure adrenalin.
He had forgotten his own injury, ignoring the searing ache forcing itself upon him. Instead, he drove himself on in pursuit of Lundt.
Welcoming hands reached out from the rear of the escape vehicle, pulling Lundt inside. Horns from other cars and buses were blaring in protest. Lundt struggled to clamber in smoothly, and was hauled unceremoniously inside. As they wrestled to get him aboard, they failed to notice the swift advance of Morgan. When they'd seen the cop fall, they'd discounted any further threat. The priority was to extract Lundt and flee the scene.
Then Morgan was upon them; his actions were rapid, deliberate and calculating.
Calling on the depleted vestiges of his energy reserves, Alex Morgan leapt headlong at the open rear door of the vehicle. In mid-flight he reached up above the rear cabin of the Land Rover with his still functioning left arm and his straining fingers mercifully closed around a custom-built, rooftop luggage rack. He held on with all of his strength; his right arm hung limp.
"Alex," came a cry from the back seat. "Alex!"
Morgan's heart sank as he caught a fleeting glimpse of Arena's blue eyes before she was thrust roughly back down to the floor by one of Lundt's lieutenants.
The rear cabin of the Land Rover was a gaggle of disorder. Lundt and another man were a tangle of limbs, struggling to regain their poise.
"Shoot the fucker!" Lundt was yelling. "Shoot him! Shoot him!"
Morgan's face was a mask of rage. He had just seen Lundt murder the young guy before his eyes, and God only knew what shape Stojakovic was in.
In Malfajiri and elsewhere, Morgan had seen the results of the legacy of Victor Lundt and too many others like him - the deaths, the mutilations, the lifelong psychological trauma inflicted upon innocent people already struggling to survive. The small nations of the world were easy prey for big governments and big business. To Morgan, the very thought of allowing Lundt and Johnson to profit from more bloodshed repulsed him. Now, on top of it all, there was Arena, a hostage within his grasp. In those split seconds between latching onto the luggage rack and summing up the confusion around him, Morgan's mind was awash with images of Lundt: Lundt of the past, Lundt of the present and, prophetically, of the future.
No!
Morgan was decided. The man had forfeited his right to live long ago.
With his left foot braced hard against the rear running board and clinging on for dear life, Alex Morgan raised a heavily booted right foot as high as he could. Then, in the blissful elation of pure, unrestrained retribution, he kicked ferociously at Lundt's exposed back and head. Hammering his heel angrily with each and every pile-driving blow, Morgan grew more and more enraged. When the other man tried to fend him off, Morgan struck at him too, alternating his feet as he flailed his victims. His onslaught was brutal. He could almost feel their ribs breaking beneath every strike.
By now, the Land Rover was forcing its way into the traffic on Liverpool Street and had made some distance before the driver even realised what was going on behind him or even heard what Lundt was calling out.
In
the heat of the moment, he assumed that Lundt was safely inside and that it was clear to take off. But the unexpected sight in his rear view mirror of a demented man kicking viciously at the others caused him to swerve violently, striking hard up against a huge furniture lorry in the adjacent lane. Immediately, there was an angry chorus of horns, and with the abrupt impact Morgan almost lost his footing. The Land Rover was forced left and went careening into College Street, heading north.
The driver, the man who had shot Stojakovic, turned his attention from the mirror in disbelief and saw Morgan's continuing savage attack.
In
a flash, he produced a gun and, battling against his own erratic accelerating and braking of the Land Rover, levelled the gun at the dead centre of Morgan's bulky frame, silhouetted perfectly in the centre of the open rear door.