Blindside Page 2

  When they were done they all looked at each other, and Mitch said, ‘Remember, lads. If he arcs up, don’t overreact. Follow the plan. Don’t kill the cunt. What we have to do, we scare the living shit out of him, but stay cool. Right? He’s not much good to us dead if he hasn’t opened the fuckin’ strongroom, is he? And be ready for the unexpected. He’s a fuckin’ tough nut, and he won’t bend over, I can promise you that. He won’t cop it nice and sweet.’

  ‘We’ll make him cop it,’Andy said.‘I don’t give a fuck how tough he is.’

  Shaun said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ Mitch said, and they got out of the van, a near-new VW Transporter.

  Like the weapons, it had been stolen, then given new plates and signage that said Graham Shillington—Master Plumber, followed by a phone number. It was a real plumber’s name and number, from the Yellow Pages, just in case anyone decided to ring it while they were on the road. There were ladders on the roof and enough tools and plumbing supplies inside to pass more than a casual inspection. Shaun and Andy hefted toolboxes, a pair of short-handled bolt-cutters and the Country Road bags as Mitch got one of the extension ladders off the roof and set it against the wall, next to the sign that said NO HAWKERS OR CANVASSERS. Over they went, taking the ladder with them and leaving it lying on the ground behind some shrubbery as they sauntered in tradesman-like fashion across an expanse of fresh-mown lawn, to the rear door, which was sheltered in a colonnaded porch. Then it was simply a matter of ringing the bell-press, and with any luck George himself would open up. If no-one answered, they’d smash their way in. There was a locked steel mesh screen door, the heavy-duty type that could only be seen through from the inside. Shaun quickly opened it with two well-placed snips of the bolt-cutters. They put on the ski masks and gloves, drew their weapons, and Mitch thumbed the bell-press. Then they stood aside, out of sight.

  In a little while the main door opened and a voice that sounded like George’s said, ‘Who is it?’ No doubt feeling safe because of the screen door, he stood there a second too long. From nowhere three hooded men swarmed all over him— screaming, shoving guns in his face, pushing and dragging him back into the house: through the kitchen, down a hall, into a vast living room with a flat, big-screen TV, knocking over pieces of pottery and furniture as they went. Finally they were in a cavernous billiards room with an elaborate bar that would not have been out of place in the cocktail lounge of a five-star hotel. On one wall were two locked steel doors that led to the strongroom. With his forearm against George’s throat Mitch pressed him hard against the full-sized billiard table and jammed the .410 directly under his nose, a barrel on each nostril.

  ‘George, listen to me,’ he said. ‘George! Pay attention. I’m going to ask you once, very politely. Would you be good enough to open the vault doors—please.’ He eased the pressure of his forearm just enough for George to speak. His face was a deep scarlet and his eyes bulged alarmingly as he looked at Mitch and then at the other two, either side of him. Wherever he looked there was a gun aimed at his head.

  ‘Fuck your mother up her filthy pig’s arse,’ George spat, using the American pronunciation.

  ‘Okay,’ Mitch said. He wiped the spittle from his face with his shirtsleeve.

  Shaun and Andy held an arm each as Mitch put the shotgun in his left hand and reached into his right-hand pocket. When he brought it out again a moment later, George did not even see the brass knuckles come crashing into his left ear. It happened with such swiftness and savagery that every bone in his head seemed to crack and echo around the walls; the ear itself was transformed into a shredded, bloody mess spread right across the side of his face. He slumped back against the billiard table, knees buckling, blood now streaming from his earhole, but Mitch pulled him up straight, measured him off and then delivered a mighty kick deep into the pit of his stomach. George made an appalling noise and slid down, gagging, whereupon Mitch clipped the back of his head with the brass knuckles and put him face down on the slate floor.

  They gave him a few seconds to recover, then hauled him up by the blood-drenched collar. Mitch got right in his ex-ear and said through clenched teeth:‘I fuckin’ warned you, you stupid fuckin’ wog cunt. Okay? Got the message now, George? Are we on the same program?’

  George was bleeding freely,slipping in and out of consciousness, wheezing and in extreme pain; there was a vile-looking yellow substance oozing from his lips and dripping from his chin as they propped him up against the table and held him there.

  ‘That’s for openers, mate,’ Mitch said.‘Next time, I promise it is going to fuckin’ hurt.’

  George tried to focus on Mitch. His eyes were full of tears—tears of pain that spilled and rolled down his ugly, puffed-up, bloodied face. Looking at him, Mitch saw for the first time that his hair had been dyed a sort of russet-red, teased to a fine coiffure and then held in place with hairspray. He could smell the spray. The result made him look more like a sleazy old faggot than the Bull of Crete.

  ‘Open the doors, George,’ Mitch said quietly. ‘And we’ll be gone, out of here in ten minutes.’ Gripping him by the front of his shirt Mitch drove the .410 into George’s neck, right on the main artery. ‘If you fuck us around once more,’ he went on, ‘we’re gonna damage every part of your body, then wait till your wife comes home and get started on her too. And I’ll make fucking sure you’ll have a front row seat.’

  ‘You’ll be able to watch her suck my cock,’ Andy said. ‘I hear she still gives terrific head, George. To all and sundry.’ He stepped into the picture and slapped George a couple of times, hard, over the back of his skull. Shaun stood off the action, the long-barrelled .357 loose in his gloved hand.

  George mumbled something.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mitch said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Nothing. I give you . . . nothing. Kill me . . . I don’t care. Fuck you.’

  ‘Okay, you faggy little fuck,’ Andy said. ‘That’s what you want. Here.’ He jammed the snub-nose in George’s ruined ear, cocked the piece, and from his body language Mitch thought he really meant to pull the trigger.

  ‘Wait on,’ Mitch told him, and gently pushed the snub-nose away.‘Cool it—right?’ He locked eyes with Andy, giving him a piece of his mind, and Andy glared back before calming down a fraction. But he was really pumped—the gun quivered in his hand.

  ‘Got an idea,’ Shaun said. ‘C’m here, George.’ He grabbed George’s left wrist, spreading out the fingers on the blue baize of the billiard table. Then he turned the Magnum around in his hand, so it was butt-first.

  ‘What I’m gonna do,’ he told him,‘I’m gonna smash each finger, starting with your thumb, every time you say no. Okay? And remember: if I have to do your right hand too, you won’t be able to open the fucking doors, so we’ll certainly kill you— and your lovely wife. After we’ve gang-banged her, of course. So—going to open the doors now?’ It was a long speech for Shaun. He waited two seconds, then brought the gun-butt down onto George’s thumb. It crunched like prawn shell, and blood shot out all over the duck-egg blue baize.

  Even Mitch flinched at the sudden violence of the blow and the sight of the mangled thumb. George screamed as Shaun held his wrist firmly down.

  ‘Open the doors?’ Shaun said again.

  George was beside himself. He wept and shuddered and howled, tears and snot mingling with blood, his pudgy face distorted beyond recognition and bright purple, that weird-looking red coiffed rug sticking out crazily. His little eyes had disappeared into his face completely. But he managed to get himself together enough to respond.

  ‘Fuck you . . . you . . . cunts.’

  Smash.

  The index finger, which was wearing a sapphire signet ring, went south in an explosion of bone, metal and blood. The ring itself was in fragments, scattered over the table.

  George went right off the air.

  Shaun waited for him to settle. ‘Open the doors?’ he said calmly.

 
; George was swaying; only Shaun and Mitch were keeping him upright. But he was hanging tough, Mitch thought, the little bastard. Having survived the fucking Nazis and made himself filthy rich he’s not gonna fold for a bunch of home invaders.

  Smash.

  George’s middle finger was no more. The table was a terrible mess.

  Shaun was down to the pinkie when, to everyone’s relief, George finally saw reason. Mitch was actually surprised—he was starting to think they’d have to go all the way and top him, just take what they could find in the house and clear out. It just showed that everyone, even the Bull of Crete, had a breaking point. They helped him upstairs for the keys—a big bunch on a ring, like a jailer’s—and inside three minutes he’d fitted a brass Yale key into the recessed lock, turned it two full revolutions and pulled the door out. Mitch pulled the other one. It was fucking heavy—six-inch solid stainless steel.

  What they saw, lined up on the right-hand side, were racks of machine guns, automatic rifles, shotguns, a range of revolvers and semi-automatic pistols and quantities of ammunition. How much of that could possibly be legal? Hanging on overhead hooks were ceremonial Japanese swords, bejewelled daggers, sabers, handcuffs, chains, other surgical-looking metallic instruments, a leather codpiece, some whips and scourges, carnival masks, wigs and studded, lace-up leatherwear.

  ‘Nice one, George,’ Mitch said. ‘Dirty old bugger. Think Steph uses this stuff on him?’

  ‘You’d think your own private centrefold in the bridal chamber’d do the job, wouldn’t you?’ Andy said.

  ‘Just no telling, is there,’ Mitch said, gazing around at the collection. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  In the middle of the room sat a large Chubb vault, about three-quarters the height of a man. ‘Open it,’ Mitch said. George appeared to hesitate.

  ‘Go on.’

  George’s hand wavered uncertainly before he started working the tumblers.

  ‘Now we have to wait . . . for five minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, we wait five minutes,’ Mitch said. He dragged him back to the billiards room, giving him to Andy to look after. Shaun smoked a Lucky, flicking ash on the floor. When the time was up a little ping! sounded inside the vault. Mitch turned the big wheel a half-revolution and slowly opened the door.

  In the meantime Andy pushed George roughly into a wooden chair, under the cue rack. George slumped, his smashed hand folded under his armpit. Andy stood over him, the .38 pointing at his stupid-looking ginger thatch. Andy really felt he had to kill George, put two or three in his brain, even if Mitch was against it. George might just be able to identify them—Mitch, at least. He knew Mitch; they had a history, he could probably place the voice and eyes even if he couldn’t see the features. George was a smart bastard. Yes, George had to die. Andy was thinking fast, getting the idea set firmly—satisfyingly—in his mind, when from inside the strongroom he heard Mitch say, ‘Holy shit.’

  In the vault were tightly packed bundles of cash, all high denominations. Mitch, who had seen large amounts before, did some mental calculations: around fifty bundles, say roughly fifty thou per . . . Came to two and a half mill. Minimum.

  But that wasn’t the end of the story.

  Also crammed into the vault were many rows of plastic packages. Inside the packages, each the size of a house brick, was a whitish powdery substance. Around thirty units in all. Mitch walked between Shaun and Andy. He had a pretty good idea what it was. They all did.

  ‘What’s one of these worth?’Andy said, hefting one of the packages. ‘Weighs about . . . kilo, kilo and a half.’

  ‘Wholesale, it’s a hundred, hundred and fifty large per key,’ Shaun said. ‘Depending.’

  Now Andy was doing calculations. ‘I make that . . . four, five mill. Depending.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Mitch said.

  ‘Why doesn’t it matter?’Andy said, still holding the brick.

  ‘Because we’re not taking it,’ Mitch told him.

  ‘The fuck we’re not,’Andy said, and laughed.‘That’s a joke, right? Humour.’

  ‘No joke. We take the cash. That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t be fuckin’ insane,’Andy said dismissively.‘Come on, let’s load up.’ He started putting packages into one of the bags as Mitch stepped closer and grabbed his arm, hard.

  ‘Listen carefully, mate. Listen to each word. We are not taking the heroin.’

  ‘He’s fuckin’ serious,’Andy said, pulling his arm free.‘I don’t fuckin’ believe I’m hearing this. Five mill at least, maybe even ten, and he wants to leave it. Care to explain?’

  ‘Use your brains,’ Mitch said. ‘So far no-one knows who we are. And no-one will know, ever. But as soon as we take this shit, everything’s changed. We’ve fucked ourselves.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Andy said. ‘Listen. I can offload this, all of it, tomorrow. Then it’s off our hands, in the system, gone. So . . . what’s the problem exactly?’

  ‘The problem is, when you sell drugs, this amount of drugs, you have to bring in other people. Major players. Syndicates. So . . . they will know we did this. They will know where it came from. Soon, every bastard knows. Cops will know. Shaun’s old pal, Terry Pritchett, will know. I assume you don’t want him coming around with his fuckin’ meat cleaver.’

  ‘Pritchett? What in the fuck’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Pritchett’s a rip-off specialist. It’s what he does. He gets one sniff of this, he’ll be down on the first flight—and that cunt does not take no for an answer. Remember what he did to Brian Hamilton a few years ago? Hacked his fuckin’ head off while he was still alive, even after he’d spilled. Just ask Shaun about it.’

  But Andy didn’t need to—he remembered the Brian Hamilton case. Big armoured truck robbery gone wrong, a guard and a gang member shot, then in the aftermath Pritchett in his long Burberry raincoat appearing from nowhere, like a ghost, while Hamilton and his partner slept it off in a quiet suburban motel after a big night on the piss. It was a bad, bad scene: even the toughest homicide detective brought up his bacon and egg sandwich that morning. Pritchett’s name was all over it, but as per usual no proof and no surviving witnesses meant he remained at large back on his own turf, in Sydney’s inner west. The incident loomed large in Shaun’s early career because he was one of the first cops on the scene, while he was still a uniform.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about Terry Pritchett,’ Andy said—but his unusually subdued tone had the clear ring of famous last words, a quality of impending doom, even to his own ears.

  Encouraged, Mitch pushed on. ‘This is a large consignment, Andy. Think about it. Use your nut. All right, you could sell it to Madame Sing tomorrow. So you involve the Asians too. Dunno about you, mate, but I don’t feel comfortable about mixing it with Triads.’

  Andy was sticking to his guns.‘You’re fuckin’worried about the slopes? Come on, Mitch. We’re gonna be far away from those cunts. We’re gonna be sippin’ margaritas in Acapulco.’

  ‘In a year—if we ever make it, if Pritchett, or the slopes, or someone doesn’t find us first. How many ‘ifs’ do you need? Even in Acapulco you’re gonna be lookin’ over your shoulder the whole fuckin’ time. Chances are you’ll wake up one night with a fuckin’ bullet in your mouth or a cleaver in your throat instead of a margarita. But if we just take the folding stuff, stash it till things cool down the way we agreed,we’re home free. Our signature is nowhere. It’s simple, it’s clean—it’s cold cash. All we have to do is spend it. That was the plan, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, but we didn’t know there’d be a container load of heroin in the fuckin’ vault, did we? That sort of rearranges the plan in my book.’

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ Mitch said. ‘It changes nothing. We take the cash and leave the shit. The shit is bad news. Tell him, Shaun.’

  Shaun, standing outside the safe watching George, waited several beats and said, ‘I’m with Mitch. I don’t want to mix it with that Pritchett maniac ever again, even from a distance. Leave t
he shit. It’s bad trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Andy said, snorting. ‘Christ, don’t make me giggle. You think what we’ve done so far is not trouble?’

  Heartened by Shaun’s support, Mitch said,‘A quantity like this, there’s every chance the drug squad is already onto it. Christ, it’s probably been tagged and put under surveillance from the drop. It’ll be tainted for sure. Soon as we rip it off, our prints are all over it, we’re in the frame. Mate, it’s not worth the risk. Leave it, Andy. Let’s load the cash and move out.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We’ve been here too long already.’

  Andy looked at Mitch, then Shaun.‘Fuck the pair of you,’ he said. ‘And Pritchett.’ He turned away and resumed stuffing packages into a bag. Then he felt the touch of steel on the back of his neck.

  ‘Stop it,Andy. Stop it right now, or I swear I’ll fuckin’ shoot you, mate.’

  Andy straightened up slowly and turned around, so that he was staring down the barrel of Mitch’s .32. Mitch’s hand was rock-steady; the cold murderous glint in his blue eyes told Andy the man was deadly serious.

  ‘Two can play this fuckin’ game, boss,’ he said, and brought up the .38. Now they were aiming guns point-blank at each other. Thumbing back the hammer Andy said, ‘I believe this is called a Mexican stand-off, amigo.’

  For a second there was a void of pure silence in the strongroom, then: ‘Hey!’

  It was Shaun, standing in the doorway, holding George by the scruff of his neck with one hand, and waving his .357 at both Mitch and Andy with the other.‘Can we please get on with things—please? I have a fucking plane to catch sometime tonight.’

  Not wishing to take his eyes off Andy, thus handing him an advantage, Mitch did not turn to face Shaun. ‘Well, well,’ Andy said, grinning insanely. ‘Now we do have a situation on our hands—a friendly game of three-cornered stud. Whose move, lads?’

  On cue came a clatter, like something being dropped on the slate floor.