The engine screamed and the tyres squealed as Cam changed down and took the left, but the car held its line. ‘Nice bus this,’ Cam said. ‘But it hasn’t got the legs for this kind of thing.’
The bike leant over at forty-five degrees as it came around the corner behind us, perhaps two hundred metres away.
We were on a street with houses on our right and sports fields behind a high wire fence on the left. We had to turn right at the corner coming up or go into a parking lot for the sports complex.
‘I think we’ve got to show these boys the iron,’ Cam said. ‘Can’t outrun them. I’m going to broadside in this parking lot. Get out quick, I’m coming out the same door.’
My eyes flicked to the speedo. We were doing a hundred when we went into the parking area. There were three cars in it, all near the gate at the left.
I looked back again. The bikers were close now, perhaps a hundred metres. The sun had come out and their leathers gleamed like otter skins.
Cam swung left towards the cars, slowed, then swung right. As the car came around, he hit the brake.
We went into a broadside skid across the tarmac, the right-hand wheels lifting. We came to a stop side on to a fence a few metres away.
‘Out we go,’ said Cam calmly.
I opened my door and half fell out. Cam was right behind me in a crawl.
‘Keep down,’ he said. ‘Give me the gun.’
We crouched behind the front of the car. I could feel the heat from the engine on my face. Cam pulled back the Ruger’s hammer.
The bike came into the parking lot almost without slowing and went right. As it turned half side-on to us, I got a view of the passenger.
His bag was slung around his neck by the strap now and he was holding something black and blunt.
‘Fucking Christ,’ said Cam.
It was a sub-machine gun.
The rider slowed and swung left. He was going to make a run parallel to us.
We both ducked. They must have been about twenty metres from us when the passenger opened up, flat, coughing sounds, not loud. Most of the first burst was high, over the top of the car. But the last rounds hit the front windscreen with sharp tapping noises. A large, jagged hole appeared on the passenger side and the rest turned to mosaic.
A second later, the next burst of hard coughing. They went low. Some hit the car, some hit the tarmac underneath, ricocheted and pinged off the chassis.
The bike was past, accelerating into a turn for another run.
‘Fuck this for a joke,’ Cam said. He straightened up, Ruger in both hands, and leant his long forearms on the bonnet.
I put my head up. The bikers were side-on, just starting the turn towards us. The passenger saw Cam and raised the fat barrel of his weapon.
Cam fired.
He missed.
He fired again.
The bullet hit the back of the gunman’s helmet. His left arm went up as the impact lifted him off the bike and spun him on to the tarmac.
The rider, unbalanced, veered sharply towards us, gained control and swung savagely away.
‘One down,’ Cam said softly, steadying himself for a shot at the rider.
The passenger got to his knees, left hand to his helmet, sub-machine gun still in the other. He was small, no bigger than a fourteen-year-old. He shook his head like a dog, then turned to look at us.
Cam was aiming at the rider.
The small man brought the sub-machine gun up.
‘Down!’ I shouted, grabbing Cam’s coat and pulling him onto me.
The weapon coughed again, bullets whining just over the bonnet where Cam had been.
‘Little fucker,’ Cam said.
The bike’s engine roared.
Cam put his head up. ‘Party’s over,’ he said.
I stood up. They were going out of the parking area exit, sun glinting on their helmets, engine screaming in second gear.
We listened to the sound of the bike going up the road, turning left, getting fainter. Then it was still, just the hum from the freeway and the jungle sounds of small children playing far away. It had taken no more than forty seconds from the time the bikers came into the parking area. Now only the smell of cordite hanging in the cold air spoke of violence and near-death.
I looked around, expecting to see people everywhere. There was no-one. The silenced sub-machine gun had probably gone unheard, Cam’s shots taken for a car backfiring.
Cam finished putting his Ruger back into its case and took a packet of Gitanes out of his top pocket. ‘You smoking?’
‘Just this once,’ I said. I cupped my hands around the lighter flame. They weren’t shaking. Not yet. The first draw almost made me sit down.
‘Well, you can rule out money,’ said Cam. ‘That ain’t the way they go about taking it off people.’
Something was gradually dawning on my adrenalin-soaked brain. ‘Where did you say you first saw them?’
‘Top of Elgin Street. They couldn’t have been behind me long. I’d have seen them on the freeway.’
I took another draw. Another reel. ‘Mate,’ I said, ‘I don’t think this is connected with the horses. Something else. Little job I’ve been doing.’
Cam blew smoke out of his nose, looked around. ‘Don’t take any big jobs,’ he said. ‘You want to get the cops over here?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to take care of it myself.’
I didn’t need to think about it. There wasn’t anything the cops could do for you if people wanted to kill you. Not unless there was something you could do for the cops, and then you ended up living in a caravan park in Deniliquin on the witness protection program.
We inspected the car. Apart from the windscreen, there were about half a dozen bullet holes.
Cam took out his mobile. ‘It’ll probably go,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to explain these holes to the jacks. I’ll get a mate to bring some wheels around, take this away. Wonder where that prick got an Ingram?’
I said, ‘Is that what it was?’
‘Not your normal scumbag piece of iron.’
Cam got through to someone. ‘Henry,’ he said. ‘I want you to think about how much you owe me…’
Fifteen minutes later, a Ford Granada came into the parking lot, followed by a tow truck. The tow truck driver, a huge man with a beard, stuck masking tape over all the bullet holes. He’d done this sort of thing before. We were on the freeway in the Ford in five minutes.
After a while, Cam gave me a quick look. He was steering with his fingertips, cigarette drooping from his mouth. ‘Knew their business,’ he said, ‘we’d both be looking at the lid.’
‘I’m glad they don’t know their business,’ I said. I put my hands out and looked at them. I was shaking. ‘I’m just starting to react.’
Cam said, ‘Want somewhere else to stay?’
I was thinking about phone calls. Calls from Charles and Linda last night. All my calls in the past weeks. I really was a yokel.
‘I’ll need room for two,’ I said.
‘Two, twenty,’ Cam said. ‘You can use my current’s place. She’s gone to Italy.’
‘I wish I was in Italy,’ I said. ‘Italy, Bosnia, anywhere.’
Cam opened the window and flicked his cigarette out. ‘Things go right Saturday,’ he said, ‘we can all go to Italy. First class.’
28
Wootton was waiting in the parking lot of the pub, a hideous pre-cast concrete affair with flagpoles all over the front. He was in his XK Jaguar, reading a magazine. He put it away when he saw us coming. I went around to his side. The window was down.
‘Can you get someone to debug my place?’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Really, Jack, are you sure you’re important enough for people to want…’ My expression stopped him. ‘When do you want it done?’
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Now?’
‘Now. The person can pick up a key from the ground-floor flat. Number one. Say Jack sends his fondest regards and the bloke will hand over the key.’