If only their goal was the roof. At least that’d be visible to the police snipers’ cover fire.
The drug raid’s target is instead somewhere within the barricaded nightmare building, close-quartered and claustrophobic. As with the other towers in the almost-lawless western suburbs, Force Command knew the building was controlled by the Death To Society (D2S) gang, an anarchic virus of criminals that’d managed to rise above most of the other gangs in the suburbs — mainly because they’d taken over much of the drug trade with such insane violence it’d scared those they didn’t kill into early retirement. Liz had written a story during their early days, so she knew how heinous their methods were: Australia had never seen necklacing before their arrival. The images of rivals burning to death with tires around their necks on the shopping strips of Dandenong and Thomastown still haunted many. The thought of entering the building, even if only after the police tactical teams had cleared the way, sent prickles of sweat across her brow. She hoped the drug squad detectives she’d been embedded with over the past month didn’t notice. They gave her some concessions as an outsider, but like all cops they lapped up weakness.
Police Intelligence knew that walls inside had been torn down at will, escape holes hidden behind plaster everywhere throughout. But further intel on the internals was sketchy. The hydroponics labs might be scattered throughout the labyrinth of apartments, having shunted the remaining families into the few empty rooms left, or the gangs could have taken over whole floors to network the banks of plants. Then again, the labs might be so well-hidden the search comes up empty-handed. Command just didn’t know. And there’s only so long the police head honchos could keep covering up the true impact of whatever it was D2S were now peddling.
The raver glimpses through the tangle of bodies, back hunched and convulsing, dreadlocks snapping like snakes, and he turns with eyes black from embolism, and the bile he’s spewing in a great torrent doesn’t stop, it doesn’t fucking stop, it’s impossible for that much to be inside a—
She tears herself from the ominous view, glances over the forces assembled in the hotel rear parking lot with its shielded line of sight to the tower across the block. All with their jobs to do. The chosen protectors of society. The black-clad Special Operations Group members with their muzzled mouths and steel eyes, checking each other’s kits: “You good Jacko?” “You good Mad Dog?” The uniformed officers waiting to clean up and secure in their wake like puppies eager to prove themselves. The forensics team in their plastic ponchos and booties, scoffing down a last biscuit or two at the coffee trolley. Detective Austin and the other drug squad members, who she and her usual Herald photographer lapdog Fozz — shifting from foot to foot now beside her — had sat alongside the last weeks. Or the Deputy Police Commissioner and the other faceless suits lined against the back of the co-opted parking lot, all stabbing away on their smartphones or quietly reviewing political strategy with a shrewd eye over the whole congregation.
She wishes she has their righteous self-belief, their unshaking confidence in their place in the world. She’d lost hope long ago, before all this. The only thing that keeps her going anymore is the puzzle, the story. She has nothing else in her life.
“Who’re the work experience kids, Austin?”
The detective beside Liz jumps as the hardass SOG commander, a lethal bullet of a man Liz had heard tagged Shepherd, passes with a snarled grin. “Press tagalongs,” Austin says. “PR for the Minister.”
“Think he’d learn. Like letting the wolves in the door.” He keeps walking. Liz can’t help herself.
“Can’t criticize the Brotherhood, hey?”
Shepherd turns back, smile turning hard. “That didn’t take much. Dalton know this is going to be a hatchet job?”
“Not this piece. But someone has to watch the watchmen.”
Shepherd’s pale eyes look through her. She can almost feel the impact out the back of her skull.
“Just stay the fuck where you’re told. Media blood’ll take us years to live down.” Shepherd points a finger at Fozz. “And any footage of our faces, I’ll disappear that camera up your arsehole.”
The Victoria Police Special Operations Group were perhaps the most well-trained, well-skilled tactical response team in the country. They attended hundreds of incidents a year, everything from terrorism threats, to sieges, to mass shootings. Within the group they called themselves the Sons of God, a backronym referencing Matthew 5:9: “Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they shall be called the Sons of God.” Hell, they’d flown down to Port Arthur to stop the killing spree of Martin Bryant because Tasmania didn’t have a force capable of dealing with such an event.
They’d also been involved in a number of well-publicized shootings during the Gangland Wars that brought into question whether they’d become a trigger-happy death squad. Liz had thought most of the shootings were justified, considering the heavily-armed opposition they’d been up against. But they’d nearly been disbanded and it necessitated a full cultural review and more emphasis on non-lethal means of apprehending suspects.
She knows she’s being harsh, but if you didn’t put a rocket up the narky ones early, they’d find a way to get rid of you.
Detective Austin stands a moment, embarrassed. “Jeez, Hendo. Go easy.” He subtly turns his back, so they’re no longer part of their unit.
“I think we officially have cooties,” Fozz says low and she hides a laugh. He steals a photo of Shepherd’s back.
She glances up to see the Deputy Commissioner staring at her across the gap. He nods and Liz feels the fingernail up the spine of being someone’s puppet. Her smile sours.
“Quiet.” Shepherd’s voice slaps the assembled horde into silence. “This is an SOG op. You’re all tourists for now. Even the Dicks.”
The surrounding officers grin at the stony-faced drug squad detectives. Austin’s mouth puckers like a cat’s bum.
“Our targets are smart. They’ve barricaded the other entrances. That way they control in and out. Team A will hit the door, Team B in reserve as cover. Once in and we signal clear—we signal clear, none of you — uniforms will move in to hold the stairwells, in case any of the fine residents decide they want to join in.”
A chuckle among the group eases some tension. Liz listens with half an ear as she takes notes, but she’s more concerned with watching the various teams. Imagining their motivations, which of them would make a good character sketch — maybe the young female forensics officer fiddling with the escaping hair beneath her hood, probably on one of her first jobs; one of the older uniformed guys, a Sergeant by his wings, who stares balefully out at the target building, like this is personal. Fozz takes her lead, snapping the tense resolve on the man’s face, backlit against the tower in the distance. It’s a good shot, as usual. She also thinks of how to describe the scene: the chill in the air, the sound of dishes from the hotel kitchen, impatient feet softly stamping, the sour ulcer-breath of one of the detectives behind her. The devil is in the details, her first editor said with every story, and Jim back at the desk still expects nothing less. She appreciates the mantra now. Anything to calm her nerves.
“…sometimes wired with IEDs, so we spot anything, we’ll send in the robots before Forensics enters and starts bagging and tagging. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your afternoon tea.” Another chuckle. The ponchoed-ones grin around biscuit crumbs.
Shepherd turns his attention to Liz and the administrators along the back wall. “And then the rest of you can swan in and take the credit.”
A thin smile from Daniel, the Deputy Commissioner. As long as the pawns do their job.