“Detective.” The Head of Ops — Liz really wishes someone would give her a name for him, because she’s not calling him God — grabs his man by the back of the neck and forcefully hauls him back. Collins’ face is about to blow.
“The fuck you know—”
“He doesn’t know anything. He’s scattergunning, pushing buttons.” The Chief steps in, grabs Roach’s hair. Forces him to focus. “Cut the act. Tell us what we want to know. Or you never see the sky again.”
“The sky is a lie.”
“Chief,” Shepherd says. “We’re losing time. First thing, they’ll burn the lot. If the gardens are on the floors above, we could have a disaster. The whole place’ll go up.”
“Not above. Not above.” Roach’s head rolls forward like it’s too big for his neck.
“He’s stalling. There’s nothing below us.”
“So sure what you can’t see.” Roach swings his heavy head up, takes them all in, rolls his vision until focusing past Shepherd’s shoulder on Detective Austin. “The man there now. Alone in his room, dying. Waiting to be forgiven. But only angels forgive.”
“Shut him up!” God barks and Shepherd snaps open a pocket for a gag.
Austin looks like he’s seen a ghost, backs up wiping his mouth. “He’s scoped us. They’ve got intel on us.” He looks at the others. “That’s not scattergunning. He knows.”
Roach manages to see past the shoulders. “All connected. Just have to tap in.” He grins at Liz, as if seeing the only woman there for the first time. “All have a dog in the fight. All trying to escape the ghosts—” Everyone’s looking at her and she can only raise her hands in confusion, not let them see the explosions his words cause in her, then Shepherd grabs the guy’s head, brings up the thick material to slam it in his mouth, and Roach focuses on him: “You’ll all die here. You’ll watch them fall. Just like the boat.”
Shepherd freezes and the welling anger stays his hand long enough for Roach to rock slightly to one side — and the whole time he’s been working behind his back at his bonds, skinning the ties down over his flesh, degloving his hands to get free, and he shoulder-slams upwards into the police officer, knocking Shepherd off-balance — and then he launches to one side, legs kick out, and there’s a BANG and everyone crouches.
The surrounding SOG train their weapons in an instant, but Roach is no longer there. “Anyone shot?” the Head of Ops demands, seeing the blood on the floor, but Shepherd isn’t listening. The vent low to the floor is now a gaping hole in the mildewed wall and he creeps toward it.
“Fuck. Trapdoor.”
“Are you shitting me?” Collins says.
One of the other SOG moves toward the hole, shines his gunlight down. The rusted rungs of a crude ladder jammed into the narrow shaft are just visible. Cold air escapes, chills Liz to the bone. How did he know—
“You smell that?” the SOG officer asks Shepherd.
The Commander nods. “Ammonia. Hydroponics run-off.” He hand-signals his men and they don gas masks. “Let’s go—”
And then they disappear one by one into the hole, leaving the rest of them in the vacuum of the corridor.
4 ‒ PAYDAY
WITHOUT THE MONITORS, they can only listen as the radio barks. “Pursuing — Stay tight — Jacko, Hutch, cover the flank — Got obs ahead… Jesus, look at that.” The distant sound of their footsteps, then startled shouts below from whoever they’ve encountered. “Police! Freeze!” The staccato tapping of non-lethal pellets. Then: “We got Roach.”
The Head of Ops doesn’t interject through all this, just calmly talks off to one side with the Command Post, getting updates on their vision. “You can see what? How long are they?”
Shepherd radios in. “Multiple suspects arrested. Workers. Site secured. Chief, you need to see this.”
“Roger, Alpha.” God grins at his troops. “Ready for presents?”
They wait until admin staff ferry in gas masks, then one by one begin to climb into the hole and the swallowing darkness within.
“The whole tour?” Austin asks her and Fozz. Her face says it all. “Then stay close. And we give you any instructions — run, stand still, don’t breathe — you do it.” Liz starts to open her mouth— “This time just say yes.”
She nods.
She’d never worn a mask and it fogs immediately and she wants to rip it off to clear it, knows that’s the last thing she can do. The sound of her breathing echoes in her ears. The world narrows and she focuses on the moving shapes in front of her as they descend the makeshift ladder about twenty feet and then hit the damp floor of the tunnel.
There’d been talk of a myriad of tunnels beneath the CBD for years. Hidden underground passages linking the hospitals, allowing escape from Parliament if needed to the nearby train stations, even networking the police and fire stations in case of attack during the wars. She knew some of these mythical routes were indeed real — had even used the access tunnels beneath the old Age building to the local watering holes, a necessity once for journos looking to steal more drinking time.
But this is something else. There’d long been rumors of US WWII troops digging vast tunnels linking strategic parts of Melbourne to their campgrounds at Royal Park in the inner suburb of Parkville, the spidered network said to crisscross the city boasting vast bunkers at various points housing ammunition dumps. D2S must have discovered part of it. And restored a massive section beneath everyone’s noses.
Glancing around as they walk, Liz takes in the machine-dug precision of the rectangular subterranean highway, the polished concrete dimly lit with a low-bulb, blastproof fluorescent lighting system. The tunnel is meters wide, accommodating enough for two-lane vehicles if necessary. The figures ahead look dwarfed and insignificant somehow, as if blithely walking into the gullet of some giant primeval creature.
The further the observational party walks, the hotter the air gets and her breath begins to steam. She demonstrates it in wonder for Fozz, but he’s not looking at her, instead staring up at the dripping green roof. Ever the germophobe. He sees Liz looking over and taps his mask, gives a thumbs-up: thank god for this little lifesaver. She can barely see him through fog.
There’s a gasp from one of the drug squad guys and Liz looks back to see the world opening up before them. The roof disappears high above as they enter the mouth of a great room and it’s then they discover the true scope of D2S’s drug empire. Vast banks of mature marijuana plants line the disused ammo bunkers underground, bathing beneath an immense succession of artificial lights. Fozz goes crazy taking pics and Collins and Austin try to get in shot.
A group of workers in plastic suits and masks have been apprehended by the SOG and now writhe at their feet. Roach and two other bangers lie beside them. Roach cackles through a freshly-applied gag, eyes rolling.
“Not gonna listen to his shit again,” Shepherd explains. “You got your payload, Chief.”
“My God.” The Head of Ops walks a long tray of plants, stares at the unending line hugging the wall down and around the slight bend in the distance. “How can this be possible?”
One of the SOG guys is checking a hand-held air tester. “Clear.”
Collins removes his mask and Liz stares at him. “Biggest problems are Red P in meth labs getting in your lungs. Worst risk here is starting a fire and dying really fucking high.”
Another of the SOG guys, “Mad Dog” she thinks it is, hangs back watching the way they’ve come, shotgun down but ready. Liz is close enough to hear Shepherd double back. “Why you antsy?”