Open Wounds (8 page)

Chapter 12

Michael’s heart raced when he caught sight of the green Commodore following him. He’d seen it on and off all morning as he drove around completing transactions for Coleani. Was Coleani checking up on him? He doubted it. Coleani would be less subtle. It had to be the police. Neither option was reassuring. Were they trying to trap him?

Of course they are
, he screamed at himself.
They know you killed Benedict and Butler
…
two men you called your friends until the chance to be one of Coleani’s treasured lieutenants came knocking at your door.

He tried to act brave and distant, liked to think their deaths meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t. He had lived a hard life but nothing had prepared him for squeezing that trigger and ending two lives.

He no longer believed Coleani would protect him. He'd screwed up. He knew what happened to those that did. He'd killed them. Men he'd considered friends. Now he didn't think Coleani ever had his back.

He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. How long had they been following him, and what had they seen? Did they know about the deliveries he’d been making? They must, which meant it was only a matter of time before they arrested him.

Coleani must never know.

But how could he continue with the police after him? He couldn’t go to prison. That’s where his father was, serving twenty years after a drunken brawl led to manslaughter.

His mother was no better, having packed up and moved to greener pastures with the first bloke who’d so much as paid an ounce of attention to her. No, he knew he would never survive inside. He was weak, easy prey but he couldn’t betray Coleani, not after all the man had done for him. Clothed him, fed him, given him a place to live and a job. He’d been set for life after proving he had the right stuff.

But what if he asks you to kill again? Can you do it?
An inner voice taunted him.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

If they interrogated him again, it would only a matter of time before he gave in and started spilling the truth about Coleani’s drug operation. Then he’d be a dead man. Coleani’s power spread wide. He doubted he’d ever live to see his testifying day.

He had to get away, away from Coleani and away from Harbour Bay
—
hell, away from New South Wales. He’d never been anywhere else but he had always thought he’d like to see Queensland one day. He had been mesmerised by the pictures he’d seen of the Great Barrier Reef.

Now was the time to do it. He’d been tucking away money for years. Every penny he earned, he’d kept, even skimming a little off Coleani’s clients. While the rest of Coleani’s
sons
were drinking, snorting, or fucking away their hard-earned cash, he’d been expecting a rainy day. The only good thing his whore of a mother had taught him before she left was how to save money, and her advice had stuck over the years, even after the memory of her face had disappeared.

He spared another glance in the rear-view mirror. Shit, the Commodore was still there. He couldn’t exactly skip town with the cops on his arse. How would he lose them? A horn blasted beside him and he realised he’d been too busy looking back at the cop car to watch the road. He jerked the wheel, bringing his car back into his lane.

Whatever you plan to do, Mikey
,
you’d better do it quick
.

Up ahead, the amber light turned red and like a man going to his slaughter he prayed for forgiveness should his next stop be meeting his maker. He stamped down hard on the accelerator and shot through the intersection unscathed, then heard the sound of two cars colliding and glanced back to see his shadow stuck behind the crash.

Michael deliberately slowed, not wanting to call attention to himself. He was a nervous wreck by the time he turned off the ignition outside his apartment building.

He knew he didn’t have much time, only a small window of opportunity to get lost. He ran up the inner staircase two at a time, the lift having been broken for years, then opened the door to his small one-bedroom apartment and pried up a floorboard where he kept his money. He grabbed his old backpack and stuffed the loose notes into the large section, zipping it up once he cleared out every last fiver.

He didn’t bother packing clothes. All that shit could be easily replaced. Looking around, he didn’t believe he’d ever miss this place. When Coleani had first offered it to him, he’d thought it a palace
—
a place of his own. But now he saw it for the dump that it was.

He chastised himself for wasting time and made his feet move. He reached the door and yanked it open, his heart pounding as all rational thought exited his head. He forced himself to smile as he looked over at seventeen-year-old Toby McLinden, another of Coleani’s boys, a fellow ex-foster home child.

“Hey, Toby, I was just heading out. Got to make some drops for Coleani,” he told the boy.

It wasn’t a lie; he had decided to run halfway through his regular drops and still had a shitload of product sitting in his Saab. Hell, he could easily sell that later when he was out of danger, and he would probably need the money.

He stepped out of his apartment, shut the door behind him, and started down the stairs. He hoped Toby wouldn’t comment on the backpack. He wasn’t sure what he’d tell the teen, and right now his brain wasn’t functioning properly enough to come up with a lie.

He heard Toby behind him as he descended the stairs.

Relax, he’s probably just going out. Don’t freak out or you’ll tell him you’re hiding something.

Toby was the kind to report on his own mother, if he had one.

The kid was on his heels as he walked over to his car, dropping the backpack on the passenger seat. He’d rounded the hood and opened the driver’s side door when Toby suddenly touched his arm, startling him.

Michael glared at him. “You want something?”

“Not me. Coleani. He wants to see you right now.”

Oh, shit. I’m a dead man.

“Can’t it wait? I don’t want to disappoint Coleani’s customers.” That was the last thing he cared about, but it amazed him how scared he could be. Hours ago, being stuck in an interrogation room at the LAC had seemed like the worst thing imaginable. The prospect of confronting Coleani was much worse.

Toby shook his head. “Boss wants to see you
now
.”

Michael let out a deep breath, appearing outwardly calm but shitting bricks on the inside. “All right. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll drive with you.”

Michael clenched his hands into fists. He knew what Toby was doing—making sure he did what was requested of him.

Think, damn it, think. Maybe Coleani has no idea. Maybe he wants to commend you or even throw you an initiation party.
That was feasible, right? After all, technically he
had
passed the test.

He started up the car and drove out onto the street in the direction of Coleani’s restaurant.

“So, do you know why Coleani is so anxious to see me?” he asked, hoping for something to calm his frayed nerves.

“Nope. Just that he expects your arse to be in his office pronto.”

Oh, fuck.
This could very well be his last day alive.

Chapter 13

Nick jumped out of the car as Dean radioed the accident in. The scene around him was a chaotic mess that reminded him of a war-zone. The intersection of Howard and Evans wasn’t usually a high accident zone. Named after the founding father of the town, George Howard and the once infamous convict escapee John Evans the two streets created a T-junction dead centre of town.

Two crumpled cars lay slightly off to the side, having spun around after the initial collision. The traffic light embedded in the side of one vehicle seemed like a permanent feature, the car curved around the thick steel pole. The other car’s hood had been crumpled like an accordion. It was hard to determine who’d been going in what direction.

The shrill whine of a siren told Dean the first responder was on his way. He and Doyle would certainly need all the help they could get. Traffic continued to pile up, and it was only three-thirty in the afternoon. It would be a nightmare come rush hour, since the Howard-Evans intersection was the most frequented in town. Over seventy percent of Harbour Bay citizens used it on a regular basis.

Nick rushed over to a late model Ford and took a quick inventory while Dean moved towards the other car, which resembled something out of a
Bathurst 1000
crash and quickly assessed any possible danger as he approached.

He glanced through the tinted window at the driver and knew without opening the door and feeling for a pulse that the driver was dead. He shouted at a few bystanders to stay the hell back as they inched forward, and prayed the uniforms would get here soon to control the masses. For now, his authoritarian voice would have to do.

He pushed back his suit jacket to expose his gun holster and badge, informing the crowd that he was in charge before checking the other windows for other possible passengers. As far as he could see, the driver was alone and therefore the only casualty. He eased open the passenger door with a great amount of difficulty, the interior of the car resembling a sardine can as both sides compressed internally, crushing the life out of the driver as the external walls pushed into each other, fighting for dominance.

Dean prepared to lean over the centre console to remove the driver’s wallet and hopefully his ID, which would make informing the next of kin easier, hopefully before they learned about the accident from the media and saw their loved one’s car on the news.

With one knee on the passenger seat, he reached across and stopped dead.

Shit!
In the centre of the back seat, he discovered a child’s car seat, placed so the child could look out the front window. It sat on an angle, the sides cracked as it couldn’t hold off the excessive force.  He hadn’t seen the child from the window since the tint was so dark.

He navigated through the small confines and checked the small body for a pulse. He let out a relieved breath, feeling the light throb beneath his fingertips.

He wasn’t sure how he would get the kid out. The little boy was unconscious, for which he was thankful. No child should see his father dead, and Dean had no idea how much pain the child might be in. The safety seat had taken the brunt of the accident, protecting him like it was designed to, but had also tightened around the child so that it was possible the kid had a broken rib or something just as worrying.

Dean retreated from the car as he saw a marked police vehicle pull up. Two uniformed officers exited, one already heralding the spectators away. The other uniform began running towards him, recognising him instantly. Relief showed on his face.

“Doyle and I are witnesses. We were following a suspect who must have panicked when he saw us and sped right through the intersection, causing the crash,” he told the cop, whose name was Huxley. “I’ve got one casualty and a minor trapped in the back who is currently unconscious. Stay with him in case he wakes up and inform dispatch we’ll need a rescue team. The kid’s in there tight.”

Huxley swore to himself, and Dean jogged over to the other car where Nick had been helping a woman in her thirties out of the driver’s seat, her body visibly shaking. Tears ran down her face and she was in a state of shock, her eyes much too wide to be taking anything in.

“Back-up just arrived. One survivor,” he told Nick, who nodded, understanding what had been said and what hadn’t. One survivor. Which implied one or more casualties.

Nick eased the woman over to the kerb away from her car and out of danger when the rescue teams
,
ambulance and traffic diverters, arrived. Loud sobs escaped the woman’s mouth and Nick pulled her into his arms, allowing her to cry all over his linen shirt. He rubbed her back, giving comfort to her as he looked up at Dean as if to say,
what else could I do?

Dean wasn’t good with women. Crying or not. When they were emotional, it made things worse. After being partners with Nick for over three years, they had come to an understanding, each playing off one another’s strengths, each knowing his limits. This was Dean’s. He didn’t have use for someone who allowed their emotions to rule over common sense.

Horns tooted in the distance as motorists became impatient. The heat of the day made him sweat, and he knew it would be more than just a little uncomfortable in the cars without air conditioning. People exited their vehicles, and Dean listened to the officer as he barked orders for people to return to their cars, his tone making it clear that if they didn’t do it willingly, he’d be more than happy to oblige in escorting them back.

He left Nick with the overwrought female and moved towards the uniformed officer who’d arrived with Huxley. He spoke briefly with the officer, getting an estimation on when they would be joined by more members of Harbour Bay Police.

He ran stiff fingers through his blond hair and cursed the day’s events. He hadn’t expected Lambert to spook. The man had been overly confident when he’d walked out the doors of the LAC.

The teen wasn’t in as much control as he’d like to think. Was he getting concerned over his part in the murders as Coleani’s lapdog? Maybe the youth had a conscience after all and felt guilty. Now would be the time to swing down and usher the kid away
,
before Coleani got his hands on him.

Within minutes more police vehicles arrived, a swarm of navy uniformed cops descending on the scene, taking over witness detail and directing all the traffic away from the scene while an ambulance struggled to get through the heavy traffic.

A bright red and white Harbour Bay fire engine stopped just outside the perimeter Huxley’s partner had cordoned off, and a bevy of well-trained firemen added to the rapidly growing response team.

The woman continued to sob hysterically in Nick’s arms, not allowing him to leave her as she was escorted to the ambulance for a check-up.

Had he been in charge of her well-being, Dean would’ve shaken her off long ago and told her to get a grip
,
which was why Nick handled the fairer sex. Dean watched as his partner leaned over and conversed with the paramedic who immediately nodded and retrieved a needle which he promptly tested for air bubbles and then injected the woman who
—
thankfully
—
started to calm down.

Dean worked tirelessly under the harsh UV rays as he liaised with the firemen who continuously attempted to free the little boy. The mother had been notified and waited impatiently for news on her only child and last living piece of her husband.

Goddamn Michael Lambert
. He had caused all this. One man was dead, another life hung in the balance. A woman was overwrought
—
two when he considered the mother—and for what?
Because of a murdering son-of-a-bitch.

He made a fist, badly needing to hit something. Being a cop wasn’t as glamorous as they made it out to be in movies. It was rare to save the damsel in distress from the bad man. Instead, the day was filled with handing out speeding tickets, arriving at domestic disputes, and acting as mediator. Not exactly the finer life, but Dean couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He had lived a life full of violence and there was no turning back from that, no pretending it hadn’t happened or that it didn’t exist. He wondered how others, like Nick, handled the situation, having no background in the dark depravity he’d become accustomed to.

He moved away from the noise created by the rescue teams, yanked his phone off his belt, and dialled a number.

“Donovan.” Amelia’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Hey, it’s Matthews.”

“Where are you? I expected a report an hour ago.”

“I don’t work for you
yet,
Donovan.” He knew he would one day soon, but not now. “Doyle and I are at the accident on Howard-Evans.”

“I heard about that. Bad one, right? So why are you calling?”

He leaned against his car. “Just wanted to give you an update. For one, Lambert caused the accident. He’s spooked and is probably about to run.”

“I’ll let the others know. Anything else?”

“Yeah, Nick took some surveillance photos of Lambert coming out of Coleani’s and a couple more today at his various drops. We recorded their addresses so if Lambert won’t talk maybe one of them will. But I doubt they’ll be able to tell you anything other than Lambert’s name.”

“Coleani always covered his arse well. Can either of you get away to collect Lambert?”

“Nick’s got his hands full with a woman and I’m co-ordinating a rescue at the moment.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not looking good for a kid, Donovan.”

She swore.

“Tell me about,” he said. “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed.”

He hung up and immediately shoved a pair of sunglasses on to shade his eyes from the harsh glare. Dean hoped they got to Lambert before Coleani did, because he wanted to be face to face with the kid who’d caused so much damage.

If Lambert believed Donovan was the daughter of the devil, just wait until he met Dean Matthews.