WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 2)

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6

With Dexter Flynn and the close friends and family of Daniel Seton congregated inside, the remaining members of the Death Adders Motorcycle Club formed a protective perimeter around the the funeral tent. A raven-haired woman stood next to a tall, heavy-set biker with shoulder-length graying hair and scraggly beard. “The shipment will be coming in through Darwin,” she said quietly. You should leave right away, Jocko.”

“I don’t understand why we can’t just do it here,” Jocko said. “I’ve plenty enough support from the rank and file.”

“Once you intercept the shipment, you will have leverage,” she said. “Those who don’t support you now will see Flynn as weak. They will fall in behind you. This time next week, the Adders will be yours. Take your men and go,” she said. “Now.”

The graveside service was short. From the time Flynn entered the tent until he came out could not have been more than three minutes, during which time a half-dozen of the bikers mounted and left the cemetery. But Jasmine was ready. With skill acquired through many hours of practice, she lifted the quadcopter from the mausoleum and directed it toward Dexter Flynn and his bodyguards, timing its arrival with Flynn’s most vulnerable moment, as he and his men were mounting up, and his attention directed toward the few who were already leaving ahead of him.

Holding the quadcopter in a hover just a few feet overhead with one hand, she reached with the other for the detonator control box. As her thumb made contact with the safety switch, there was a gunshot, and the quadcopter fell to the ground at Flynn’s feet.

Uncharacteristically, Jasmine flinched at the gunshot, and dropped the detonator control box. If she could reach it in time, she could still take Flynn out.

A heavy boot came down, pinning her wrist to the ground. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a familiar voice said. She looked up, into the blackened eyes of one of the Death Adders Motorcycle Club who’d been with Daniel Seton when he’d been killed. His face was badly bruised, black around the eyes. He wasn’t smiling.

“Hello, Peter,” she said. “Judging by your face, I’d say it looks like Flynn was pissed. You know, for your letting his friend die.”

7

Dexter Flynn watched as Jocko—the one he knew would someday challenge his leadership—and a few others left the cemetery. “What the bloody hell—” At the sound of the gunshot, he ducked instinctively. In less than a heartbeat, his bodyguards were upon him, like a detail assigned to protect a president, pushing him away from his bike, toward the nearby limousine. Other Death Adders mounted on their bikes formed a protective circle as the limo driver accelerated.

“STOP!” Flynn shouted. The driver pressed on, ignoring him. Flynn pulled a gun from his jacket, pressed it against the driver’s ear. “Stop,” he said. “I won’t say it again.”

The driver braked. “What now?”

“This limo is for Kathleen and Emily,” Flynn said. “I won’t go without them.”

“But someone is trying to kill you.”

“All the more reason not to leave them here,” Flynn said. “They’re family.”

8

 Simone, the raven-haired woman, knew Flynn would never leave Emily and her mother behind, and proceeded to gather them up the moment she heard the shot.

Confused by all the commotion, the older woman said, “What . . . what’s happening?”

“Come with me, luv,” Simone said. “I’ll keep you safe.” Simone didn’t concern herself about being gentle with them, given the circumstances. She grabbed the older woman by the back of her collar and forcibly moved her toward the waiting limo, shoving her through the opened back door before turning to grab the younger one by the arm and pulling her to safety.

9

 “Are you alright, Emily?” Dexter Flynn asked, offering her his hand as she pulled herself into the seat next to him. Flynn sat in the middle. Kathleen was on the opposite side of him.

Emily said, “I . . . I think so.”

The limousine driver looked back to him, and Flynn nodded, “We’re good to go now.”

“I seem to have caught my sleeve on something,” Kathleen said as they accelerated. “This blouse is ruined.”

Flynn put his arm around her, drew her in. “We’ll see to it you get a new one, love,”

10

 Peter raised a handheld radio to his mouth, pressed the push-to-talk button and said, “I could use a little help over here, mates.” Then to Jasmine, “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, love. We really would prefer not to have to kill you. At least for the moment.”

“Glad to know we’re on the same page,” Jasmine said.

They dragged her out of the roses by her collar and ponytail, never letting her get to her feet, and shoved her roughly into the boot of a Holden. The lid slammed shut and the Holden sped off.

11 

Mulligan

I descended the stairway into Chauncey’s Basement, a refreshingly cool, dimly lit bar. It was one of those places, few and far between, where you immediately feel comfortable, like you belong. The place was about half full, with a wide assortment of people ranging in age from early twenties to upper fifties. I was definitely one of the older ones, unless I went by what it said on my ID. Jared Mulligan was only in his forties. I took a seat at the bar next to a wall-mounted light, away from the other patrons. Not that I was being unsociable, I just needed some light to read the travel brochures. And work on my novel.

“What’ll it be, mate?” the bartender asked.

I looked up, made eye contact with her. I guessed her to be in her late thirties, brown hair with streaks of gray in a ponytail that descended to her waist. She wore a denim dress, the top few buttons unsnapped, revealing ample cleavage. Her face hinted of a life of struggle, but her smile and the twinkle in her eyes told me she was not yet defeated. “Could I have a beer, please”—I tried unsuccessfully not to stare at her breasts as I read her nametag—“Vanessa?”

She pretended not to notice me leering. “We have several different kinds, mate,” she said. “Care to have a go at our beer menu? Help you decide?”

“How about you surprise me?” I said. “I trust your judgment.” She winked, nodded, and stepped away. I returned my attention to the business at hand.

Among the numerous options of things to do in Australia, the two which really captured my imagination were riding the trains across the country, and a shark cage diving expedition out of Port Lincoln.

Curious about the trains, I put down the brochures, opened my laptop, logged in as a guest of Chauncey’s Basement, and went to the website to learn more.

There was one which ran back and forth, coast to coast between Sydney on the eastern coast and Perth on the west. And another which ran north and south from Adelaide to Darwin and back. Both featured whistle stops at points of interest where passengers could get off the train for a while, stretch their legs, see some sights, maybe have a drink or two. The bartender brought my beer. “Thanks,” I said without bothering to look up.

The trains were equipped with dining cars and a lounge, and I could get a private sleeping berth. I could take in all the scenery I wanted and catch up on my sleep. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it.

Even more appealing to me than the trains was the shark cage. The idea of getting up close and personal with a two-thousand-pound shark fascinated me, but I wasn’t a certified diver. I have snorkeled exactly once in my life a few years back, on a layover in Puerto Rico–scared the entire time—but never anything with SCUBA gear. According to the website, that was not a problem. No diver qualification or experience necessary. So, no excuses.

In the back of my mind, I wondered if I really had the guts to do it. Only one way to know. I have always had a healthy respect for the ocean and its creatures, especially sharks. On the cruise to Australia, during a stopover in Tahiti I opted not to go snorkeling because I wanted to avoid sharks. Now, here I was actually considering doing a dive for the expressed purpose of having a close encounter with a Great White. Sometimes there’s no figuring me out. I guess the cage makes all the difference.

I supposed when the moment of truth arrived, I could always change my mind and remain an observer on deck. But, I knew I wouldn’t do that. I’ve never been one to back down, even when common sense told me I should. Like the time when I was about seven years old, and a couple of girls dared me to dive off a dock into a lake. I said no. I couldn’t swim. And I was not wearing a life jacket.

“What’s the matter?” one of them said, “You chicken?”

Without giving a thought to the consequences, I jumped. My mother heard the splash, and my thrashing in the water as I struggled to keep my nose above the surface. She ran down the hill onto the dock, grabbed a cane pole, and extended it out for me to grab. She helped me onto the dock, gave me a big hug, and then snapped a switch off a nearby willow and whipped the living snot out of me right there in front of the girls, who laughed the entire time. I didn’t learn a damned thing from the experience, judging by some of the things I’ve done since. So no, I wasn’t going to chicken out when it came time to get into the shark cage.

I booked the dive.