WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 3)

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12

An hour after Jasmine was dragged out of the angel roses by her ponytail and shoved into the boot of the Holden, she sat inside the dimly lit roadhouse which served as headquarters for the Death Adders Motorcycle Club with her hands duct-taped behind her, her ankles secured to the legs of a wobbly chair. A patch of tape covered her mouth, and her hair hung down over her face. Her arms ached from lack of circulation, and her jaw was throbbing. Two men assigned the task of guarding her were passing the time playing 8 ball on one of the two pool tables. In the corner of the room was a large terrarium, home to a death adder, the deadliest snake in Australia, the club’s mascot.

Attacking Flynn at the cemetery was tacky, admittedly, with a high probability of collateral damage. Innocent people could die. But the Death Adders would take measures to protect their leader, and they would not be expecting a remote controlled quadcopter rigged with an explosive device. Plan A.

In the event of unforeseen circumstances, she could abort the mission and find a way to infiltrate the Death Adders. Plan B.

Plan A had failed. Certainly having the quadcopter blown out of the air by a sawed-off shotgun and her being captured and beaten would fall under the category of unforeseen circumstances. And now, here she was, being held captive in their hangout. She asked herself if that

qualified as infiltration. If so, then Plan B was a smashing success.

13

On the cruise ship that brought me to Australia, I met up with a group of authors. Got to know a few of them. Got hooked on the idea of becoming a writer. Not just a writer. A New York Times best-selling author. Why screw around with it if you don’t aim high?

So every day since arriving in Sydney I set aside a couple hours or more to write, or do research. I tended to start out doing research online, but soon enough found myself surfing the web, and my productivity suffered. I think the term is writer’s block.

Every now and then, I like to check the news back home in Indiana. At first, I did it frequently, several times a week. Now, not as much. I’m not sure it’s good for me. I should probably put the past behind me and move on.

Everyone back in Indiana thought Ty Hamilton was dead. Why couldn’t I let him—my old self—go? It’s not like I wanted to go back, so why couldn’t I just become Jared Mulligan and move on?

While online I learned our high school football team won the conference championship, and the girls basketball team was predicted to be strong this season. Glad for them. There was a picture of some recently promoted black belts from my old martial arts school. None of the faces were familiar. Minimum time for achieving black belt being two years, I realized just how long it had been since I last attended.

And then I saw a picture of the sheriff, Mike Bridges, congratulating Officer Suzanne Smiley, on being promoted to Chief Deputy of the Page County Sheriff Department.

“Hmm,” I said. “Whattaya know?”

Until now, I believed I killed the sheriff a few weeks ago, when he was forcing me to dig my own grave in a remote location. That belief was a major factor in my decision to leave my old life behind and take the identity of Jared Mulligan—a man I did, in fact, kill. Self-defense, of course.

So, Bridges was alive. I was glad to know I hadn’t killed him, but I knew Bridges wouldn’t forgive. And I doubted he would ever forget. Considering our paths would never cross again, I saw no point in worrying about it.

14 

The protagonist, the main character in my novel is a ferry pilot. Not a fairy pilot. A ferry pilot. He makes his living delivering airplanes to buyers all around the world. He solves mysteries, rescues women, and kicks terrorists’ asses. Every woman wants him, and every man wants to be him. But, I was having trouble beyond that, with formulating a plot. Maybe before I worried about it, I should get to know my main character better. For starters, he needed a name. Something macho.

He was a pilot, so I could go with something like Ace, but that didn’t reach out and grab me. I liked Buzz, sort of. Airplane names, like Lance, and Colt. Also Duke, and Baron. King—as in King Air or Sky King. I’ve flown Barons and Dukes, back in the early days of my career. Loved them. Two of my favorite airplanes.

I decided on Baron, which means “son of strength; vigor; potency. Baron Wilder. I liked the sound of that. Something about my main character introducing himself, ‘Name’s Wilder. Baron Wilder,’ just sounded right.

So, since I was in Australia, why not put Baron Wilder here as well? I’d start out with him delivering an airplane, running low on fuel in a storm, over shark-infested waters. Grab the reader’s attention and go from there.

But, go where?

15 

The man Jasmine Figueroa had been hired to kill entered the clubhouse, accompanied by two of his associates. Dexter Flynn wore new denim pants, a white button-down collar shirt, and a loose-fitting blazer. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail that complimented his neatly-trimmed goatee. He looked more like a playboy business tycoon than the leader of the most notorious biker gang in Australia. His bodyguards wore more traditional biker apparel—tattered denim jeans and sleeveless jackets with club insignia. One had long, scraggly hair. The other sported a clean-shaven head. They both leered at her like starving dogs eying a slab of raw meat.

Flynn had other things on his mind. “Who are you working for?”

“Why aren’t you on your bike?” she said. “It’s a nice day for a ride.”

Flynn backhanded her. With her training and experience, she knew to turn her head and lean away. The blow delivered by Flynn inflicted pain, but did not injure.

Flynn removed his jacket, tossed it to the biker with the shaved head, returned his attention to Jasmine with an expression of mild curiosity as he took his time rolling up his sleeves.

A young female, blonde, entered the room through a side door, stood silently, waiting for Flynn to acknowledge her. In her hand she held two sheets of paper. Flynn nodded to the blonde. She stepped forward and handed him the sheets.

Flynn took his time examining them. “Jasmine Figueroa. A lovely name,” he said, turning the paper so Jasmine could see a photograph of her seated at an outdoor café, accompanied by another woman. Her lover, Raquel. Flynn stepped closer, leaned in, mere inches from her face. “I’ll ask you again. Who hired you, Ms. Figueroa?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Jasmine said.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t,” Jasmine said. “I’m never given names of clients. Only the targets.”

Flynn looked around the room, at the grinning faces of his subordinates. “Well,” he said, raising the second sheet, studying it a few seconds before turning it around for her to see another photograph taken a few years earlier, showing her in military uniform. “We’ll find out what you do know, Jasmine Figueroa.”

16

“I’m impressed,” Dexter Flynn said. “And I am not easily impressed.” He hooked a finger under Jasmine’s chin, raised her face up for inspection. Both eyes were swollen, nearly shut. Her lips were split, puffed-up, and bleeding. Most likely a couple of ribs were cracked as well. She had taken a beating few men could endure. “We can go on for hours,” he said. “Days.” She looked back at him through slits of her swollen eyes. “I won’t let my boys kill you,” he said. “I might let them have some fun with you, though.”

“Need to throw a bag over her head, Dex,” one of the Death Adders said. “Face looks like hamburger now. The rest of her still looks good.”

Flynn bent down, leaned in close. “You hear that?” he said with a menacing tone. “My boys are ready, willing, and able to have a go at you. No one is coming to help you. It doesn’t end until you tell us who you work for.”

“Mulligan,” she gasped, barely audible. Back in special ops training, they’d taught her that at some point, everyone breaks. Everyone talks. The trick was to not crack too soon, otherwise they wouldn’t believe you, and the punishment would go on. They would think you were still holding out, even when you had nothing more to give them.

“What’s that?” Flynn said. “Who?”

“Jared Mulligan,” she said. “He took a contract, and then called me to come in and help. He never told me who the client was. He never did.”

“We knew about Mulligan,” the raven-haired woman said as she came up next to Flynn. “And we knew he worked with a partner. We were sloppy, assuming the partner was a man.”

“Where is this Mulligan?” Flynn demanded.

“Dead.”

“What do you mean, dead? My men saw him on the cruise ship. He killed my mate, Daniel Seton.”

“I mean he is dead,” Jasmine said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I shot him, back in Indiana. The man on the cruise ship was not Mulligan.”

17

Chauncey’s Basement, Sydney

“Whattaya reckon?” An older fellow had come in and taken a nearby seat at the bar without my noticing.

I half-turned on the barstool to face him. “Pardon?”

He pointed to the stack of brochures on the bar next to me. “Plannin’ a big adventure?” he said as Vanessa placed a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser before him.

I nodded. “Lots to do. But then, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

The old timer raised the shot glass. “Here’s to time,” he said, then tossed it down. He winced, shook his head a couple times, sniffed and said, “May we each have enough to do what we’re here for.” I raised my glass, nodded to him, and watched as he chugged down his beer without once coming up for air.

After a few seconds, I was aware of Vanessa the bartender standing there, hand on her hip, the other clutching the end of a bar towel slung over her shoulder. I looked up again, “Is there a problem?” I asked.

“You haven’t tasted your beer.”

To appease her, I took a sip. It was a little strong for my liking. “Not bad,” I lied.

“Horseshit,” she said. “The face you made tells me different. Tell me what you drink back home in the states, and I’ll find something for you.”

“I like a light pilsner.”

“Got just the thing for you,” Vanessa said, reaching for my glass.

“Hey, where you goin’ with that?” the old man said. “You’ll go to hell for throwin’ away good beer!”

“He done took a sip, Roger,” she said.

“The other side of the glass is clean,” Roger replied.

Vanessa shook her head, said, “Can’t argue with that,” and slid the mug down the bar to him, then went to get my replacement beer.

I returned to my brochures. Looking at them, but really thinking about my book. I had a main character now, Baron Wilder. I still needed a plot. And a pen name. I needed a pen name. I couldn’t very well become a best-selling author using my given name, Tyler Hamilton. He was dead, as far as everyone knew, and I didn’t dare resurrect him. Nor could I use Jared Mulligan. He’s really dead, but everyone thinks he’s still alive because I’ve assumed his identity. Plus, he was a hit man, a killer for hire. No sense drawing unwanted attention.

So what would be a good pen name? I found myself jealous of the name Baron Wilder, and considered taking it away from my main character. Somehow it just didn’t seem right, so I would just have to come up with something else.

“So what’s on your agenda?” Vanessa asked as she set my new beer down.

“I’m going to do the shark dive, in Port Lincoln” I said. “After that, I’m thinking maybe the trains. Indian Pacific and the Ghan. Ever done either of them?”

She glanced toward my mug, winked and nodded, indicating I should give it a try.

I hoisted the glass, saluted her and Roger, then took a long sip. “Now this, I do like,” I said.

“Thought you would.” Vanessa smiled. “I rode the train as a child when we moved here from Perth. My mother, my brother, and me. All our belongings in one suitcase. Of course, we weren’t riding in the luxury cars. It was a bit more primitive for us, but Mum made an adventure of it.”

I knew there was a lot more to her story, but I wasn’t going to stick my nose where it didn’t belong. “I might do that, after the shark dive,” I said.

“You’d never get me in one of those damned cages,” Roger said.

“Pay him no mind. Lots of folks do it.” Vanessa nodded toward the remaining brochure on the bar. “Thinkin’ of goin’ to Coober Pedy, I see.”

I picked up the brochure, opened it. Didn’t recognize it as being one which had grabbed my attention. “I must have taken it by mistake when I was grabbing all the other brochures,” I said. “What is it?”

“An old opal mining town. Much of it built underground.”

“Why so?”

“’Cause it’s hotter’n’hell out there!” Roger piped up.

“True that,” Vanessa said. “But it’s worth seeing, if only for a day or so.”

“Hmm. Underground town,” I said. “Interesting.” After taking up writing, I now viewed the world with a novelist’s eye. This Coober Pedy place sounded like a good setting for a story. “Where exactly is it?”

“The back of beyond,” she said.

“Where?”

“The middle of nowhere,” she said. “Not the edge of the earth, but you can see it from there.”

“You can’t get there from here, mate,” Roger said. “You have to go somewhere else first.” His laughter at his own joke segued into a coughing fit that went on for half a minute or more.

I looked to Vanessa. She nodded. “You want to see the Outback, the real Outback, make the trek to Coober Pedy.”

I made a mental note. Maybe my main character could have some sort of adventure there, although the more I thought about it, it didn’t sound like the sort of place where anything exciting would ever happen.