Safe House E-Book

Gary Gregor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An undercover Federal Police Officer. Two Mexican assassins. Australian hitmen on Harleys. A corrupt federal cop. An eclectic mix of personalities - all with opposing agendas.

Jackson Traynor worked deep undercover as a senior, trusted member of the Australian arm of an illegal drug syndicate, overseeing the distribution of tons of illegal drugs imported into the country from Mexico. Now, Traynor has enough evidence to send a lot of people to prison for a very long time. But betraying Australia's most infamous crime family while hiding your true identity was always going to have consequences.

When two of his loved ones are savagely murdered, the authorities decide that Traynor should be placed in Witness Protection - in a safe house - somewhere where they will never find him.

When the safe house is compromised, Northern Territory Major Crime Detectives Russell Foley and Sam Rose are sent from Alice Springs to escort Traynor to another location, but as the cushy baby-sitting job becomes the very opposite, they face a desperate battle to keep their witness safe. But can they stay alive in the process?

Leseprobe

SAFE HOUSE

BOOK NO. 5 – FOLEY & ROSE SERIES

GARY S. GREGOR

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2018 Gary S. Gregor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A number of people play a role in getting an author's story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.

If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. You wonderful folk are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.

My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.

Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that's rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honor that leap of faith; thank you.

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of police officers everywhere who have paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their communities.

PROLOGUE

SIX MONTHS AGO

They came for Jackson Traynor at three o’clock in the morning, the time it was believed most people reached the deepest phase of the sleep cycle. There were two of them. The raid was well planned and, up to the point of entry into Traynor’s home, it was well executed. From that point onwards, however, it all went to shit.

Jackson Traynor, more commonly known as ‘Jack’ to his friends and colleagues, was not at home; that was the first set-back for the intruders. He should have been home, all the research leading up to the raid suggested he would be, but sometimes plans have a way of going awry.

Jack did not sleep well. Having lived with chronic insomnia for many years, he was well acquainted with a pattern of poor sleeping. The night they came to his home in the pre-dawn hours was just another example of the hundreds of sleep deprived nights he had endured over more years than he cared to remember.

Jackson went for a run, something he did often when he couldn’t sleep. Before he left, he leaned over the sleeping body of April, his wife of fourteen years, and kissed her lightly on her forehead. Careful not to wake her, he climbed out of bed, dressed quickly in the dark, and crept silently from their bedroom. He moved quietly along the hallway and paused outside the door to his twelve-year-old daughter’s room. The door was slightly ajar; Jessica liked it that way when she slept. He pushed it open, just enough to get his head around the opening, and listened for a few seconds to the soft sleeping sounds coming from Jessica’s bed. Satisfied she too was sound asleep, he gently pulled the door back and continued along the hallway. In the small laundry attached to the kitchen of his home, he slipped into his sneakers and left by the back door, locking it behind him.

He found them when he got home, following an hour’s hard run around the perimeter of the suburban football ground at the end of his street.

He knew someone had been there as soon as he reached the back door. It was wide open. Jack never left it open. He distinctly remembered locking it when he left. In light of recent events relating to his most recent career, he was way too security conscious when it came to leaving the house late at night with his wife and daughter home alone.

He had a gun, one of two he possessed, buried under a pile of rarely used hand-towels in a laundry cupboard high on the wall above the washing machine. His wife knew it was there and, while not happy about guns in the house at any time, she accepted they were a necessary part of her husband’s profession. His daughter, however, did not know. As far as Jack was aware, Jessica never went to that particular cupboard. There was nothing inside she would conceivably need and, besides, she couldn’t reach it even if she wanted to. It seemed, at least to Jack, it was a safe place to keep it. His second gun, a Glock 9mm, he kept locked in the drawer of his bedside table, just in case he reasoned to his wife.

His heart racing, he opened the cupboard, reached in, fossicked under the hand-towels, and found the gun, a Smith and Wesson, 38 calibre revolver with four-inch barrel. He fumbled deeper in the cupboard, and found a box of ammunition, flipped open the revolver cylinder, and began loading six rounds.

It took time, too much time. In his haste, two rounds of ammunition slipped from his fingers, bounced noisily off the washing machine, and rolled onto the floor. Conscious his clumsiness may well have alerted any intruder, he quickly loaded two replacement rounds, clicked the cylinder closed, and stepped silently into the kitchen.

Jessica’s bedroom was the first room on the left, off the short hallway running through the centre of the house. The light was on and spilled from the room casting a dull glow over the portion of the hall immediately in front of the door. Further along the hall, on the same side, light also spilled from the master bedroom. At that hour of the night, these two peculiarities were so far removed from the norm that Jack almost called out but held himself in check. The gut feeling was stronger now. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

With his back to the wall and his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest, he edged stealthily along the hallway, his eyes darting ahead and behind. He held the revolver in a two-handed grip, his finger outside the trigger guard, and the barrel tracking the movement of his eyes.

Jessica’s door was open. Bracing himself, Jack crouched low, and sprung into the room, sweeping the area with his eyes and the gun. Jessica was not in the room. Her bed was unmade, and her fluffy, pink slippers on the floor at the end of the bed immediately rang alarm bells in Jack’s mind. Jessica loved her slippers. She almost never left her bedroom without them on her feet; it was one of the little, endearing, childhood idiosyncrasies Jack loved so much in his only child.

Maybe she woke early, and climbed into bed with her mother, Jack wondered. She did that sometimes, especially when he was working the ridiculously long hours his job demanded. Accordingly, Jessica not being in her room would not normally be the cause for concern, but this was different, and Jack didn’t know why.

Jackson Traynor was a suspicious man. He had to be; his job demanded it. His mind replayed his movements from when he arrived home from his run. Finding the back door open was wildly at odds with the security precautions he was always re-enforcing in his family and, when taken in conjunction with Jessica’s vacant bedroom, the light burning within, and Jessica’s abandoned slippers, his instincts would not accept that what he was seeing was as benign as it might otherwise appear.

He stepped back out into the hall and moved towards the main bedroom. Outside the door, he paused and listened. He heard no sound from within. The whole house was silent. He glanced at his watch; the digital display read 3.55 a.m.

Slowly, carefully, and totally unprepared for what awaited him, he peeked around the door jamb, and glanced into the room.

April and Jessica Traynor were laying on the bed, on top of the covers, both naked, and both covered with blood, lots of blood.

Subsequent investigations would reveal both April and young Jessica were savagely raped, and then stabbed to death in what was forensically described as a frenzied, unrelenting attack. They died as a result of massive blood loss from multiple stab wounds to their respective faces, chests, and genitals.

Their assailant, or assailants, left the house as silently as they came, and Jackson Traynor’s life would never be the same again.

1

Detective Inspector Russell Foley fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, flipped it open, and looked at the caller ID. His superior, Superintendent Cameron ‘Yap Yap’ Barker’s name appeared in the display.

“Cam, please tell me this call is not work related,” Foley answered.

“Hi, Russell. I wish it was the case. Where are you?”

“I’m in the shopping centre carpark. I’ve got my arms full of groceries, and I’m about to go home. Why, what have you got?”

“It’s complicated,” Barker said. “Can you come in?”

“It’s my day off,” Foley answered, sounding miffed. “But, what else am I gonna do? I live alone, television is crap, and I mowed the lawns this morning.”

“You don’t have any lawns, Russell. You live in a unit supplied by the department. How soon can you get here?”

“I need to drop my groceries off and change my clothes. Thirty minutes, okay?”

“Twenty would be better.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Oh, before you hang up, Russell, is Sam Rose working today, or is he under a woman, somewhere?”

Foley laughed. “Sam’s a one-woman-man these days, Cam.”

“Sarah Collins?” Barker asked.

“Yeah. They’re good together. I don’t think I’ve seen Sam this happy since he transferred down here from Darwin.”

“Is he working today?”

“No. I’ve got him on the same duty roster as myself. We’re having lunch together later. Why?”

“I’d like you both on this job. Can you bring him in with you?”

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll pick him up on my way in. This sounds serious.”

“It could be,” Barker said. “By the way, you will both need to pack a bag.”

“Pack a bag? How long for?”

“I don’t know…a few days, at least.”

Russell Foley knocked on his partner’s door and waited. When no answer came, he knocked again, louder this time, and stepped back from the door. Finally, the door swung open.

Detective Sergeant Sam Rose stood there, naked save for a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his wet, ruffled hair. With a small hand-towel, he dabbed at water droplets running down his bare chest.

“It’s fortunate for you it’s me, and not a couple of the lovely Seventh Day Adventist ladies knocking at your door,” Foley remarked.

“I was in the shower.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s not lunch time already, is it?” Sam asked.

“No,” Foley said. “You need to get dressed and pack a bag.”

“Pack a bag? Where are we having lunch, Queensland?”

“We’re not having lunch. We’re going to work. Pack enough clothes for three or four days.”

“It’s my day off,” Sam complained.

“I know, it’s my day off too.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asked again.

“I don’t know.” Foley shrugged. “Wherever it is, I’m going with you. Yap Yap wants to see us both, ASAP.”

Sam stepped back from the door, ushered Foley inside, and closed the door behind him.

“What’s the job?” he asked, rubbing the hand-towel through his hair.

“I don’t know that either. Yap will fill us in when we get there.”

“Bloody hell!” Sam cursed. “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an uninterrupted day off.”

“You can always quit and sell cars for a living.”

“Do car salesmen get days off?”

Foley shook his head. “Get dressed, Sam. Standing here grizzling about the job is not going to make it any easier. This is what we do. You love it, I love it, everybody’s happy, get fuckin’ dressed.”

“Bloody hell!” Sam mumbled again. He turned away and strode reluctantly along the hallway to his room.

2

Superintendent Cameron Yap Yap Barker ushered Foley and Rose into his office and indicated they should sit. He picked up a file which lay open on his desk.

“Thanks for coming in on your day off.” He looked first at Foley, and then at Sam. “We’ve had a job dropped in our lap, which I think you two are best suited for.”

“Sounds interesting,” Foley said.

“It is…kind of,” Barker said, tentatively. “First, I have to give you the back-story. It might make things a bit clearer.”

“Okay.” Foley nodded.

Barker referred to the file in his hands. “Does the name Jackson Traynor mean anything to either of you?” He looked up from the file, expectantly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Foley answered.

Sam shrugged. “No, not to me either.”

“How about the name, Miguel Alvarez?”

“I don’t think so,” Foley said.

Sam Rose shrugged again.

“Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzman?” Barker asked.

“What is this, boss? Twenty questions?”

“Bear with me, please.”

“Guzman,” Rose said. “Isn’t he the South American drug king-pin?”

“Mexican.” Barker looked back at the file. “Guzman was extradited to the US a couple of years ago on international drug smuggling charges and is currently languishing in a maximum-security prison in the States. He was the head of the Sinaloa cartel, arguably the most powerful illegal drug trafficking organisation on the planet. Miguel Alvarez, his trusted lieutenant, is now believed to be the head-man in the cartel and personally oversees the ‘dark-network’ spanning the Asia-Pacific region, including Australia.”

“The ‘dark-network?’” Foley queried.

“These days, very little of the illicit drugs coming into Australia come directly from Mexico. Rather, they are smuggled through a network of countries in the Pacific, countries like Vanuatu, Fiji, and New Caledonia.”

“Isn’t this El Chapo Guzman character the dude who escaped custody a couple of times back in Mexico?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, that’s the prick. The Mexican authorities captured him some years ago, locked his arse up, and he managed to dig an elaborate tunnel and escape. He was recaptured a couple of years ago and extradited to the States. That’s when Miguel Alvarez stepped up to the plate and filled the void left by Guzman. It’s no coincidence that Alvarez’s rise to leadership of the cartel coincided with a sudden spike in illicit drug importation into Australia.

“A few years ago, Alvarez formed a somewhat uneasy alliance with Salim Ghandour, the head of a Middle-Eastern crime family, operating out of Sydney.

“At that time, the Ghandour family were the prime movers in the nation-wide distribution of illegal drugs imported into Australia. Alvarez wanted control of the lucrative Sydney drug market and Ghandour was not about to simply hand it over. When he subsequently lost a couple of senior associates to drive-by shootings, including his eldest son, and survived an attempt on his own life, all believed ordered by Alvarez, he decided it might be healthier to form a partnership with the Mexican.”

“Where does Jackson Traynor fit in all this?” Foley asked.

“Traynor is a Detective Sergeant with the Australian Federal Police, based in Canberra. He was attached to the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission as part of a Task Force raised to investigate international crime syndicates smuggling drugs into Australia. He spent almost two years working deep undercover as a member of Ghandour’s crime gang.

“Traynor worked his way up through the ranks of the organisation, to where he was a significant player in the Sydney drug underworld. He was the man trusted with the distribution of tonnes of illegal drugs smuggled into the country via the dark-network on behalf of the Alvarez cartel.”

“Two years!” Foley said. “Must have picked up some pretty good intelligence over that time.”

“What he didn’t learn wasn’t worth knowing,” Barker explained. “He knew it all, identities of the major players, both here in Australia, and in Mexico. Names, dates, places, dollar values; he had enough intel to blow the whole organisation apart, including the Pacific connection.

“I am informed by our Federal police colleagues that Traynor was pivotal in the interception, and seizure, of over three-hundred-and-fifty million dollars of cocaine and amphetamines, smuggled into Australia through the dark-network by associates of Alvarez’s cartel, and bound for Salim Ghandour’s distribution network.

“The information, supplied by Traynor, resulted in the arrest of all of the key players, both in this country and a couple of Pacific countries. Simultaneous raids on a number of residences, warehouses, shipping containers, aircraft hangars, and sea freighters, in three states, blew the syndicate wide open. The Feds seized six million dollars in cash, not to mention several luxury homes, yachts, and cars.”

“I’m guessing Traynor would be keeping a low profile these days,” Foley supposed.

“And looking over his shoulder a lot,” Sam added.

Barker placed the file back on his desk. “Traynor is due to testify against the Ghandour family and its connection with Alvarez’s Sinaloa cartel in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, his testimony will result in a lot of people going to prison for a very long time, including Salim Ghandour, his only surviving son, Hakim, and a number of high-profile cartel associates here in Australia. Word on the street is Miguel Alvarez and Salim Ghandour are not happy campers. Our Federal counterparts believe there are two contracts out on Traynor’s life, one ordered by Alvarez, and one by Ghandour. They believe Alvarez sent two professional hit-men over here to take him out.”

“All the way from Mexico?” Sam asked, incredulously.

“All the way. They went to his home in the early hours of the morning, but he wasn’t home…he was out running.”

“Running, in the middle of the night?” Sam asked.

“Traynor is an insomniac,” Barker explained. “Has been for years, apparently. He often went running when he couldn’t sleep.”

“So, they missed him?” Foley guessed.

“Yes…and…no. They missed Traynor, but his wife and twelve-year-old daughter were at home asleep when the baddies came. They brutally raped both, and then stabbed them to death. Traynor found them when he got back from his run.”

“Shit!” Foley exclaimed.

“Shit, indeed.” Barker nodded.

“How do the Feds know it was the Mexicans, and not Ghandour’s crew, who killed his family?” Sam asked.

“Traynor is certain he knows who it was.” Barker referred again to the file on his desk. “He says Alvarez has one particular dude he uses when he needs someone taken care of. Bloke by the name of Rodolfo Herrera, a Mexican of Spanish descent. Those who move inside the international drug trade refer to him as ‘The Wolf.’”

“What about the second bloke?” Foley asked.

“Mostly, Herrera prefers to work alone. Intel suggests he is a clinical, methodical killer. He gets the job done, quickly and cleanly, and gets out just as quickly and cleanly. It seems this might be the first time he has used an accomplice, a bloke by the name of Ignacio Vargas. Vargas is a particularly nasty piece of work from a small village south of Mexico City. According to Traynor, he likes to use a knife, and almost always includes a sexual component when he kills, and doesn’t much care if the victim is male or female.”

“Charming,” Sam commented.

“How did these two toe-rags get into Australia?” Foley asked.

“False passports,” Barker answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s not difficult given the circles in which they move. Besides, they’re both clean-skins; not so much as a parking ticket between them back in their home country.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Sam commented.

“It’s common knowledge that the Mexican authorities don’t have the best track record in regards to corruption. You want a clean record, greasing the right palm will get it for you. The international drug cartels talk about millions like we talk about weekend milk money. Our Australian authorities didn’t even know they were in the country until after they arrived.”

“Where are they now?” Foley asked.

Barker shrugged. “It seems they disappeared within an hour or so of arriving. The Feds have no idea where they went.”

“Where is this Jackson Traynor dude now?” Foley asked.

Barker sat back in his chair, paused, and exhaled loudly. “That’s where you and Sam enter the picture.”

“Why do I suddenly regret asking?” Foley said.

“Traynor, his wife, and his daughter, were lodged in a safe-house in Sydney following the drug busts. Somehow, the location was compromised, resulting in the murder of his family. Subsequently, the Feds moved him interstate.”

“He’s here, in the Territory, isn’t he?” Sam guessed.

“Been here since just after his wife and daughter were killed,” Barker confirmed.

“Where?” Foley asked.

“Ti Tree. Two hundred k’s up the track.”

“Why Ti Tree?” Sam questioned.

“It’s a quiet, nondescript town, close enough to send assistance from here reasonably quickly, if required.”

“Assistance?”

Barker leaned back in his seat, sighed heavily and eyed Sam and Foley.

“There’s more isn’t there?” Foley asked.

“Apparently, the Feds feel the safe-house at Ti Tree may have also been compromised.” Barker sat forward and leaned his elbows on his desk. “They want Traynor taken into protective custody.”

“By us?”

“Yes. Traynor has a protection detail in place. A team of four working in twelve-hour shifts, two chaps sitting on him twenty-four-seven. But the Feds have requested a local escort.”

“Why the escort?” Sam asked. “Why don’t they bring him down here themselves?”

“Apparently, there is credible intel indicating the two hit-men, Herrera and Vargas, are still in the country. Traynor knows a lot about Herrera and insists he has never failed to complete an assignment. He will not quit until he has completed what he set out to do.”

“Kill Traynor?” Sam asked.

“Exactly. It is believed Herrera knows where Traynor is hiding out and is on his way to the Territory to finish the job, if he’s not here already.” Barker paused before continuing. “This is our turf. The powers that be, upstairs, want a local component in the escort team. That would be you and Russell.”

“How did these roosters find out Traynor was in Ti Tree?” Foley asked.

“The Feds aren’t saying. But, rumour has it the cartel has a man inside the International Crime Task Force. If Traynor is killed, Salim Ghandour and his cohorts in the Australian arm of the Mexican cartel are going to walk.”

“How long is he going to be in our care?” Sam asked.

Barker shrugged. “I can’t tell you that yet. He will be flown to a secure, secret location as soon as a suitable military aircraft can be dispatched to pick him up.”

“Military aircraft! Sounds like the Feds might be a tad worried,” Sam posed.

Barker leaned back in his chair and eyed both Foley and Rose. “Let me be perfectly clear about this job. I am informed that these two are not to be taken lightly. They are professionals. They have killed before, many times, and will not hesitate to kill again should anyone get in their way. Chances are they are not here yet, and you will not meet them. But, remember this—if you do run into them, they will kill you in the blink of an eye, and then this Vargas character will fuck your corpse.”

“What, no dinner and flowers first?” Sam commented.

Barker fixed Sam with an icy stare. “I’m serious, Sergeant Rose. If you think you’ve seen the worst of life’s scum since you’ve been in the job, you’re not even close when you consider these two arseholes. I hope you don’t run into them, because if you do, this may well be the last time I see either of you alive.” He picked up a page from his desk and handed it to Foley. “This is the location of the safe-house in Ti Tree. There’s a vehicle fuelled up and ready to go in the carpark out the back.”

“What about the Ghandour contract?” Sam asked.

Barker shrugged. “Intel has gone quiet on that. The word is Ghandour uses an interstate based two-man team when he wants someone hit. Maybe he cancelled the contract when he found out Alvarez had sent two men out here.”

“Or, we’ve got four hit-men looking for Traynor,” Foley suggested. “Sounds like a job for the Task Force.”

Barker nodded. “Normally, it would be a job for Task Force. But we want to keep this low-key. If Herrera and Vargas are here already, we don’t want to scare them off with an overt show of force. The Feds would like to bag both of them, if possible.”

“Why the overnight bags?” Foley asked.

“Originally, the plan was to escort Traynor back here, where we could keep him in protective custody until the military aircraft arrived.”

“But?” Foley questioned.

“If the two hit-men are aware of the safe-house in Ti Tree, it’s reasonable to assume they are aware of the plan to bring Traynor back here. They can’t afford to let that happen. Accordingly, I have changed the plan. You are not to bring Traynor back here until you hear from me, personally.”

“Where are we taking him?” Foley asked.

Barker shrugged. “I am liaising with a bloke I have known for several years. He owns a couple of cattle stations here in the Territory, including Aningie Station, northwest of Ti Tree. He runs both from a station further north, up past Tennant Creek, and has a sole caretaker in the homestead at Aningie. It’s isolated, forty kilometres west of the Stuart Highway. You are to escort Traynor, and his security team, to Aningie Station, and contact me when you get there. There is no mobile phone reception out there, but I am told the caretaker has a satellite phone.”

“How long will we be there?” Foley asked.

“It might take a while to organise a military flight to pick up Traynor. Apparently, most of the military aircraft based here in the Territory are involved in war games with the United States, operating out of the Tindal Air Force base, south of Katherine. Could be later today or even tomorrow. As soon as I know a chopper has been despatched I will contact you on the satellite phone.”

“Who knows about this Aningie place?” Sam asked.

“So far, just the three of us in this room, the station owner, and his caretaker. When I speak to Traynor’s boss in Canberra, I will inform him. If there is a leak in the system, the fewer people who know where to find Traynor, the better.”

3

Based in Alice Springs, the second largest city in Australia’s Northern Territory, Detective Inspector Russell Foley and Detective Sergeant Sam Rose were senior members of the Major Crime section of the Northern Territory Police Force. Both were career police officers, having joined the force as members of the same recruit training squad, Foley at age twenty-three, and Rose at age twenty-two. Now, twenty years later, they had been partners for a long time, were best friends and a very good investigative team, respected by their police colleagues and the hierarchy alike.

Rose and Foley, however, had not always been best friends. Several years earlier, when both were members of what was then known as the Criminal Investigation Branch based at Police Headquarters in Darwin, the capital city of the Northern Territory, there occurred an acrimonious split in their friendship.

Sam Rose was a confirmed bachelor, and an unashamed ladies’ man. While he had a reputation among his male colleagues of being a skirt-chaser, it was a reputation undeserved. He was a red-blooded, Australian male, and in the opinion of most women who knew him, he was the complete package: tall, confident, intelligent, nice looking, had a likeable sense of humour, still had all his hair, was employed, and most importantly, he was single and available.

Despite the perceived lothario reputation among his male colleagues, Sam was faithful to the woman he happened to be with at the time and remained so until that particular relationship had run its course. Sam’s one big mistake, one he regretted immediately it was over, and still regretted on the rare occasions he reflected upon it, was the time he slept with Jennifer Foley, estranged wife of Russell Foley. It only happened once, and he was so drunk at the time he had no recollection of whether the liaison was enjoyable or otherwise. What he did know was he was overcome with regret the following morning, and the fact that Russell and Jennifer had been apart for some time had no bearing on the severity of the guilt he felt.

From Jennifer Foley’s point of view, Sam was just another conquest in her scheme to hurt her husband, as often as she could and as painfully as she could. In this case, Sam Rose was the facilitator. For Jennifer, seducing Sam was not about romance, it was about spite. What better way was there to hurt her husband than to screw his best friend? Subsequently, she couldn’t wait to broadcast the dalliance to Russell, and indeed the whole CIB squad room. She proceeded to do so, in full voice, and in graphic detail.

The incident precipitated a physical altercation between the two detectives which ultimately led to the fracture of the friendship they had enjoyed for many years. Sam Rose subsequently resigned from the police force, and Russell Foley was promoted to Officer in Charge of the Criminal Investigation Branch.

The acrimonious split lasted for twelve months, and ended when both men, Foley in his role as a homicide investigator and Rose as a private investigator, were involved in the investigation of a series of brutal murders. The killings, committed against select members of the judiciary and the police force, were the work of a psychopathic killer responsible for killing his wife and two young children.

Subsequently, Sam was invited to return to the police force, and Foley was transferred to Officer in Charge, Major Crime Southern Command in Alice Springs.

Russell Foley never re-married. Jennifer Foley took their two children and fled to Queensland where she diligently continued to make his life more difficult by constantly demanding he send her more money, over and above the amount ordered by the Family Court at their divorce settlement hearing. It was for the children, she insisted. Foley suspected the money found its way into her pocket rather than to the benefit of his kids, but he sent it anyway.

He dated occasionally, but the whole falling in love, marital bliss thing was tainted now following his experiences with Jennifer. Besides, he loved his job, always had, and his commitment to it was always going to make it difficult to maintain a happy, contented marriage. Best not to commit to anything resembling a long-term relationship, he reasoned.

Unlike his friend, Sam Rose, Foley was an average looking man, rather than conspicuously good-looking. In truth, ‘average’ best described all aspects of his physical appearance: average height, average weight. He was clean-shaven and, like Sam, he had all his hair, although it was starting to thin a little on top. Around the outer edges of his eyes, crow’s-feet creases threatened to deepen over the next few years, a result of over twenty years under the blazing Territory sun, he reasoned. Or, perhaps it was nothing more than the natural aging process. It mattered little either way to Foley, he was not one who suffered from vanity.

Where Foley differed from many of his police colleagues was in his approach to his job. The vast majority of the police force membership were a hard-working, diligent team of men and women who went about the often-difficult job of policing in a professional, dedicated manner. If that approach was to be considered the average for the force, Foley constantly strived to be better than average. The general opinion among his colleagues was that he was a ‘cop’s cop.’ He was aware of the analogy of course; hard not to be given the gossip mill in the police force was healthier than the local Country Women’s Association. Although he found it flattering, he considered it of little consequence to him in his overall application to the job.

For the most part, Foley was a ‘by-the-book’ cop. There were occasions when he found it acceptable, if not necessary, to bend the rules in his endeavour to achieve the best outcome; most cops were guilty of procedural manipulation at one time or another. For Foley, however, such occasions were rare, although more frequent when working with Sam Rose. Rose’s approach notwithstanding, Foley never once felt guilty of compromising his principles. The end-game, after all, was all about getting a conviction and taking the baddies off the street. The best way to do that, he considered, was to present the best possible case to the prosecutors. If that meant bending the rules occasionally, without actually breaking them, he was okay with that.

4

Foley drove while Sam perused the file on Jackson Traynor. They travelled in an unmarked police sedan, heading north along the Stuart Highway, the main highway running from south to north through the centre of the continent.

“Interesting reading?” Foley asked, after they had been on the road for just over an hour.

“Yes, very interesting.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well,” Sam began, “this Jackson Traynor character has led an adventurous life.”

“As an undercover agent for the Federal Police?”

“Even before he joined the Feds.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was in the military. Served with the SAS Commandos in Afghanistan. It says here he was awarded the Medal for Gallantry for his actions at the battle of Shah Wali Kot, in June 2010. He was part of Second Squadron Commandos deployed by chopper around Tizark, on a kill-or-capture mission hunting the Taliban and their leaders.”

“The Medal for Gallantry,” Foley commented. “I’m guessing he might have got a couple of the bastards.”

“Remind me not to piss him off,” Sam said.

“In that case, you better let me do all the talking; you’ve got priors for pissing people off.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour. This dude killed people for a living.”

“Just like the two Mexican pricks, and maybe a couple of Australian contractors looking to put his lights out,” Foley observed.

“That would be a contest worth watching.”

“Yeah, from afar.” Foley slowed the vehicle and flicked the left-hand indicator on.

Sam dropped the file on the dashboard and looked ahead. “Are we there already?”

“No,” Foley answered. “I need a leak, and a coffee.” He turned off the highway.

One hundred and thirty-five kilometres north of Alice Springs, behind a stand of trees in the heart of Anmatjere aboriginal country, Aileron Roadhouse was set back close to three hundred metres off the Stuart Highway. The rest-stop would be easily missed by the traveller if not for the Anmatjere Man, a giant, steel sculpture of an aboriginal hunter standing 17 metres tall and weighing 8 tonnes, erected in 2005 on a hill behind the roadhouse. A lone sentinel overlooking Aileron and the surrounding area, Anmatjere Man was joined three years later by similar sculptures of a woman and child. The Anmatjere Man had a family.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked.

“That’s the Anmatjere Man,” Foley answered.

“The Anma…what?”

“Anmatjere Man. He was on his own for a few years; then he met the lovely Anmatjere Woman. Now they’re a happy family.”

Sam stared in amazement at the giant sculptures. “I never knew they were here,” he said finally.

“They were right there when we came up this way on the ‘bones in the well’ case. But we didn’t stop here.”

“Why here, in the middle of nowhere?” Sam wondered aloud.

“This land is Anmatjere country,” Foley explained. “The Anmatjere people are the traditional owners. The sculptures invite people to stop, take photos, and spend money in the roadhouse. It’s all about marketing.”

“Well, it’s working. I’m hungry, and we never did get to have lunch.”

Foley parked in a designated area, got out of the vehicle, and stretched. He leaned down and spoke through the open door. “I’m gonna take a leak. You wanna order me a steak sandwich and a coffee to go?”

“It’s your turn to buy lunch,” Sam reminded him.

“My turn?”

“Yes, your turn! I paid for lunch last week.”

“That’s not how I remember it. Tell them to hold the beetroot.” Foley closed the door and started walking towards the roadhouse toilet block. Behind him, Sam got out of the vehicle, muttering just loud enough to be heard.

“Bloody steak sandwich…hold the fuckin’ beetroot…rip-off, roadhouse prices…I’ll have to get a second job.”