No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller by Roland Fishman Page A

rumbled slowly along the gravel and came to a gentle stop.
    Light flooded underneath the vehicle.
    Two sets of dark boots strode toward the four-wheel drive.
    Carter heard the distinct sound of a pump-action cocking and a shell crunching into the chamber ready to fire.
    Shotguns weren’t part of the plan.
    “This is all very melodramatic,” Erina said, her tone playful and light. “I just came by to see Pete.”
    A hoarse voice answered her. “Pete’s not here. Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
    Carter ran his forefinger over the well-oiled barrel of his Glock.
    “Really, guys,” Erina said, “I’m just coming back from Brisbane. Pete said he was on night shift this week and asked me to drop by.”
    She hadn’t missed a beat.
    “Get out of the car,” the hoarse voice repeated.
    The driver’s door opened and Erina stepped out.
    “Leave the bag on the seat.”
    “Why are you making such a fuss?”
    Carter imagined her staring down the barrel, calculating the odds, deciding whether she should attempt to take the guy out.
    A set of boots moved toward her.
    Carter hoped she’d play it low-key and bide her time. With a shotgun pointing at your head, the percentages were too low to make a move, but eventually an opening would present itself and they’d sort it out. He was counting on her having faith in him, even though they hadn’t worked together for two years.
    “Put the shotgun to her head, Smokey, and if she moves so much as a muscle pull the trigger and blow her pretty head off.”
    “No worries, Mick.”
    Carter watched a pair of boots move to Erina’s left. The other boots stepped forward.
    Mick’s husky voice said, “What’s this?”
    Carter figured he was frisking her.
    “She’s got a gun under her armpit.”
    Erina’s Beretta landed on the ground and a boot kicked it away.
    “A woman in the bush needs to protect herself,” Erina said. “You have no right to—”
    The sharp crack of an open hand hitting flesh made Carter hold his breath.
    A moment of silence followed.
    “Fucking arsehole,” she said.
    Another sharp crack rang out. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch, or I’ll spread that cute little nose across your face.”
    Adrenalin coursed through Carter’s veins and his pulse quickened, but his mind was crystal-clear. He needed to rescue Erina before either of the guards called the house and warned whoever was there.
    A handcuff clicked open and then closed.
    “Smokey, check the car.”
    A set of boots strode toward the car. The door opened.
    Smokey stepped inside – a big guy judging by the downward movement of the vehicle.
    Carter slipped his finger around the trigger of the Glock.
    Half a minute later the car bounced up and the door slammed shut.
    “All clear, Mick,” Smokey said. “The bitch is alone.”
    “Sweet. I’m going to radio the house and find out what the boss wants us to do with her.”
    “Don’t start feeling her up without me.”
    “No need to get your tits in a tangle, Smokey – I’m not greedy. I like to share.”
    Their laughter had a strange, almost hysterical quality.
    “You stay here,” Mick said. “Keep your eyes open.”
    “Yep.”
    Carter saw Erina’s running shoes move away, followed by a set of boots that presumably belonged to Mick.
    “Hey, mate,” his friend called.
    The boots stopped.
    “You reckon we should have ourselves a bit of fun before handing her over?”
    “Why not?” Mick said. “You’re only young once. Just stay alert and you can go seconds.”
    “Roger that.”
    “Remember the boss reckons there’s a guy with her. Some dangerous motherfucker. Might be following her. You need to cover my skinny arse while I lighten my load.”
    “It’s not like I’m going to fall asleep. I’ve had enough goey to keep me awake for a week.”
    Goey was slang for speed. That accounted for the mad edge to their voices and laughter. These guys were wired on amphetamines, making them unpredictable,