Dead Man Walking: When Duty Calls

By Harvey Cleggett

Russian ‘master criminals’ known as The Board have infiltrated Australian ports, moving contraband at will. Detective Inspector Michael Ballard’s relentless pursuit of the group’s hierarchy, backed by colleague’s John Henderson, and the Serious Crime Taskforce Commander, Peter Donaldson, has struck a hurdle. The Board’s tentacles have penetrated the state’s political system, the police force, and even big business. Alarmingly, direct threats have been made against Ballard and John and their families, warning them that should the homicide detectives dogged investigations continue, their loved ones will suffer.

If that isn’t shocking enough, The Board has now set its sights on the first shipment of nuclear waste due to be entombed in the Victorian outback—a scenario that has implications for millions of lives. The three detective’s expertise and resolve is about to be tested to the full.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664105249

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Harvey Cleggett.

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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 16/11/2020

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Contents

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

Acknowledgements

‘

To my wife Leanne,

who I love and cherish as my companion for life.’

‘To my son Steven, and daughter Lauren,

may your hard work and dedication remain the bedrock of your lives.’

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PROLOGUE

The billionaire Russian property developer took scant notice as the two detectives entered the Melbourne Assessment Prison interview room, settling opposite. It was clear he had expected at least one of them to conduct the interrogation. Taking out his trusty Olympus recorder, John placed it on the table. Vladimir eyed it with disdain, causing the senior sergeant to move the device closer to further annoy him.

Ballard pointed the remote over his shoulder to activate the room’s video recorder. My name is Michael Ballard. I’m a detective inspector attached to Homicide. With me is Detective Sr Sgt John Henderson, also attached to Homicide. For the record, in the room to be interviewed is Vladimir Borisovich Bokaryov. It’s the twenty-sixth of April, and the time is 12.45 p.m.

The Russian appeared indifferent, having heard it all before. Despite his apathy, his left eyelid fluttered, which he massaged with his free hand, the other handcuffed to the table’s anchor point. A shadow of annoyance ghosted across his face, irritated at his subconscious display of unease.

Ballard flipped open his daybook, placing his favourite Montblanc pen on the empty page.

Hunching forward, he got straight to the point. No more deals, Vladimir. You’ve been caught with your pants down once too often, literally. Consequently, our assistant commissioner has instructed us to process you for each of your offences: from the Note Printing Australia robbery last November, the siege on Victoria’s Parliament House three weeks ago, right through to the Russian diplomat cartwheeling off his balcony in St Georges Road, Toorak—thanks to a gentle nudge from his wife, Tatiana Olegovich.

Vladimir inclined his head, feigning confusion, but his eyes gave him away, opening a fraction wider while turning a shade colder. He remained mute.

Provoked by the show of indifference, John lunged forward, startling Ballard who feared his partner was about to strike the Russian. With supreme effort John controlled himself. "St Georges Road was fitted with eyes and ears day and night before Tatiana murdered her husband. Yes, murdered . . . It’s all on video. The bracelet strategically dropped just out of reach on the balustrade, followed by her asking her husband to retrieve it and then helping him over the top. The death squad removing the body, and, of course, your lust charged romp after the diplomat broke his neck—it’s all been recorded, audio as well as video. We can freeze frame it if you’d like!"

John’s outburst was in reference to Surveillance Services installing multiple devices in Dimochka Olegovich’s mansion after discovering the Russian diplomat was the Australian cell leader for the elite criminal syndicate known in discreet circles as The Board; the group’s tentacles reaching across the world from its headquarters in Moscow. The federal government’s request that Russia revoke Olegovich’s diplomatic immunity without informing their embassy in Melbourne was a clandestine deal benefitting the ongoing police investigation, the Kremlin’s cooperation a surprising and welcomed bonus.

John’s nostrils flared. "Those issues aside, we know it’s your aspiration to become The Board’s next cell leader here in Australia, so that’s where we’re focussing today’s interview. Who have you been dealing with to make you and Tatiana so confident you could be a contender?"

Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, but it was his ‘whatever I say doesn’t matter’ arrogance that triggered alarm bells in Ballard’s head, despite not being sure why.

The Russian sat bolt upright, defiant. "I’ve got nothing to gain by admitting anything to you."

"Really? John appeared as though he would explode, his deepening colour a clear warning. Do we have to go down that road again? You’ve already admitted during a previous interview that threats have been made against you to cooperate or your daughter will be harmed. That’s now losing some of its potency, considering your actions since we released you before on the understanding you would provide us with information regarding The Board’s members."

As Vladimir gave another indifferent shrug, John stabbed a forefinger at the Russian, very much in his face. "You’ll be going away for life, and your daughter Erina, who’s still a minor, will be taken into foster care now that her mother’s dead. All this is on your head because of your actions . . . no one else’s."

The Russian’s jaw clenched as he wrenched his shackled arm, forgetting it was restrained. John leapt on the mood change, taunting him, determined to capitalise on Vladimir’s discomfort. "I said you’re going away for life, but you and I both know that’ll never happen. You’re too far up the food chain for The Board—or as you prefer to call them, Cobet—to let you live. He leant back in his chair, punctuating the comment with an assured lift of his chin as both men engaged in a mutual stare, interrupted by John adding, Erina is effectively an orphan as of now."

The Russian’s jaw muscles bulged, but he maintained his stony silence.

Ballard decided on an alternate strategy. We also want to know what your interaction with Sergey Alistratov was during the siege on Parliament House. As he’s an ex-Spetsnaz soldier and the ringleader of the team who conducted the assault, your financing of the operation meant you must have had direct contact with him.

At this, Vladimir responded angrily, "What’s wrong with you fools . . . I’ve already told you I was the financier for the project, that’s it. Cobet knew I had a liquidity problem with my CBD development projects, specifically down at Docklands, and by lending me the finances, they had me where they wanted me. I was forced to bankroll the NPA robbery as well as finance the attack on Parliament House. I’m telling you, if I didn’t cooperate my daughter was going to be raped and then murdered." The Russian’s agitation caused him to regress from what was up to that point faultless English. Ballard and John registered the transformation and the mounting stress in his voice, notwithstanding his effort to maintain a composed facade.

"And you still insist Sergey was assigned by The Board to do this to your daughter?"

Again Vladimir’s left eyelid fluttered violently, resulting in him massaging it once more. Yes. The word was little more than a whisper, laced with the understandable anguish of a distraught father.

John didn’t bother to express any emotion. "So what contact did you have with Sergey regarding the siege?"

None. I transferred the required funds into a specified account, that’s all.

John was dubious, but decided not to pursue the matter, instead changing tack. "Let’s cut to the real issue, shall we? Have you had direct dealings with any of the Cobet members in Russia?" He did his best to mask his expectation, but Ballard sensed his colleague’s wish for a breakthrough.

Vladimir glared at him as though he were mad. "Nobody . . . and I mean nobody, only the cell leaders contact them, even then it’s at arm’s length. It’s never face to face. All my orders were via Olegovich."

How do you know it’s only the cell leaders who have contact? John was determined to maintain his foot on Vladimir’s throat.

The Russian hesitated, contemplating an answer that would be in his favour but realising he had scant options. I’ve discussed this with Tatiana, and as Olegovich’s wife she had a clear understanding of how things worked within the cell.

Ballard scribbled a note in his daybook. So why the urgency to become a cell leader? From what we’ve seen of the others . . . and Olegovich is a prime example, if they stuff up, the death squad makes short work of them.

Ballard’s allusion was to the phantom-like death squad The Board had in every country where they operated. The groups’ primary role was to eliminate members should any illegal undertakings fail that may lead to the identity of the Russian hierarchy being revealed.

Vladimir was frustrated, as though the answer was obvious. "I’m a dead man walking if I don’t repay Cobet their money. As a cell leader I would have the means over time to raise that cash and get out from under them."

Ballard gave John a subtle glance, which spoke volumes, their understanding formed from more than two decades of working together; neither detective believing Vladimir was ever going to ‘get out from under’ The Board’s clutches.

Ballard pressed on. When you were arrested at the Melbourne Club with the other cell members, did you know any of them, apart from Tatiana? Both detectives were still coming to terms with the staggering reality that a retired navy admiral, a magistrate, and, even more shocking, their current specialist operations deputy commissioner were arrested, together with five prominent business leaders, all ostensibly pillars of society.

Vladimir shook his head, his expression genuine, but given his psychopathic disposition, his ability to lie with total conviction played on both detectives’ minds. I’ve never seen any of them before in my life. He sat staring at them, his face impassive.

John leaned into the Russian, invading his space. You’d better be telling the truth because our superintendent is next door questioning the deputy commissioner as we speak. Also, three of my team are upstairs grilling the admiral and the magistrate.

Ballard hoped his colleague Peter Donaldson, the Serious Crime Task Force commander, was having more luck with his prisoner than they were with Vladimir. That said, Ballard wasn’t holding his breath, aware the deputy commissioner was a hard nosed, old school career policeman who would be doing his best to intimidate Peter with his rank. As for John’s team of junior detectives, Ken, Bobby, and Susan more than made up for their lack of experience with unlimited doggedness and grit, and were certain to be putting the admiral and the magistrate through the grinder.

Proving he was far from done, John asked, "What about Tatiana? She must have known the identity of some of the cell members?"

Vladimir could be seen tiring of the questions, his blue-grey eyes hardening as he stared at his interrogators, his upper lip sporting a faint sheen. I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask her.

That’s being done as we speak. John’s retort was icy.

Ballard recalled his earlier chat with his superior, Supt Delwyn Peters, along with the department’s psychologist, Marjorie Otterman before both women headed to the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre where Tatiana was being detained. Peter had highlighted how tough the interrogation would be. He reminded them of the emotionless manner with which Tatiana had dispatched her husband off the balcony, afterwards sitting back, supremely composed as the death squad retrieved the body and then cleaned the blood off the mansion’s cobblestone driveway. Agreeing, Delwyn asked Marjorie to sit in on the interview to determine what she could from a psychologist’s perspective.

About to pursue his argument, John was interrupted by the harsh wail of the Assessment Prison’s siren. Initially believing it was a fire drill, he realised within seconds it was the prison’s alarm system. It’s on off nerve jangling pulse had the hair on the back of both detectives’ necks standing on end, but it was Vladimir’s impassive manner that caused the most disquiet; he sat motionless, unperturbed, as though having expected the unfolding scenario.

Ballard dragged John to one side, hissing in his ear, "The bastard knows something. Look at him. No way is this a drill or we’d have been notified over the PA system. My guess is we’re under attack from The Board’s death squad. They’re here to kill everyone we arrested at the Melbourne Club."

Colour drained from John’s face as full realisation hit home. Inclining his head in the direction of Vladimir he snarled, By the way the prick’s just sitting there, I’d suggest he believes it’s more a rescue mission than an execution. Cursing, he followed up with I’m not so sure about the DC, the admiral, or the magistrate. I doubt they’re important enough to be saved. No, it’ll be a bullet in the back of the head for each of them, and the danger is Ken, Bobby, and Susan are right in the firing line, along with Pete next door.

Mobiles in hand, they were about to call the respective detectives when Leonard, the prison guard, burst through the door, eyes wild, his breathing ragged. He blurted the obvious. We’re under attack. I’ve just warned your superintendent.

"Where is he now?" Ballard’s voice was tight with anxiety.

Leonard unlocked Vladimir’s handcuff as he spoke over his shoulder. Outside with the prisoner, about to take him to the safe room on this floor. John pushed the guard aside before grabbing Vladimir by the lapels, hauling him to his feet, delivering a vicious blow to the man’s stomach to gain his immediate compliance. The Russian doubled over, dry retching as he was hauled towards the door.

Ballard ordered Leonard to lead the way. The guard wrenched the door open and stepped into the corridor, almost colliding with Peter who had the deputy commissioner in a half nelson as he frog marched him along the passageway, the superintendent’s face ashen.

Taking one hurried look at his colleagues, Peter hissed through clenched teeth, This is about to turn into a major bloodbath if we’re not careful.

John took up position behind him, with Vladimir continuing to moan from the savage assault.

Racing ahead, Leonard called out unnecessarily, "Follow me."

Halting in front of a metal door, he fumbled as he unlocked it, finally swinging it open, having to lean hard against the heavy panel, which, by its weight, appeared to be bullet and bombproof.

"Get in. Get in." All the while he checked left and right along the corridor, fear distorting his voice.

Shoving Vladimir and DC Salisbury inside, the two were quickly handcuffed to securing rings bolted into the wall. Leonard slid home the door’s three internal bolts before rushing to a keyboard and tapping in commands. He stared at the multiple screens on the wall which monitored the corridors in the building, including the one they were on.

Ballard grabbed the guard by the shoulder. Is there a safe room on every floor?

The man’s goatee beard disappeared several times as he nodded. Of course. OH&S insisted on it—the walls and doors can withstand a shoulder mounted rocket—

"OK, OK, our three colleagues on the floor above, how do we get them into their safe room?" While staring at the respective monitor, they saw to their relief a guard sprinting along the corridor above, stopping at both interview rooms to pound on the doors repeatedly, his left and right glances mimicking those of Leonard’s moments before.

John let out a shout, refocussing everyone’s attention, his outstretched finger pointing accusingly at the monitor displaying their own floor. Two men dressed in black military fatigues, miked, wearing thigh holsters and carrying what Ballard believed were SIG MCX semi-automatic carbines were seen running along the corridor.

Halting at the two interview rooms, they kicked the doors open. The instant the attackers realised the rooms were empty they moved cautiously towards the safe room, one of them taking out several packs of what the detectives feared was C4, slapping them against the door’s hinges.

Peter hissed, Leonard, here’s praying your theory about these bloody doors holds true. He reached across and relieved the guard of his Glock, much to the man’s dismay. Peter conceded. Not that we stand much chance against assault rifles, but I’ll be stuffed if I’m going down without a fight. Gritting his teeth, he signalled his intent to Ballard and John. All moved back from the door, stepping to the side as a precaution.

The tension was unbearable, all eyes glued on the screen as the two figures retreated from the blast zone, disappearing from the camera’s vision. Seconds later a muffled explosion shook the entire room, dust particles showering from the ceiling as lights flickered. John swore he saw the reinforced door buckle, but it held firm. He grunted, "Mother of God. We’re stuck in here with one pissant handgun, which is about as effective as a knife at a gunfight. I’m assuming that is the death squad out there?"

Ballard could only shrug as he concentrated on the second screen which covered the floor above. It was obvious the guard on that level had mobilised the three detectives who were marching the admiral and the magistrate towards their own safe room, which the guard had unlocked, his frantic arm gestures urging the group on.

The detectives and the two prisoners scrambled inside, but to Ballard’s dismay the guard turned, making a fatal mistake by taking one last look along the corridor the instant two members of the assault team came into view. A short burst from one of the carbines caught him, dropping him to the floor.

What happened next was breathtaking in its bravery. Keeping out of the line of fire, the detectives reached down, dragging the shot man inside before slamming the door shut. The two assailants flung themselves forward, grabbing the handle to haul it open, but it was clear the internal bolts had been slid into place. Within seconds two more assault team members appeared.

Are they the guys who were on our floor? John strained to identify them, but their helmets and balaclavas prevented any form of recognition. Scrambling, he took out his mobile and rang Bobby, while Ballard did the same for Ken.

Six rings and Ballard was at the point of giving up when he heard a hesitant Mike, are you guys OK?

Ballard couldn’t help but sport a smile. We’re fine Ken. We’re in the safe room downstairs . . . directly below yours. What about you?

A weak reply followed. We got inside just as the shooting started.

Ballard followed up with Yes, we saw you on the monitor. The guard was hit. How is he?

There was an extended pause during which Ken drew breath. He’s dead Mike. He copped a couple in the chest and one in the head.

Ah, Jesus, the poor bastard. Ballard’s feeling of intense relief that his colleagues were unharmed was countered by the news of the guard’s fate, tempering his initial elation.

Ken continued in a low voice charged with emotion. He saved our lives Mike. If he hadn’t turned up when he did, we’d all be dead. The statement was delivered monotone, shock setting in.

Ballard attempted to reassure his colleague. Ken . . . hang in there. You did everything you could, and thank Christ you secured the bolts in time.

An emphatic "Bloody oath" echoed in Ballard’s ear.

Agonising how to deliver his next piece of news, Ballard decided there was no option but to lay it on the line. "With the guard dead, there’s no time for us to walk you through how to activate the monitors in your room. We’ll have to be your eyes as to what’s going on around you. Currently, four of the assault team are outside your door. They may try to blow it in—"

"Jesus! What can we—"

"Ken, Ken, they tried the same on our door, and it stood up to it. Just make sure the bolts are fully secured and stand to one side. He hesitated. I’m assuming your guard was armed?"

Ken took several seconds to reply. He is . . . or was.

Good, grab his weapon, just in case. I’ll have Peter contact Tim to find out when he can get up to your level. Make sure you stay on the line. Ballard prayed Inspector Tim Robbins, the Special Operations Group OC had marshalled his troops to mount a rescue. Holding the mobile to his chest, Ballard was about to request Peter place a call to him when he saw the superintendent was already in furious discussion with the SOG commander. Seconds later, Peter held up three fingers, indicating as many minutes.

John mirrored Ballard’s action, clutching his mobile against his body. "Bloody hell Mike, there has to be something we can do other than sit here cooped up like rats in a drain?"

Deep down, Ballard knew there was nothing that could be achieved other than provide intel until the SOG teams arrived. He was also fearful that against a disciplined death squad it would prove a monumental task for Tim’s team to overpower them. All three detectives considered one another, haunted eyes exposing their deepest fears for Tim and his squad’s safety—Ballard’s dread heightened by the commander’s engagement to his sister, Kathryn, their plans well under way for a wedding later in the year.

Furious at the circumstance he found himself in, John’s sense of impotence triggered his emotions to boil over. Demanding Ballard hold his mobile, he crossed to where the deputy commissioner was shackled, landing a vicious blow to the man’s solar plexus, even more savage than the one he had given Vladimir. Not expecting John’s action, the senior officer doubled over, slumping to his knees, unable to speak as he gasped for air, his handcuff preventing him from collapsing fully onto the floor. Through clenched teeth, John snarled, "That’s courtesy of our AC."

Peter’s wide-eyed glance towards Ballard implied he hadn’t seen anything. Ballard reciprocated the stare as he handed John back his phone, growling, "Now you’ve got that off your chest, let’s keep our mind on the job, shall we?" John rolled his shoulders, allowing himself a tight smile.

Checking the screen once more, to everyone’s relief, the four assailants appeared to have given up on blowing the door, instead moving from the floor, possibly realising they had limited time before the SOG teams arrived. Ballard passed the news to Ken who advised Bobby and Susan of the lucky break; their shouts of relief echoing in the background.

Peter indicated Tim had assembled ten of his squad and they had begun their systematic sweep of the prison, the SOG officer revealing the lantern-jawed guard at the reception desk who had checked them in had been fatally shot.

The detectives stared at Vladimir and the deputy commissioner, their anger directed towards the two criminals, channelling the blame for the guards’ deaths squarely at the men’s feet. Ballard maintained a close eye on John to ensure he wasn’t tempted to dish out additional rough justice.

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CHAPTER

1

Several minutes passed before they spotted Tim and four of his team on the monitor, all moving cautiously along the corridor outside their safe room, their weapons sweeping front and rear. Rechecking the screen to ensure the SOG team wasn’t under attack, John unbolted the door which had been so crucial in saving their lives.

The reunion was brief but emotional, Tim claiming the assailants had started a fire in the exercise yard as a diversion prior to entering the Assessment Prison. He went on to say multiple fire trucks had been held in the street until all the assassins had been shot.

John was astonished. "What, you took out all of them?"

Tim brushed it off. Well, they weren’t going to surrender, and two of my guys can thank their body armour for being able to walk out of here, notwithstanding copping some pretty spectacular bruising.

Intense relief swept over Ballard, identical to that which he felt for the three detectives minutes earlier. "Tim, you can be bloody proud to have put this mob down. This is the first time anyone’s been able to touch them. His relief was short lived as he caught his breath. Delwyn and Marjorie—they’re at the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre. What if more of these bastard’s are attempting the same carnage down there?"

Tim placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Take it easy Mike. I rang the centre and warned them to lock down all the prisoners. Then I managed to get hold of Delwyn. She said they’d already wrapped up their interview with Tatiana, and were heading back to the office. But you’re right, an attack there is a distinct possibility. I’ve sent some of my team over just in case, and the prison’s Security and Emergency Services Group has been made aware of the situation. They’re in the process of mobilising a squad.

Ballard relaxed, giving a satisfied nod, while John and Peter clapped Tim on the back, uttering heartfelt congratulations. Compliments over, John agitated to get upstairs to check on his team. Leaving a SOG officer to guard Vladimir and the deputy commissioner, they piled up the stairs, Tim’s men leading the way as a precautionary measure. John hammered a fist on the safe room door, calling out it was OK to open up.

In spite of his bellowed assurance, it took a full thirty seconds before the door was inched ajar, Bobby’s face partially appearing. "Christ, are we glad to see you guys. This all turned into some scary shit."

John growled, pretending to be dismissive. Stop whining. It’s what you get paid for.

Stepping inside, they saw the detectives had positioned the deceased guard against the wall in as dignified a manner as possible. Susan stood staring down at the body, fighting back tears, the mounting shock of the preceding minutes overcoming her. Ken placed a comforting arm around her shoulders, leading her away; she returned the gesture with an appreciative hug.

As was the case for the DC and Vladimir, the admiral and the magistrate were also handcuffed to the wall rings; the admiral defiant, demanding to be released, his face crimson with indignant rage. The magistrate, a broken man, stood with his head bowed, too ashamed to acknowledge his captors.

Ken turned to Tim. Your guys OK?

Tim nodded. A couple of close calls, but yes, they came through basically unscathed. The guy at reception was killed, along with four other guards. The assailants forced one of the guards to open the cells holding the businessmen. Then they shot him along with the businessmen, all double-tapped in the head. I put that down to their military training.

Despite years of operational experience, John was still shocked by the ruthless efficiency of the assault team. While he wished for better news, his street smarts told him it wouldn’t be forthcoming, the junior detectives equally disconsolate.

Tim hooked a thumb towards the admiral and the magistrate. It’s a miracle you managed to keep these two alive. Not to mention Vladimir and the DC downstairs.

The admiral stiffened at the revelation, his head cocked to one side, contemplating what might have been, the news they had narrowly avoided being executed by The Board leaving the magistrate emotionally shattered, his business suit almost swallowing him, hanging shabbily on his limp frame.

Ballard indicated for everyone to step into the corridor before airing his concerns. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with security in this place for the assailants to have just waltzed in here. How many were there all up? He looked to Tim.

Six.

Ballard shook his head. There you have it. Six kitted-up assassins bursting in the front door of a high security prison. What the hell does that tell you?

Tim cleared his throat. Er, they didn’t come in the front door Mike.

There were mystified stares. Tim moved further along the corridor with everyone following, ensuring they were out of earshot of the two prisoners. Folks, you’re not going to believe this, but a couple of my guys found a tunnel leading off the major storm water drain that runs parallel under La Trobe Street . . .

"Oh . . . you have . . . got . . . to . . . be . . . shitting me." John’s expression turned to stunned acceptance as he noted Tim’s steadfast gaze.

By the professional manner the tunnel was bricked up, it may have been there for months, perhaps years. His smile was enigmatic, almost secretive. And guess where it comes out?

Bobby and Susan shook their head, unsure whether to proffer what appeared on the face of it to be an obvious answer, with Ken opting to spoil Tim’s suspense. Oh, that’s easy, in one of the exercise yards.

Bingo! The south-west yard near where Sergey escaped over the wall a month or so back. The opening only exposed when the group broke through just prior to the raid kicking off. Go to the top of the class, young man.

John had difficulty getting his head around the situation. What . . . the tunnel was in place for God knows how long just waiting for the necessity to break into the prison? He appeared dumbfounded by the extent of The Board’s forward planning.

Peter added his thoughts. "With the tunnel good to go, it meant they could breach the Assessment Centre whenever they had to take out anyone who may prove to be a security risk for The Board. When you think it through, there’s sound logic to all this. He became reflective. By my estimate, the distance from the outer edge of the storm water drain to just inside the yard is less than twelve metres. Johno here could dig that far in a couple of days. Like I said, it’s good business sense to have the bloody thing in place, ready to go."

John was unimpressed. Yeah, ‘good business sense’ for a bunch of lunatic psychopaths.

Peter wasn’t convinced. I suggest you go a wee bit lighter on the ‘lunatic’ angle and a hell of a lot heavier on the ‘psychopath’ aspect. He laughed suddenly. "Besides John, wasn’t it you who suggested a tunnel should be dug between our Crime building and the Assessment Centre to simplify prisoner movement? Christ, The Board’s already done half the work for you."

Yeah, just not via a storm water drain, thank you very much. John’s inverted finger increased Peter’s already growing mirth.

Members of the Critical Incident Response Team arrived to escort the four prisoners across La Trobe Street so they could be interviewed at the Crime Department offices. The detectives, along with Tim, moved outside to inspect the exercise yard and the ragged hole boxed up with rudimentary timber near the edge of the grassed verge. All stared at what was the opening through which the assassins had sprung, shooting two guards on the wall’s observation walkway, their first violent act before breaching the prison itself.

John snapped several photos on his phone, all the while muttering his disbelief, If I wasn’t seeing this with my own eyes I’d never have believed it. Talk about balls.

As they turned to walk back inside, Ballard’s mobile rang. To his relief he noted it was from Delwyn. Snatching it to his ear, he exclaimed, I’m glad you rang Delwyn. Where are you?

The response sent a chill the length of his spine as he recognised Sergey’s voice, halting him in his tracks. In his typically abrupt style, the Russian dispensed with any preamble, delivering a blunt message devoid of emotion. "You have something I want. I have something you want." With that he was gone.

Everyone stopped, alarmed at the dramatic transformation in Ballard’s demeanour. Seconds later, his mobile signalled the receipt of a text. Trepidation flooded him, fearing what the message would reveal. A photo materialised, causing him to reel backwards as air escaped his lungs, his limbs suddenly leaden. He fought to comprehend the image confronting him; brutal in its delivery, misogynist in its concept. He couldn’t speak, his face wracked in disbelief.

Images flashed through his mind’s eye as he questioned his decision not to execute Sergey when he had the opportunity at the Grampians. He weighed up the ever-mounting loss of life metered out by the Russian. He measured the combined trauma and heartache for the victims’ loved ones against the guilt he would have suffered had he put the Russian down, along with the genuine prospect of going to jail, a