Stashed: A Jim Walker Thriller

By George O'Connell

In the cops, Jim Walker thinks he has seen it all. Until he confronts the unexpected, hideous activities on the island where he grew up.

International syndicates are at play. Law and crime share a shady line. Ricco, a double-crossing killer, unleashes his inner torment, figuring it is the only way. The city is close, it has secrets, too. A dark underbelly of criminals emerges from the highest floors and government.

Nothing can prepare Jim for the dark world he is about to enter. A lawmaker has motives; only he knows the person controlling everything. Finally, the truth is uncovered. But it is not what Jim and Edmonds have been counting on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922912596

George O'Connell

Stashed is George's second Jim Walker thriller and crime fiction novel.Bloodwood Grove is his first crime novel.George has written a historical fiction, ‘A Special Lady from Hanoi’, which is based on the life of a pioneering Vietnamese ophthalmologist over five decades from the 1950s.

Book preview

Part One

Shape

Description automatically generated with medium confidence

1    Valuable Cargo

Zeljko Lovric looks down at his GPS monitor then glances at the sonar. His eyes are stinging. It will be twenty nautical miles before they’ll be in Australian waters. His mind wanders; these trips are riddled with despair and ugly ambitions. Where does it end? Will this be his last trip to the Aussie Bight? He has important things to take care of that are front and centre in his mind. The valuable cargo on board elevates the compulsive thoughts.

The trip around the African coast through the Gulf of Guinea can be perilous. The darkness of the ocean and the heavily armed men that sail it could descend upon him at a minute’s notice. He and his crew have managed to evade the ruthless, violent pirates that prowl the waters. Maybe luck has been with them. The pirates probably targeting a bigger vessel. The navy watchdog could find everything though, including the four boys on board. How would he ever explain their presence?

Zeljko gazes ahead at the oncoming swell, up over the three-metre intrusion and down again. The roller coaster continues. He immediately thinks about Rupert Beck and how desperate, and reck­less, he is. The older he becomes, the more brazen he is becoming, too. The trip Rupert made to Hanover in Germany to meet a businessman at a convention was not by coincidence either. The convention provided him perfect cover as he went about his covert affairs.

Choosing boys of this age is madness, even in Zeljko’s mind. A clandestine conversation with Goran a few hours ago in the dead of the night is rumbling in his thoughts. Goran had earlier volunteered as nightwatchman on the Golden Thorn, giving him the perfect opportunity to contact Zeljko whilst the rest of the crew slept, oblivious to the sounds of the sea and the rumble of the engine below.

Goran had given the all-clear for Zeljko, instructing him to proceed to the rendezvous point, where Ricco Ankov would meet them, receive the boys, and transport them on his small boat across the straight to the mainland. It was more-or-less a simple plan; a plan they had carried out several times before. The plan, however, is about to change.

‘Can you shut that kid up?’ Zeljko looks over his shoulder towards the galley and shouts to his crew. One of the boys has woken with a thump after the boat descends down a steep trough, its bow smacking into the peak sending a blanket of water over the wheelhouse and interrupting Zeljko’s vision for a few seconds. The boat lurches to the portside before righting itself but not without a groan from the engine room. The bilge pumps work overtime, sucking up the filthy water from below and spewing it back into the sea.

‘I got him boss,’ shouts one of the fishermen. ‘He just needs a trip to the head.’

‘Again?’

‘Yeah. It’s a mess back here.’ Dry vomit with nothing solid is glued to the floor around the sleeping boys forming an ugly perimeter.

Izzy has just turned fifteen, and is quite illiterate, his ability well below his years. He tried teaching himself and his orphan friends. On a rare occasion, a supervisor would leave a magazine in the playroom or throw it in a bin, and Izzy would grab it, studying the articles in an effort to decipher the words making up the stories. Izzy’s street smart though. His understanding of good and bad had sunk in early. Witnessing obscenities on a daily basis, living with it in fear and hate, receiving and watching, it all built the ghastly platform he lives on.

The orphanage in Sierra Leone had been under surveillance. Children similar to Izzy had been taken from obscure locations and were treated like caged animals after their parents were savaged by guerrilla gangs and executed in public for all to see like it was a game to them.

The children underfed, lacked clothing, unwashed and never received an education. They would spend the entire time in a virtual prison waiting to be bought and given a supposedly better life. The orphanages run by corrupt businessmen and associates were always on the lookout for a quick sale. The dollar value for a boy resulted in a tidy profit for them.

Izzy feels weak. His legs buckle; he tries to walk after being forced to stand up by the illegitimate minder. He has overheard Zeljko speaking with someone earlier during the night. The hazy gist of the conversation comprising something about a ‘spit’, and someone called Ankov, who’d collect. Their destination, wherever that is, mustn’t be far away. He wonders if this could be his last hope for freedom. He fought desperately in his youth against all odds with the evillest men he’d ever come across. But still, a servant he remains.

The head on the boat seems a long distance, but in reality, it is just a matter of metres. Izzy manages to relieve himself of the remaining liquid in his system. The dehydration set in much earlier; any remaining strength is only in the form of willpower. He sits back down in the corner of the galley to survey his fellow captives. It seems the three of them are barely alive; their skinny, jaundice limbs skewered in all directions as they lay motionless across the floor. Izzy wonders if his fellow captives are dead already.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Izzy dreads falling asleep thinking he might wake up in some strange forgetful place, just as he did when he found himself that first night at the orphanage. Drugged and senseless with no idea what had happened to him. The only worse scenario, he could think of, is not waking at all. The tension in his body grows; his muscles are tight, ready to spasm. Mustering the strength to lean up against the cupboard at floor level has never been more difficult.

‘We should be at the spit in around two hours.’ Izzy hears Zeljko call out to the crew in his strong Croatian accent.

Izzy senses the boat turn a few degrees, but what the change in direction means he can’t fathom. Some articles on the small dining table next to him shift slightly. A cupboard door swings open partially revealing a quantity of light-blue shiny pebbles on the bottom shelf. A black vinyl briefcase stands out alongside. Right away, he suspects that the black bag carelessly jammed into the rear of the cupboard contains illegal items.

Meanwhile, Zeljko has been keeping an eye on his cargo. His eagerness to offload it and commence another season of fishing and go about his normal summer routine, grows by the minute. The authorities, none the wiser. Nonetheless, Zeljko regards the four boys in bad shape. He has left the responsibility to his sloppy crew, who don’t care about anything except themselves. He sets the boat back to auto pilot and looks around for Bako, his main man.

‘Hey idiote!’ Zeljko calls out in Croatian to the nearest person he can see. ‘Where’s Bako? Tell him to get those boys some food and water. And hurry,’ he says, impatiently waving his hand in the direction of the galley.

Izzy stirs from his partial sleep, somehow lucid. He recalls being bundled onto the boat at the crowded and suppressive marina in Sierra Leone. Colourful boats of all shapes and sizes with funny names filled the entire docking area. He remembers seeing people hurrying between the boats and the warehouses, where countless trucks lined the access road; the intense heat, aromas of poor hygiene, and ageing seafood hanging in the hot sun were horrible.

Izzy begins tapping the other boys’ legs with a ruler he found on the floor. Assuming the role of leader due to his seniority in age, albeit one year or less, automatically escalates him. The other three are more than happy for Izzy to take the lead; they possess no desire or inspiration for anything but survival. Managing to wake his fellow captives, the four of them are now sitting upright. Stunned looking, but awake.

They are desperate for food, hungry and hopeful but presume nothing. It’s been twenty-hours since the last offerings of unpleasant slop has passed between their lips, barely keeping them alive. Bako has been watching, listening, but really, he has little interest. He shuffles out from the sleeping quarters thinking this trip must be over soon. After rummaging through the galley, four opened tins of spaghetti and a cup of water materialise. The boys devour the cold gluggy contents, they choke and splutter as it fills their mouths and, somehow slides down their parched throats.

Another hour goes by and Izzy has begun to think it’s all a dream. Did the man at the helm controlling the boat say they were nearly there? Izzy longs for daylight to arrive; he and the others have seen little of it in three days. Or was it four? He tries to do the math but fails miserably, and his concentration is broken anyway. Another shout from the helm catches him by surprise.

‘Land, glorious land,’ cries Zeljko from the wheelhouse.

Izzy feels his emotions pulling. First, he feels elated that they will soon be on land again, then apprehension and the thought of being trapped quickly follow, smothering everything. More unknown. The lurking thoughts scare him.

Zeljko steers the boat around an elongated spit at the entrance to the bay; the first marker a skipper sees right before the small beam emitting from a lighthouse some distance away catches their attention. Zeljko pushes the small levers reducing the revs of the twin engines and the boat sinks further into the sea. Until now, Izzy hasn’t heard the sound of the large diesel engines thumping away below deck. His subconscious blocking it out. Finally, a change in the pitch delivers a message, and the thumping diminishes to a slower beat.

Zeljko squints through the glass out to the dark flat water seeking a suitable spot to secure the boat. Distinguished by the curve of the spit at the top of the entrance into Crabtree Bay, the surrounding waters are remarkably still and quiet. To the left of the entrance is a deep channel, the pathway into port for the tuna boats arriving with their catch of anything between ten and eighty ton. The dark, swirling depths of the channel is home to a never-ending swag of sea creatures including sharks feeding on the offal and bloody slime seeping from the decks of the tuna boats.

They have veered right to the calmer and shallower waters near the mangroves. ‘Prepare to anchor,’ Zeljko yells, quickly noting the time.

Peter (Boards) Boardings has trouble sleeping. Invariably, he lies awake most nights for two or three hours thinking about how to escape the mundane life he has woven for himself. Or, he simply stares, his eyes wide open pondering completely useless thoughts of much to do about nothing. So, when Kepano, the new cop in town asks him to drive out to the loading ramp near the head of the bay to carry out surveillance, he leapt at the opportunity. This is the excitement he wants.

Boards had prepared himself following a mysterious call the previous night. The caller from an unknown number rang six times before Boards tapped the green icon. The person on the other end declared he was from Interpol, and told him about smuggling activities originating from Croatia and passing through Africa before arriving into Australia. Boards thought it was all a joke, he couldn’t believe it, and tried to end the call on several occasions but the person persisted, keeping him on the line.

‘Hang on …’ Boards had attempted in vain to stop the person from talking, trying to gain some traction in the conversation.

The mysterious caller went through details of fishermen that had been trafficking and smuggling. They’d been successfully carrying out these operations twice a year for the past three years and have contacts in Adelaide and on Crabtree Island, as well as possible links to bikie gangs. Officials in high places were involved, too.

‘What officials?’ Boards had asked. Again, no explanation. The agent had simply refused to elaborate. Boards didn’t know what to think.

An hour later, Boards had received another call. This time the CEO of the Port Authorities and Customs Department had him groping for words and waving fingers in the air at imaginary objects. The CEO had summarised details similar to the agent’s, instructing Boards to be on call around the clock. Then Kepano, the new cop in town, followed up with his call. Boards began putting the pieces together, realising this must be a case of international proportions.

Reluctantly, Kepano had mentioned there was a fire around at Pelican Point. The emergency call came in via a triple zero call. The spit is on the west side, Pelican Point on the east side of the bay; the two locations are around twenty kilometres apart. Kepano and the fire department had been sent hopping in the opposite direction. Boards had to go to the spit in the early hours instead, by himself.

Boards switches off his lights prior to arriving just after four o’clock. His mind runs wild considering possible scenarios. The boat ramp is a short distance from the spit. He parks his Ute alongside two other vehicles with trailers and collects his thoughts. Trying not to appear suspicious, he nestles behind the perfect camouflage, a clump of mangroves alongside the boat ramp and waits for the tuna boat to arrive, continually looking down at his watch, then back to the head of the spit. He takes his phone out from his pocket and sets it to silent; his ears prick up when he hears the faint sound of twin diesel engines humming across the water in the distance.

He shuffles his way around the makeshift hideout, crouching down lower amongst the bushes, making sure he doesn’t step into the water or mud in the process. The sound of the engines draws closer. He sticks his head up just enough so that he can see over the branches and leaves, and immediately recognises the boat. The only illumination comes from a light in the wheelhouse bearing a soft glow exposing the faint outline of Zeljko.

The boat is a short distance away, he sees two men dropping anchor a stone’s throw from the shoreline. The fading moon glistens softly in the sky above; it provides enough light for Boards to make out the unmistakable Croatian flag and some signage on the side of the vessel. He can hear shouting from the deck, loud, terse, foreign. Another shout, more like a shrill, younger, desperate, sweeps across the foggy water. The boat swings around with the tide and comes to rest at the mooring point. The cabin’s frontage is facing the loading ramp and provides Boards with a clear outline of Zeljko making adjustments in the wheelhouse.

Boards remembers the instructions given to him by all and sundry: ‘You are to observe and report only’. Boards hears the words over and over and thinks about Zeljko. How could he be dangerous? He glances down at his watch and quickly calculates that it will be dawn in an hour and twenty minutes. He can’t help thinking that Zeljko is caught up in something illegal, but how? Why?

The curiosity weighs heavily on Boards. He has to discover exactly what is going on. He wants to unravel the truth right now, waiting any longer isn’t an option. He stands up from behind the mangroves to fully expose himself. He knows no one will see him; it’s a good distance between him and Zeljko’s boat, and the light is poor. The pole with a small lamp on the other side of the boat ramp is out. Darkness surrounds him, only the slight glimmer from the retiring moon enables him to move freely without tripping on an old anchor chain laying at his feet.

Stepping up onto the manmade rocky break to gain a better view, Boards finds the angle isn’t right, his partially blocked view is hindered enough to make matters ungainful. He walks back towards his Ute thinking a better perspective is necessary. He’ll be more elevated, and in a better position to observe the boat and crew. His vehicle is in front of him, the boat out to the left, it’s mysteriously quiet again, there’s no activity it seems.

To his right, in the shadows, something moves. A dark figure soaking into the backdrop of the sea looms over him. For a second, Boards sees a flash, something solid flying towards him, and in a moment of bewilderment his first thought is to yell out, but when he tries to project his voice, nothing happens. Then darkness engulfs him.

Ricco Ankov isn’t expecting company. Coming across the town harbour master catches him unawares, but he has no second thoughts about removing him from the equation and leaves him lying prostrate on the ground. He then steps quickly towards the boat ramp, where he can get a direct line of vision with Zeljko’s boat. He takes out a flash light and holds it up level with his head flashing it on and off three times in succession. Only a few seconds pass before Ricco receives the acknowledgement.

The same three flashes come back from Bako Dele, who is sitting on top of the wheel house observing proceedings. The boat sailing from Sierra Leone to Crabtree Island has been under his watchful eye. The latest illegal manifest of four boys ranged from twelve through to fourteen years old. He has grown tiresome of the constant pressure and nagging from Rupert. This would be the final trip he vowed to himself. Through his binoculars, he sees Boards fall to the ground.

Grabbing a length of rag from his back pocket, Ricco gags Boards, then ties his hands together with some rope from the Ute. It takes all of Ricco’s strength to drag him across the cement surface of the ramp and drop him behind his vehicle. He moves quickly, realising Zeljko is expecting him, the signal to each other clear and precise.

The powerfully ripped muscles of Ricco speak their own language; protruding, raging, from top to bottom. He had trans­formed his body shortly after his father died, vowing never to be bullied by anyone again. His prison days had been spent mostly in the weights room, soaking up hour after hour, day after day, pumping iron. His T-shirt crumpled up when he accosted Boards, exposing parts of his weird prison tattoos and pencil thin scars. Some fresher than others.

He climbs into his small boat and stands upright, rowing, pushing the oars through the water with ease, aware that the sound of an engine will echo across the water.

Zeljko takes note of the faint light flashing, immediately implementing phase two of his mission and upholding his end of the bargain. A bargain he earlier debated at length with Bako before reaching a compromise. After paying his crew, and accounting for expenses, a tidy profit will be gained. To top it off, he’ll receive a cut of the takings made from the white sugar they plan on selling to the bikie gang. Zeljko realises he is getting a good deal; finding out Rupert isn’t making any money from the sale makes it a cruel arrangement, and he knows it’s a deal that Rupert cannot afford.

Zeljko leans around to face his crew and says, ‘ok idiote, one, two and three, let’s get this lot moving. Our transport to shore will be here in a few minutes.’

2    Lonesome Figure

Ricco has been in and out of prison for all sorts of criminal activities including break-ins, armed holdups and attempted murder. The law handing down their verdicts for only what they knew, or could prove beyond reasonable doubt. Many would argue that he is responsible for several other heinous unsolved crimes, but hard evidence beyond reasonable doubt has always been lacking. His alcoholism and constant urge to fight someone has stayed with him since his teens, too.

Ricco’s childhood days are distant memories. The family and its ugliness hovers somewhere in the back of his mind. He and his cousin were stowaways. They managed to sneak aboard a freighter heading for the port of Fremantle. There, they grew into spiteful youths, associating themselves with dark, well known, hardened criminals. A visiting bikie from Adelaide recruited them for a large sum. Ricco and his cousin drilled deeper, establishing themselves as two of the most notorious adversaries in the underbelly world.

After years of notoriety, and further mental scarring, Ricco left the city mayhem. The life of hard crime and frequent spells behind bars took its toll. He wasn’t getting any younger and he’d lost everything. Crabtree Island would be far enough away from it all, so it seemed.

Soon after his arrival he rented an old corrugated-iron house from Mrs Teal in Pelican Point. It wasn’t long before he purchased a second-hand runabout and van, thinking some small-time fishing would put an end to his restlessness. The demons within him never subsided though. They surfaced from his past, and the future continued to pester him, his propensity to deliver wrath upon people remains an uncontrollable force. Especially men.

It took less than a month for Rupert to find Ricco through the bikie gang that Rupert befriended for financial reasons and nothing else. After that, it was just a matter of instructing his most valuable asset on Crabtree Island, Goran, to be the conduit. Supposedly in deep with the Walker family, keeping information flowing and quickly plugging any communication leaks.

News of macabre acts of torture and inflicting pain on prison mates soon filter through to Rupert and his accomplices, but not soon enough.

The whack across Boards’ head with his small calibre pistol gives Ricco a rush, the same rush from all those years ago in the forest with his father. He likes nothing more than to bash or hurt another man – ‘for a reason, boy, for a reason’, as his father had drummed into him.

Ricco’s eyes are fixed on Zeljko’s boat. He stands rowing in his four-metre runabout, pushing the oars into the sea with all his might. With each motion, he feels the muscles in his arms tense and then bulge under his black T-shirt. The dim light from the wheelhouse slowly grows brighter. Ricco moves closer and spots Zeljko standing at the window peering down towards him. His oars slap into the ocean, for the first time they don’t break the surface; the sound ripples across the calm water, a small white cap appears alongside. Fifty metres to the west, under the dull glow of the moon, he sees another small boat with the silhouette of a man rowing in similar style, heading away towards port.

‘Get them onto the deck,’ shouts Ricco, realising he will have to move swiftly and precisely.

There’s a bump from the starboard side, water-soaked wood, heavy and unforgiving, come together. Ricco’s small boat bounces slightly before he fastens a rope to a steel shackle on the lower side of the tuna boat. A rope ladder dangling from the rail presents itself without warning. He tugs on it, making sure it will take his weight, then pulls himself up, his feet barely touching the rungs, reaching the top in a few seconds.

‘Good morning. Right on time as usual,’ says Zeljko, finding Ricco climbing onto the deck. The three crew and four boys make their way from the cabin towards the stern. The boys shuffle slowly, barely able to walk. The men bark their orders.

Ricco has the void look again, and is cursing at himself, like he does regularly. The torment associated with years of psychological and physical abuse at the hands of his father and uncle, and their criminal associates has destroyed him. Intimacy is still a mystery to him. An image of an attractive woman in the Queensdale Hotel surfaces. They had shared more than a glance at one another, but when it comes to sex, he cannot perform, never has, probably never will. He doesn’t blame women, he blames men, and for Ricco, killing them is easy.

‘Morning!’ He replies without looking at Zeljko. ‘This will probably be easier if they climb off the back. They won’t need to go so far,’ he says, with his head leaning in the direction of the boys.

‘Righto! Whatever you reckon. We’ll meet you around at the stern,’ replies Zeljko.

Ricco doesn’t bother to acknowledge Zeljko’s last piece of advice. He climbs back down into his small boat and leans down to collect his pistol from under the bench seat. Then looking up to the deck, he checks if anyone is watching him and tucks the pistol into the back of his trousers.

A few strokes of the oars; that’s all it takes for Ricco to manoeuvre his way around to the back of the boat, where the frightened and bemused boys have gathered alongside the grimy, smelly crew. The boys stand petrified, wondering, frightened, as they watch Ricco refasten his boat. Is this their saviour?

One by one, the boys are ushered into the small boat; Ricco tells them to sit down and keep quiet. The unknown scaring them out of their wits. They are in no position to argue, so obeying every command is the only way for them. Protector or antagonist? This is the scariest unknown. The urge to jump overboard swamps Izzy’s mind, but he realises that would be a big mistake.

Ricco climbs up onto the stern, calculates the task at hand, clumps of slime and scales are all around the railing. With the four boys in his runabout fearing the unknown, the time has come. His brain is wired for this moment. It’s simple for him. ‘Don’t these knuckleheads clean the deck, Zeljko?’

‘All in good time my friend,’ replies Zeljko shrugging off the question.

‘Is that the rest of the gear?’ Ricco asks, pointing at two wooden crates on the deck.

Zeljko folds his arms, says, ‘yes, it is. One powder, one stones.’

‘Where’s Bako?’

‘Gone! He just took off. Something spooked him. Prick!’

Again, Ricco has little concern for Zeljko’s last remark. The moment he reboards the boat, his reason for doing so grasps him, like his father’s hand wrenching his hand, placing it on the covenant. His eyes are flames of hell. The devil within about to be released, the horror all over again, he can taste blood. ‘What’s that over there?’ Ricco asks, pretending to point at something, right where the boys disembarked.

Zeljko doesn’t pay any attention to Ricco’s movements, nor does he expect anything unusual to happen. He steps forward to take a closer look, standing against the rail. ‘What?’ It’s the only word he can manage before Ricco pumps two rounds into Zeljko, the first in the middle of his back, the second at the base of his neck. Zeljko stumbles, the shock carrying him forward; he falls over the railing into the water and floats away with the tide. There’s a red tinge around him.

The three crew are stunned. The seconds crawl by like a wet week before they make a futile attempt at stopping Ricco from shooting again. Two of the burliest crew with biceps resembling inflated pillows rush towards him side-by-side; Ricco grabs the steamiest one by the arm, twisting it back, there’s a loud crack when the wrist bone snaps, the crew member screams an ear-piercing scream. Ricco’s holding him, the two are glued. Now the next move. He fires off another two rounds, one to the chest and one to the head, killing the other burly crew member instantly. The dead body is still upright when Ricco delivers a side kick to the upper torso, sending him into the water.

With the first adversary still in his grasp, Ricco squeezes the trigger, firing a bullet through his temple and shoves him overboard, almost in the same motion. The third crew member, the youngest, who’s just finished school, is on his knees begging for mercy, scared beyond belief. Ricco places one hand on the boy’s shirt, lifts him up. ‘No, no. You don’t have to …’ the remaining words are not forth­coming. Ricco fires a single bullet to the head. Gunpowder smoke floats across the deck, down to the water. He drags the teenager to the railing, a lightweight compared to the others, and throws him overboard. ‘There’s always a reason,’ he mutters.

Ricco is momentarily full of self-importance, mesmerised by his own work, the three bodies float away, following Zeljko’s corpse with the blood infused current. Collecting the boxes one at a time, he climbs back aboard his small boat and wipes the blood from his face with a dirty towel. The boys are frozen, incapacitated, not uttering a single word.

There is one last thing to do – destroy all evidence. Returning to the boat, he enters the galley and opens the gas valves on the stove, then carefully leaves a small cigarette lighter burning near the wheelhouse door. He pulls anchor, disembarks and sits in the boat with the boys, who are seeing but not believing.

Izzy’s in a trance. The surrealness is frightening and devastating. He tries to make sense of it all. ‘Please, don’t hurt us, sir,’ says Izzy.

‘Sit still,’ replies Ricco pulling on the cord to start the motor. A wispy cloud of smoke hangs over them. The darkness across the spit and the mangroves alongside has an unmistakable fragrance of gunpowder and death. Ricco twists the outboard’s handle, accelerating with speed towards the boat ramp. A very vague suggestion of light tints the horizon. Blood trickles from a small wound above his wrist. Razor blades are easy to acquire in Queensdale; not like in prison. A few hours earlier, Ricco started another inscription. More self-harm. He can’t stop it. After all, he is a man too.

The small boat buzzes across the shallow opening. The evenness of the surface is causing little discomfort to the boys. Shortly after landing the small boat, Ricco places his cargo in his van. The boxes on the floor, the boys sitting either side. Boards is the most difficult. Sounding groggy; his dead weight is difficult to shift.

‘Where we going?’ Izzy asks politely, trying not to offend the man who’s gotten them off the fishing boat.

‘Shut up, boy,’ says Ricco, through his stained teeth.

Izzy begins to wonder again about his rescuer. The thoughts cascade to a pounding sensation in his head. What’s he going to do with us?

Ricco plants his foot down hard on the accelerator, the boys topple, almost falling off the wobbly seat. ‘Hold on,’ says Ricco, adjusting his shirt and putting the small pistol alongside him in the consol. At the crest leading to the ramp, he can see the introduction of a new day, not light, just a faint haze. The tuna boat is drifting towards the spit, the haze tickling something shiny at the tip of the crow’s nest. There has been no explosion.

Ricco knows he cannot afford to go back and make a second attempt. He curses a fuck that, and speeds off towards town. The best route, he thinks, will be the bypass, circumnavigating the town to Pelican Point. Lights off, he stops at the intersection before heading east along the deserted arterial road. Another fifteen minutes and it will be light.

There’s no one else on the road when Ricco takes the final turn onto the entry road to Pelican Point, and roughly three kilometres from home. Then he notices a vehicle coming towards him, so he turns the van sharply sending his passengers sprawling across the floor at the back. A clump of trees and bushes look promising so he swerves sideways and pulls up behind them. The slight reflection of the moon against his dark coloured van can’t be seen. Moments later, the police patrol vehicle, with constable Kepano Tagobe concentrating fiercely on the road ahead, shoots past.

Ricco cannot believe his luck. The decoy he set earlier worked. He turns cautiously onto the main road and accelerates towards his house, knowing the next obstacle in his way will be Mrs Teal. She will surely be snooping around on her front porch; nosy, like always.

‘Stupid woman!’ Ricco mutters. He pulls into the driveway taking the van around to the rear of the house and out of sight. With his pistol tucked in his trousers he turns to find the boys shivering. His boxes are intact on the floor next to Boards, who is still prostrate along the length of the rear compartment.

‘Listen up! We’re home. This is where you’ll stay until I say otherwise,’ says Ricco, in a tone that would make any heavyweight gangster think twice about arguing with him.

The boys nod, not a word, just compliance, heads hanging low. Boards lets out a muffled groan and attempts to roll over, but his obesity and arthritis hamper his movement. Ricco slides open the van’s door and directs the boys onto the back veranda, leaving Boards, and saying, ‘keep still, be quiet!’ He puts more emphasis on the ‘quiet’.

‘Follow me,’ says Ricco, waving his hand towards the back door of the house, and glancing around. A gold fringe of sun has broken over the sand dunes. ‘C’mon, quick, get in,’ he says, reducing his voice to a whispering hiss. The boys are standing, still shivering, waiting for their next instruction. Ricco knows he has to hurry. He must hide the boys and Boards before Mrs Teal pays her customary morning visit.

The dark, tall, lonesome figure of Bako Dele leaning forward, stroking the water beneath the blackening sky can be seen from the shore. A stray cloud floats above extinguishing the crescent moon. His vision is disrupted, he takes in the strong smell of salt that forms a crust on the barnacle ridden marker – the first marker before the channel. His hearing is accentuated, the sound of gunshots echoes behind him. One, two, four or five, maybe six shots, the sound is familiar as it seems to travel through him in the breeze.

Luck is with him. The tide is going in, he’ll catch the slipstream in the