Chase Investigations Boxset 1 Page 19

  Brady turned quickly, swinging with a backhand strike that hissed through the air above Dan’s head as he ducked and stumbled back against the car, shoving his bag up to block the blow.

  The pipe got tangled in the bag momentarily, giving him enough time to straighten up, push Brady away by the arm, and throw a fist into his ribs. Brady grunted and pulled back against the bag, Dan side stepped and dug another jab into his ribs, then felt Brady driving into him, ramming him backwards against the side of the car. Brady’s body weight pushed Dan’s bag into his chest, trapping his right hand.

  Dan tried to swing at him with his left but it was easily blocked by Brady, who then smashed a short jab into his face, his knuckles impacting on Dan’s cheekbone. Lights popped in his head as it was followed up with a second jab, this one grazing across his forehead as Dan pulled his head back then crashed it forward in a vicious head butt to Brady’s temple.

  The smaller man staggered and the weight lifted off Dan, who pushed himself off the car and looked for space. Brady had recovered his footing and as the pipe came free he swung it round in a wide arc.

  Dan dropped the bag and as Brady turned with the arcing swing, he caught him by the front of his jacket and yanked him forward, driving his knee up in a crippling smash to the crotch.

  Brady’s breath exploded out in a whoosh and he folded immediately, coming forward at the waist and grabbing at himself. Dan stepped back, still holding his jacket front, and hammered a right hook to Brady’s left eye, held him up, and gave him a second one in the same place. Blood sprayed as the skin split and Brady started to sag.

  Dan let him go, expecting him to drop to the ground, but the smaller man was fuelled by meth and didn’t feel pain like a normal person. He pushed up, still grabbing at his crotch with one hand but with the other fist gripping the pipe and looking for a target.

  He lashed out with his foot, catching Dan hard in the middle of his shin and making him stagger back to regain his balance. Brady came at him again, low and fast, blood running down his face. He lashed out with the pipe and Dan couldn’t dodge it in time, taking the full force across his left thigh, not a killer blow but hard enough to deaden the big muscle group.

  Dan ignored the pain and swept the hand aside, awkwardly stepping outside and locking Brady’s right hand with his left, twisting the arm straight and the wrist in on itself, making a solid arm lock and applying pressure to the wrist and pushing down to put the man on the deck.

  Brady struggled and Dan clapped a hand to the back of his elbow, applying more pressure. If Brady resisted any more, his elbow was going to pop completely.

  ‘Get down,’ he panted, lifting the wrist and pushing on the elbow, ‘get down, on the ground, down down down!’

  Brady went down, driven face first into the ground with a thump. Dan went down on top of him, knee in the back, and flicked the arm up between his shoulder blades. He dropped his other knee to the ground, locking the arm in completely.

  Breathing hard, he ignored Brady’s muffled curses and looked around for assistance. He saw the accountant standing next to his Alfa Romeo, a cell phone in his hand and a shocked look on his face.

  ‘Call the cops,’ Dan told him breathlessly, ‘there’s a good man.’

  While the accountant punched numbers into his phone, Dan rolled his hand over and checked his bleeding knuckles.

  ‘Damnit,’ he growled down at Brady’s back, ‘now I’m gunna be late for tea.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Molly gently dabbed at her husband’s swollen cheekbone, lifting the ice pack away to check the bruising which was coming through nice and dark.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said for the hundredth time, pressing the ice pack back on the injury.

  Dan grimaced and took it from her. ‘Here, let me do it.’

  ‘Is my doctoring not good enough for you?’ she said, pretending to pout as she got up and moved to an armchair.

  ‘No. You’re more of a sadist than a saviour.’ He caught her look. ‘Well, you are. But thanks anyway.’

  Mike came back into the lounge with mugs of tea. ‘Has he stopped crying yet?’ he asked Molly, who smiled and took a cup from him.

  Dan glared at him from the couch where he was stretched out. ‘The doctor said a lesser man would have been hospitalised, if not worse. He was surprised at my ability to handle pain.’

  He sniffed and turned away haughtily.

  Mike snorted. ‘The only thing I’m surprised at mate is your ability to get your arse kicked.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘Barely a week goes by when you’re not in the sick bay asking for grapes and your last rites.’

  Dan grunted and sat up, touching his cheek tenderly. ‘Oww. Well, if my partner in crime wasn’t busy off chasing skirt, I’d have had someone watching my back, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘True mate, true,’ Mike replied. ‘At least it saved you from an evening with Penny the Persecutor and whatever poor mug she’s sapping the life blood from now.’

  ‘And ruined a perfectly good Thai curry,’ Molly interjected.

  ‘It’ll be even tastier tomorrow,’ Dan dead-panned her, ‘the flavours will have gone through it.’

  His wife shook her head sadly as she gazed at him.

  ‘You know,’ she said, resignation in her voice, ‘I used to wonder, but now I know for sure. You really are an idiot.’

  THE END

  Better Days

  Mike Manning wound his way along the coast road. Springsteen was on the stereo, one of the older albums. He couldn’t recall the title, but it didn’t matter; it was Springsteen. Bruce. The man.

  The new truck handled well, probably even as good as his old Impreza had. The truck was a charcoal double-cab Ford Ranger, last year’s model, and Mike had only picked it up a week beforehand. Today was its first run off the city streets, and he couldn’t have picked a better run if he’d tried. The new wheels had been a rare bright spot in recent days.

  The address he was going to was out the back of Kawhia, down on the Waikato west coast. Mike had left home at 5 that morning, stopping only for coffee on the way. It was now nearly eight thirty, and the better part of the last hour had been on rough, windy country roads. The Ranger seemed to love it. Mike didn’t love it nearly so much.

  He wondered for the millionth time why he’d put his hand up for this particular job. Sure, he was a partner in the business, but he still felt like the junior partner. Nothing had ever been said, of course, but he was pretty sure people just saw him as the muscle.

  Dan was the mouth, Molly was the brains, and he did the heavy lifting. It was just the way it was. Got a white collar fraud? Dan’ll do it. Need a client to be sweet talked? That’s one for Molly. Got an undercover job as a labourer? Mike’s your man. Same old.

  Mike slurped the last of his cold coffee and slid the cup back into the holder. That was okay. He was the Springsteen of Chase Investigations, the blue collar everyman. He told himself he didn’t care; he’d always been aware of his place in the world.

  Fifteen years in the Army had taught him many things, including the fact that were two types of people in the world; officers and grunts. Mike was okay with being a grunt. Grunts did the hard graft. But sometimes it’ be nice to be the guy on the podium rather than the guy sweeping up afterwards.

  Mind you, he reflected, he couldn’t complain too much. He was earning more for less now than he ever had in his life, and having fun while doing it. Aside from a hunting trip last year with Dan, he hadn’t been lying in mud, cold and wet, for years. He chuckled at the memory; Dan hadn’t enjoyed the conditions whatsoever.

  And today was five hundred bucks for a drive down the coast. Better than driving a truck through the night or endless pack marches in boots that didn’t fit.

  These are better days, baby…better days with a girl like you…

  Mike didn’t have a girl right now, well nothing regular anyway, but he told himself that was okay too. He checked the sat nav. Should be just about there.

 
The address he was going to was more of a cabin than an actual bach, being a good couple of k’s away from the beach, and was probably a long shot. But, when all else failed, a long shot was better than no shot at all.

  The papers in the manila folder on the passenger seat had come from a solicitor and needed to be served on Richard Dunning. Not only was Dunning’s real estate company being wound up, his wife had filed for separation, custody of the kids and occupancy of the family home.

  In short, his whole world was crumbling down around him, and it was Mike’s job to drive the final nail into the coffin. Mike mentally shrugged to himself; it didn’t bother him. Somebody had to do it.

  The road narrowed to a single lane of dusty gravel, dropping off steeply on each shoulder with fields extending in all directions. The sun was making a decent start and he was pleased he’d chucked his togs and towel in the back; with any luck he could get the papers served and duck off for a quick swim before heading back to Auckland.

  Dust kicked up as Mike changed down and slowed, checking the number on the letterbox coming up.

  263 in red lettering. He hadn’t seen a 261 or anything much else, and there was no sign of another habitation further on, either. Ideal place to hide out when you were dodging process servers. In fact, Mike was only here because Molly had pinned down the address through social media searches. The place belonged to a cousin of Dunning’s, and even his wife hadn’t known about it.

  He turned into the dirt driveway, changed down again and gave it some guts to get up the slope towards the small grey cabin perched atop the rise. Tall willows dotted the section and the grass was long aside from a circle a few metres wide around the structure. There was no sign of a car but he could see some open windows.

  As he pulled up, Mike spotted movement behind a net curtain in a front room. He turned the Ranger around to face back downhill before killing the engine. He paused a few moments to see if any angry dogs were going to charge out.

  Nothing.

  He grabbed the folder and got out, stretched and started towards the door. The cabin needed a paint job and the railing of the front porch had more than one gap.

  Mike stepped up onto the porch, noting the Heineken box beside the front door full of empties.

  The front door was opening inwards as he got to it, his hand out ready to rap, and he paused mid-stride. The door swung open to reveal a man in a plain white T-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare and his greying hair was mussed, as if he’d just woken.

  Mike recognised him as Richard Dunning.

  The shotgun in his hands was an over/under number with a long, tarnished barrel. The dual black eyes were staring straight at Mike’s chest.

  Mike stopped, two metres short of the door, the manila folder in his left hand. He saw the gun and the man behind it. His mind immediately leaped into overdrive, animal instincts taking over. He started to lunge forward, the folder dropping from his hand as he moved, while the door was still opening.

  Something in the back of his mind told him he could get to this guy and overpower him before the guy even realised what was happening.

  The door banged against the internal wall, rebounded and hit Dunning on the left elbow. Just as Mike’s foot hit the deck to drive him forward, the gun went off with a thunderous bang.

  Mike threw his hands up and dropped to the side, his ears ringing and the stench of cordite filling his nostrils. He hit the wall and went down, convinced he had been shot, already grabbing at his torso before he stopped moving. He looked down at his hands.

  No blood.

  He looked up, seeing Dunning step out onto the porch, the shotgun barrels wavering in his hands. His eyes were wide and beads of sweat had exploded onto his face.

  ‘Wha-wha-what the…ohmyGod!’

  Mike started to get up but Dunning jabbed the shotgun at him, his lips tight.

  ‘Don’t you get up! You stay down there! I’ll shoot you! I’ll shoot you dead!’

  Mike guessed that, right now, discretion was most definitely the better part of valour. He stayed where he was, taking a moment to assess what exactly the hell was going on and how he was going to get himself out of it.

  ‘No one’s gunna do anything stupid, Richard,’ he said, resisting the urge to add “except you”.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I’m going to do!’ Dunning ranted, waving the gun at him again. Mike raised his hands, hoping the damn thing wouldn’t go off again. ‘I’m sick of people telling me what to do! Sick of it!’ He got the stock up in his shoulder and jabbed the barrel towards Mike aggressively. ‘You hear me?!’

  ‘Woh-woh-woh, mate,’ Mike said, his hands still out defensively. ‘Just relax, I’m no threat to you, okay? If you want me to go, I’ll go.’

  Dunning segued off into another rant about people telling what to do, dry spit flying from his lips, and Mike let him go. There was presumably still a round in the weapon and he didn’t fancy playing catch.

  Dunning backed away from Mike, lowering the shotgun slightly, and seemed to take a breath. He rubbed a hand across his face and looked at his visitor.

  ‘Who are you, anyway? What’re you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve got some papers here for you.’ Mike looked around, realising he’d dropped the folder. The papers had spilled free and were scattered across the porch.

  ‘What’re you, a bailiff?’

  Mike shook his head. His ears were still buzzing. ‘Private investigator.’

  ‘A private eye?’ Dunning pricked up his ears now. ‘Why’re you investigating me?’

  ‘I’m not mate, I’m just here to serve you with some papers.’

  Dunning gave a disgusted snort. ‘More poison from her lawyer, I take it? All that vile woman wants to do is destroy me…everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve given her…’

  Mike nodded sagely, wondering how Dan would deal with this guy. He always seemed to be able to talk his way out of a corner – and if he couldn’t, Mike would come in and drag him to safety. He was the software, Mike was the hardware. It worked well like that.

  There weren’t too many other options available right now. Dunning had moved too far away for Mike to grab him now – by the time he got up off the porch and reached the gun, Dunning would’ve had time to percolate a brew and whistle a tune before he made Mike look like Swiss cheese. No, that definitely seemed like a bad idea.

  Talking. That had to be the key. Mike had an ex-wife to confirm that talking had never been his strongpoint. It was never too late to learn a new trick, though. Put the broom down and get up on the damn podium.

  ‘My name’s Mike,’ he tried.

  ‘I don’t care who you are!’ Dunning bellowed, firing up again. ‘You’re just another prick here to kick a man when he’s down!’

  ‘I’m not here to kick anyone, Richard.’ Mike tried for a soothing tone. It sounded weird to him, as if someone else was using his voice. ‘I know what it’s like to be down, feels like the whole world’s against you.’

  Dunning fixed him with a sneer. ‘Oh, so you’ve had your wife up and leave you, have you? Had your life’s work taken away from you? Kicked out of your own house? Is that right?’

  ‘No, not to that extent,’ Mike said. ‘I can’t imagine what all that’s like.’

  ‘Then don’t say you know how I feel.’ Dunning’s eyes were twitching. Hopefully his trigger finger didn’t follow suit. ‘Nobody knows how I feel.’

  ‘My wife did leave me, though,’ Mike continued. ‘Told me some pretty nasty things about myself. Kicked me out and moved on.’

  Even though it had been several years now, it still felt so recent. Penny was a good girl, he knew that – despite all the anger and hurt. She wasn’t perfect by any means but she had been one to hold onto, and he’d screwed it up. They both knew that. It was something he still thought about a lot.

  Dunning considered him. He seemed to be chewing over Mike’s words. Mike wondered if anyone had heard the shot. Probably not. He doubted there was a cavalry charg
ing up the road any time soon.

  ‘So you plan to just come and serve some papers on me and go, do you?’ Dunning finally said. ‘Just stick the knife in a bit more and leave?’

  Mike considered his answer carefully. He had the feeling a lot was riding on how he played it right now.

  ‘Mate, there’s nothing I can say that’s gunna make you feel any better just now,’ he said carefully. ‘It’s a really crappy situation for you, eh?’

  Dunning gave a slow nod. ‘You got that right.’

  ‘My job is to give you the papers. If you want to have a cuppa and a chat about it, that’s all good. I’ve got all day, brother.’ He gestured towards the truck. ‘I even brought my togs with me for a swim on the way back.’ He tried for solidarity. ‘I’m just a worker, mate, doing a job. I’m no lawyer or accountant. I’m just trying to earn a crust, my friend.’

  Dunning’s face eased ever so slightly. Mike tried for a grin.

  ‘I’d like to still do that, unless you were planning to actually shoot me?’

  Dunning glanced down at the shotgun, then back at Mike. ‘That was accidental,’ he said, ‘the door hit me and it went off.’

  Mike nodded sympathetically. Now wasn’t the time to say the gun wouldn’t have gone off if his finger wasn’t on the damn trigger. ‘I saw that,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’

  Dunning sniffed. The shotgun was still in his hands, pointing in Mike’s general direction. ‘Nobody was supposed to be here,’ he said. ‘Nobody knows about this place.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘One of my colleagues is very smart,’ Mike said. ‘The other one?’ He waggled his hand from side to side. ‘Not so much.’

  Dunning shook his head sadly. ‘All I want is to be left alone.’

  ‘Sorry buddy,’ Mike said. ‘Mind if I sit up? My back’s killing me down here. I’m not as young as I used to be.’

  Dunning nodded. Mike pushed up to a sitting position, his back against the wall.