Private Oz (Private 7)

She coaxed and teased like a pro, made it clear she liked

to be screwed rough in filthy places. The more depraved, the more it turned her on. She had him salivating.

She called in at an internet café in Balmain and typed a message: “I want you … TONIGHT!”

“When? Where?” he responded almost immediately.

She gave him the place and time, then added, “My panties are getting wet just thinking about it.”

Chapter 50

JULIE, OR “SABRINA”, arrived at the address she’d given Bruce an hour early. It was a condemned house, fenced off with wire mesh. On the perimeter of the garden stood a large notice-board detailing the new development planned for the site. Other signs told the public to KEEP OUT.

The windows and the front door were boarded up but she made short work of a couple of planks securing the entrance to the decaying old house. Every window was smashed. The hall was strewn with newspapers and pigeon shit.

She’d found everything she needed in the local hardware store, and now it was all neatly arranged in the corner of the dilapidated bathroom – a powerful battery-powered lamp, a hammer and a new knife. She surveyed her purchases, hands on hips. “Not bad,” she said to herself.

She waited patiently. The minutes ticked away. She heard someone approach the door, recognized Bruce’s sounds as though he had left yesterday. He was a big oaf and moved like one.

“Sabrina?”

She didn’t reply.

“Sabrina?” There was a nervous edge to his voice, Julie thought.

“In here,” she called from the bathroom down the hall and flicked on the battery-powered lamp. She stood behind the half-opened door.

Julie let him take two steps into the room, crept up behind him, swung her new hammer low and said one word: “Bruce.” He made a half-turn and she smashed him behind the right knee with the hammer.

He yelled and stumbled grabbing the edge of the tub. She leapt on him, screaming and bringing the hammer down hard on his head, his neck, his back. She rolled him over, smashing the hammer into his face. His nose shattered, blood plumed into the air, hit the white wall tiles. He put his hands up to protect himself. She raised the weapon again, plowing it into the back of his hands. Bruce tried to scramble away, but she kept hitting him, blow after blow … like crushing a roach.

Her face was covered with Bruce’s blood. She paused and wiped it away from her eyes. Her ex looked like a sack of potatoes, and he was making a pitiful whining sound. He began to pull himself up. Julie picked up the knife.

Bruce had just managed to shuffle into a seated position, his ginger mullet matted with his blood. He looked up into her eyes as she stood over him.

“Julie!” he gasped.

“Hah!” She leaned forward, grabbed his hair and sliced through his throat with the blade. Blood spewed from the wound hitting her full in the face. She grabbed him, rolled him onto his front and plowed the knife into his back, over and over again.

Julie lowered the knife and crouched down, pulling Bruce over onto his back. His dead eyes open. She brought her face close to his. “Oh, Bruce! You look so pale!” she giggled. “Where’s your manly, ruddy face, Bruce?” She pulled his pants down to his knees. “Where’s your hard-on, babe?” And she flicked his flaccid, shrunken penis. “What’s a girl supposed to do with this?”

Chapter 51

MARY CLARKE SAUNTERED into the bar in Campbelltown as though she owned the place. That was her style and she wouldn’t change it for anyone, not even the latest Triad gang to hit Sydney.

She was wearing cargo pants, heavy boots, a black, sleeveless top and a bandana. Heads turned as she pulled up a stool and ordered a drink. For a second, it was like a scene from an old Western, the gunslinger sashaying into the room, the place going deathly quiet.

“Coke, please.”

The Chinese bartender looked a little confused. “You sure you in right place, miss?” he asked.

Mary smiled sweetly. “Pretty sure. Now … Coke?”

The bartender walked to the fridge. Mary scanned the room. The cops had a pretty thick file on the new Triads, and she recognized some of the patrons from the documents Thorogood had shared with Private. There were two main gangs, one more important than the other. Latest Intel was that they tolerated each other because each was run by siblings who’d once fallen out, but were currently friends. So apparently, the gangs were working together … for the moment.

Mary’s concentration was broken by the bartender. “Six dollar.”

She put the coins on the counter, lifted her glass and continued surveying the room brazenly. One of the brothers was here, she noted. Lin Sung. An ugly bastard. She had studied his mug shot sent over from Hong Kong that morning. When she’d seen his picture and Craig told her the guy was one of the two brothers leading the Sydney Triads, she’d joked that the poor bugger had obviously gotten the bad genes. Then she saw the image of Sung’s brother, Jing, and laughed out loud.