“Correct.”

“Where are you supposed to hand me over to him?”

“Luna Park.”

“You already said. Where in Luna Park?”

“Camper van in the car park.”

“With cuffs!” screamed Cokie. “And plastic tie clippy things. He’s going to tie you up and do you proper, you bitch.”

Kincaid put ice in her voice. “My outfit has a rule: No innocents get shot. But none of you are innocent. Shut her up!”

Blondie grabbed Cokie’s hand and tried to quiet her.

“What?” Cokie yelled. “You taking her side?”

Blondie took Cokie’s round cheeks in both hands and tried to make eye contact. “Please don’t be crazy. Just this once.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“Please?”

“She can’t make me—”

“She’ll kill you. I don’t want that to happen,” Blondie pleaded.

“Fuck her. Fuck all—”

Blondie threw a headlock on Cokie and clamped her free hand over her mouth. Cokie tried to bite her. Blondie squeezed harder and Cokie stopped struggling.

“Driver!” shouted Kincaid. “How long to Luna Park?”

“Ten minutes. Just over the bridge.”

Kincaid could see the lights of the bridge through the windshield. They speckled a giant blue arc in the sky. “Get going!”

“Where?”

“Luna Park!”

TWENTY-FOUR

Luna Park?” Blondie echoed incredulously.

Kincaid fired another shot in the floor. “Go!”

The van lurched into the light traffic and accelerated to highway speed. Kincaid studied “Sister” in the rearview mirror. Cop or not, she was wearing the cowed expression of someone who was going to do what she was told and hope things got better. Kincaid turned her attention to the leader.

“Hold on to your friend.”

“I’m holding her.”

Blondie, too, was sufficiently cowed to behave herself. But having bullied and broken her down, now Kincaid had to build her back up. She had to make Blondie strong enough to help her nail Securité Referral to the wall.

“Okay, girls. How are we going to get out of this?”

“What do you mean?” Blondie asked warily.

“The South African is trying to kill me. You’ve broken every law in Australia trying to help him kill me. But you’re a police officer— I should be more specific. You are a stupidpolice officer. Incredibly stupid. But you still have a leg up over civilians. So how are we going to get me safely out of here and you guys not in jail for the rest of your lives?”

“Good question,” said Blondie, her face lighting with hope.

“What is your name?” Kincaid asked. “Just your first name. I’m not ratting you out unless you force me to.”

“Mary.”

“Okay, Mary. Who’s at the wheel?”

“Doris.”

“Doris, you’re doing fine up there. Stay at the speed limit. Mary, your excited friend here, whose head you’re doing an excellent job of holding, what’s her name?”

“Everybody calls her Mikie.”

“Fuck you!” yelled Mikie.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mikie. Okay, Mary, let’s go to work. Whose camper van is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Kincaid pretended to be patient as she asked, “What does it look like?”

“Toyota Hilux, white box, blue cab.”

“What is a Toyota Hilux?”

“A four-berth camper on a Toyota truck.”

“Beds to screw you on!” Mikie screamed.

Kincaid said, “Give me back my phone— Careful reaching in your bag, Mary.… Thank you. And my bracelet… Thank you.” Switching the gun smoothly from hand to hand, her eyes never leaving the three women in front of her, she put on her bracelet and pocketed her phone.

“And my bag.”

Mary found it on the floor behind the passenger seat and tossed it where Kincaid indicated.

“And my ring.”

“No fucking way!” yelled Mikie.

Kincaid gestured with the gun. Mary tightened her grip on Mikie’s neck. Mikie yanked the ring off her finger and twisted around to throw it out the driver’s window. Kincaid cracked her wrist with the gun barrel. Mikie screamed in pain, and Kincaid caught the ring falling from her hand. The gun barrel stayed on target as Kincaid slipped the ring Janson gave her back on her finger.

“So how are we going to get out of this?” she repeated.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Mary said.

“You said you’re a cop, right? What rank?”

“Detective sergeant.”

“Even better. What about Doris? You’re a cop, too, Doris, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” came the tight-lipped reply.

“What rank?”

“Senior constable.”

“How about Mikie?”

“No fucking way,” said Mikie.

“Didn’t think so. Okay, Mary, you’re a detective sergeant and Doris is a senior constable. Why don’t you arrest the South African?”

“ Arrest?Are you having me on? Too many questions, when I march him into the station.”

“Did I tell you to march him into the station?”

* * *

“33°51′08″ S, 151°12′38″ E” read Janson’s Iridium screen. He had lost Jessica Kincaid’s GPS asset tracking signal as the battery grew weak. Suddenly it was back, spitting out the coordinates of the Swatch’s location.

Google Earth showed her Swatch smack in the middle of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

He saw the bridge a quarter mile ahead, a dark arch like the humpback of a symmetrical stegosaurus. There was movement on top, just under where the flags flew. Tourists shackled to a safety line on the famous guided Bridge Climb—climbing the arch, silhouetted against the glowing clouds, plodding up the slope like prisoners of war.

Then the GPS coordinates faded from the screen, her battery dying again, or the device blocked.

* * *

“STOP THE VEHICLE!” Kincaid ordered. A very good idea was falling apart even before they entered Luna Park’s garage.

“What’s wrong?” said Doris.

“Read the sign.”

It was suspended over the driveway, a white board held by chains.

MAXIMUM VEHICLE HEIGHT 1.9 METRES

“We’re not that high.”

“A camper on a truck is. He can’t fit in there. Who told him he could?”

“Mikie.”

“Who else?…” Kincaid thought hard. “Turn around, Doris. Head back where the road went under the bridge approach. We’ll cruise the area. He’s got to be waiting nearby.”

They circled for five minutes. All of a sudden Mary reached reflexively toward her belt.

“Is that your phone?”

“Yeah. It’s on vibrate.”

“Check if it’s him.”

She turned the phone so Kincaid could see the screen. “BLOCKED.”

“Answer it. If it’s him, tell him we’re waiting where the road goes under the highway to the bridge—see down there by those stairs, Doris?”

Doris steered the van toward the steps, which were barricaded with sawhorses and signs that the walkway was closed for the ongoing bridge upgrade and renovation. Walkers were directed to the bike path.

“Tell him we’re down there, Mary. Make him come to you.”

“Hello?” said Mary, listened a moment, and nodded to Kincaid. “Yeah, sorry about that. We’re here.… Yeah, I know you can’t fit. We’re parked down the road at the bottom of the steps to the bridge.… No. Past the tow truck garage— No, there’s no one around. The stairs are closed for the upgrade. It’s cool. It’ll just take a second to put her in your vehicle.” She turned off the phone. “Five minutes.”

“How good are you two? This guy is really tough.”

“We need our guns back,” said Mary.

“Sure.”

Watching the Australian detective’s eyes, Kincaid popped the magazines out of their police pistols, cleared the chambers, emptied the magazines, put them back, and tossed the pistols to them. “He’s strong enough to break your disposable cuffs. Got steel?”

“Yeah.”

Kincaid could see that both women were hunkering down into themselves, preparing for action—tough street cops pumping up for a bust. Excellent. Bent as hairpins, but still good at their job.

“Cuff him hand and foot. Throw him in the back of the camper. Chain him to something he can’t break loose. I’ll take him from there.”