No matter what part of the city or burgs you venture into, you are trespassing on someone else's turf.
In the case of the Kings Cross Strip, you are walking in Marcus Illiack's territory.
A long hazardous climb up the socio-economic ladder treading on the toes of all competitors and friends alike. Underneath the boyish good looks, a flashing, friendly smile he was a ruthless killer. Now at the top of the heap, other people did his dirty work…but being at the top, he was always the target of lesser beings wanting to reach that pinnacle. That is why the 'little man' surrounded himself with bodyguards who were expected to take the bullet meant for Illiack…but was that enough?
No-one surrenders by waving a white flag in these environments!
Excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
It was a Saturday night.
After midnight and ‘The Strip’ was alive with activity. Good warm weather always helped.
The usual stream of people who walked both footpaths along 'The Strip' to turn around and do it all over again.
It was a lot different in the heyday of the Strip…now it is but a shadow of those days becoming gentrified, more urbane and losing the tag of the Drug Capital of Australia.
The gawkers.
The inquisitive.
Those looking for a good time.
Perhaps hoping to score.
If lucky enough, perhaps a double.
Nobody took any notice of the vehicle as it made its way slowly along The Strip's crowded roadway. At crawl speed hemmed in by the long line of barely moving traffic. Both ways. The occupants too lazy to walk…or they could not find a parking spot to enable them to join the crowd…
At this time of night, it was quicker to walk than to continue at a snail's pace in your vehicle.
Yep…It was a good night!
The black 4WD turned off onto a side street that almost immediately dog-legged down to the right. The vehicle, a nondescript 4WD with blacked out windows crawled to a stop. Double parking so that its length was only partially visible by the bright lights of a steep staircase entryway into a Strip Joint and Night Club on the main glittering road of The Strip.
Bouncers and Spruikers shouting with enthusiasm the delights that awaited within, dimly heard from inside the stationery vehicle. The Spruikers trying to snag disinterested passers-by. The entertainment of most these Saturday night 'movers and groovers' was a couple of drinks at a trendy bar that asked exorbitant prices; almost double that of the dingy Bar further down The Strip. They then became one of many doing the usual walk back and forth along the length of 'The Strip' eyeing off the sights. The working girls. The 'Characters' who were always there.
That dingy Bar was where the working girls and the Strip Dancers hung out after their 'sessions' were at an end…a place where they could relax and not be hassled by drunken patrons…and because of the prices…some even got their drinks for free as this break in the night's activities bought in members of the Public who knew the pulse of the night…and knew where to go!
The 'Girls' too tired to try for one more trick…too turned off by drunken, slobbering blokes who thought they were Valentinos…
Until that too got boring. And tiring with a lot of these Lotharios almost out on their legs…then the hassle of trying to snag a Cab home. Or the last train out…usually ending curled up on a hard, uncomfortable railway seat! Being kicked into a conscious state by the Railway Dees…
CHAPTER TWO
A rear side window of the vehicle slid gently open. Only a seven-centimetre-wide gap. Just enough to give an unobstructed view through the large Scope and clear passage for a bullet.
It was dark enough at this spot just off the bright lights of The Strip for people not to notice.
The engine cut.
The slow tick of the engine cooling, the only noise except for the usual thrum from the lighted 'Strip'.
Nothing seemed to stir from within the vehicle although a chap repositioned himself slightly. Adjusting his lounge against the upright back of the rolled up rear seats giving him ample room to seat himself comfortably in the enlarged cargo bay.
It could be a long wait…or it could be over in minutes.
He casually held a mean mother of a rifle. Giant scope. He flipped the rifle up into the firing position, the gun held steady with his elbow resting just above a slightly raised knee. The barrel of the rifle at no time poking out through the window or touching the metal side of the vehicle.
One bullet in the breach. The safety on.
He had confidence in his ability. He'd done it many times before. In Afghanistan and Iraq. Now? Only on Roos and feral dogs and cats, but he was still an excellent shot.
The sniper adjusted the scope distance and re-checked the calibrations.
One hundred metres if an inch.
An easy kill.
He gently placed the rifle back into his lap.
Waited.
Didn't stir.
Didn't speak to the driver at all.
Slowly chewed gum while watching intently the garish, brightly illuminated entryway into the well-known Kings Cross night club. Peering through the slightly opened rear side sliding window of the 4WD.
They had 'dry run' this exercise on three separate occasions over the past month or two.
No-one even noticing the vehicle as they double parked at this precise position at the dogleg of the street.
A police vehicle had cruised past on one night not even stopping to instruct the vehicle to move on. On each occasion, they had rehearsed the getaway plan. The engine start up, the casual, slow acceleration. The drive down the street lined with Victorian double storey terrace houses to the end of the Avenue.
A dead-end.
A well-known set of stairs dug into the sandstone rock face that gave access to a short Cul-de-sac at a lower level. Another dead-end street off the busy Wharf Street that the ancient stone steps emptied onto. Their mate waiting with three bikes. Helmets. Their intended route up to the mouth of the Dead-end on the lower level where the dead-end intersected with the main arterial road out of the district.
From this dead-end street beginning, the bikes would split up to travel in three separate directions.
A timer exploding the stolen vehicle fitted with stolen plates into a ball of flame. The rifle along with any evidence and DNA trace erased in the firestorm.
By then, they had left the area. Remaining within the speed limits on the Motorways that led out of the Central Business District of Sydney.
One going west.
Another north and the last south, all easily done as the feeder roads onto the various Motorway and Bridge approach tunnels were within spitting distance.
Of course, these practise runs did not involve the burning of the vehicle but every other element of the operation rehearsed.
Every man knew their job.
Fifteen minutes. That's all.
Fifteen minutes. If the target didn't show within that period, then the exercise would be aborted for another night.
Another week.
A month away.
It didn't matter.
They'd get him soon enough.
Their benefactor also a very patient person, so it seemed.
