Cross Kill

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The stranger appeared just after lunch on day one of Wyatt’s operation against the Mesics. He was driving a red Capri, soft top down, and Wyatt watched him park it against the kerb, unfold from the car, stride to the compound gates and bend his face to the intercom grille in the brick pillar. MESIC was spelled out in shiny red tiles above the intercom and Wyatt saw the stranger touch the name as though to draw luck from it. Then the gates jerked, swung open, and the man stepped through the gap. He was about thirty, and he had the raw-nerved, hole-and-corner look of a man who exists on coffee and whispers. Wyatt put that together with the car, the costly jacket and jeans, and speculated that here was someone who made a profit for the Mesics and profited by them.

The Mesics were small-scale racketeers with ambitions, and Wyatt was watching their place through the rear window of a rented Volvo. The Volvo was a good touch. He’d faced it away from the compound gates and was sitting in the back seat so this wouldn’t look like a stakeout to casual eyes. But the car looked right anyway, so he wasn’t expecting trouble. The citizens of Templestowe, crooked and otherwise, ran to Volvos, Saabs, cars like that.

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