23 September 2005

This is it, Nick thought as he pulled the car to a stop, killed the ignition and looked over at Trish in the darkness. Every moment of every day for the last thirteen months had been leading them here, to this. Hartono was on his way, along with Prakoso and Abdul and about a dozen other associates, with a convoy of cars and a plan to unload the cargo - not crates this time, Nick was certain, but living, breathing human beings - and ship it off to various locations. SIS had the whole dockyard bugged, and the place was crawling with bodies, lurking in shadows. They'd open the crate, confirm that there were people inside, and wait just long enough for the unloading to begin. Then SIS would swoop in, close in from all sides. They'd arrest everyone in sight - including Trish and Wesley Claybourne - scoop up Hartono and Prakoso and whoever else, and then question the lot of them, hoping for more names in exchange for a reduced sentence. Nick and Trish would be driven to separate locations for their debrief, and they would never, ever see one another again.

"You ready?" he asked her softly. They'd been walking on eggshells all day; the quiet conversation they'd shared the night before had been their real good-bye, and they both knew it. The rest of this was just epilogue; they'd ended when she whispered don't forget about me. In the feeble glow of the street lights he could see her hands trembling. There was no need to ask what had made her anxious, for Nick knew as well as she did that Hartono and his men would come armed. They might very well be walking into a bloodbath, Nick and Trish the bait that set the trap, and neither of them had been allowed weapons. It has to look real, Abdul had told them. And if it looks so real we get killed? Trish had demanded. There had been no answer to that question.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said. As he watched she took a deep breath, turned her head towards him. In the darkness her eyes shone like stars, and burned straight through him. This is it, he thought. It was the end of everything. No more clinches in the backseat of that car, no more falling asleep with Trish in his arms, no more holding her hand as they wandered through the market. No more Trish, no more Wesley; come tomorrow he'd be on his way back to Melbourne. In a week or two he'd be back on Homicide - if they'd kept his spot open for him. This sabbatical had taken longer than anyone anticipated, and the squad might have moved on without him. Everything would be different, after this. And Trish would disappear back to whenever she'd come from, would fade into the shadows of memory.

"One last time," he said, and reached for her hand. She took it, slipped her fingers through his and clung to him fiercely. The car had been their safe haven for months now, the one place they could talk without being observed. He'd lost count of the number of times they'd sat just like this, holding onto one another, whispered hopes and fears back and forth far from prying eyes. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd pulled her into his lap, ghosted his hands over her skin. If only they had more time, maybe he could have -

"I can't believe it's over," she whispered.

Not over yet, he thought glumly; they still had to get through this operation intact. The worst was still waiting for them, out there in the dark. But he didn't correct her, for he knew what she meant. The job wasn't over, not yet, but they were. Whatever they had become to one another, Nick and this woman whose name was not Trish, they would have to put it aside now. Forever.

"Five years from today," he said slowly. "Maybe I'll come down to Bondi beach."

Trish laughed, a bit wetly, and reached for him with her free hand, trailed her fingers through his hair gently in a way that made his eyes close, hungry to savor the warmth of her touch for as long as he could, knowing he'd never feel it again.

"Maybe I will, too," she told him. "Maybe I'll wear a white dress."

"Maybe I'll look for you."

"Maybe I'll be there."

He smiled, sadly; it was a beautiful thought, something to hold on to. She wouldn't tell him her name, wouldn't let him track her down, and he knew why, knew she was right. But a few years down the track, maybe SIS would have forgotten all about them. Maybe Trish would have forgotten all about him, too, but he knew he never would. He'd be there, in September, on the beach, looking for that woman with her golden hair and her white dress, and maybe...maybe everything would be all right. Then again, maybe she'd be married with babies in five years' time, happy without him. Maybe he would be, but somehow he didn't think so. There was only one woman he could imagine wearing his ring, and he didn't even know her name.

"Time to go, sweetheart," she told him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. There was a look in her eye Nick had come to recognize, a yearning he felt churning in his own heart, and so he did not hesitate; he leaned towards her, slowly, and Trish closed the distance between them, and both their eyes fluttered closed as their lips brushed together, softly, gently, sealing their promise and their separation all at once. When Nick pulled back there were tears on her cheek, and he brushed them away gently with his thumb.

This is it, he thought. His eyes darted across her face, sealing her image in his memory, her tan skin, her soft hair, her diamond-bright eyes, her lips parted and still warm from his kiss. She was beautiful, and his heart was breaking. Lingering would not help them, and they both knew it; they had a job to do.

"This is it," he said, and with that the spell was broken, and they both slipped from the car and out into the night.

Jen tucked her hands in her pockets to hide their trembling. The wheels had been set in motion; Abdul was standing beside Jen and Wesley, flanked by seven porters and seven drivers. The only thing left was for Hartono and Prakoso to arrive, and then the action would begin. Each team of men planned to take their designated cargo back to a vehicle in the caravan waiting just the dirt track that passed for a road between the containers, and as soon as they started to move, the sting would begin. SIS had promised that they would have a heavy presence, but so far Jen hadn't caught sight of a single one of them. Suppose Hartono had already flushed them out? Suppose he knew already, and had given orders to have Trish and Wesley shot before the container opened? And where the bloody hell was he?

"What's the hold up, mate?" Wesley asked Abdul. With every appearance of casual affection he reached for Jen, wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her in close. "We've got plans tonight."

"Just another minute," Abdul answered. If he was nervous he didn't show it, and neither did Wesley; Wesley just held on to her, and when she looked up at him he smiled. Strange, she thought, how easily he could slip into character. Then again, she supposed they'd had rather a lot of practice.

The sound of shoes crunching on gravel caught their attention then, and the three of them turned, watched as Mr. Prakoso stepped into view. Alone.

Shit, Jen thought. Hartono wasn't there, and somehow Jen knew in her gut he wasn't just running late; he wasn't coming at all. He had to have known something was up; he trusted Prakoso, but for something this big, this important, he would have wanted to be on site. It was always a possibility, him not turning up, and they'd discussed it with Abdul. We go ahead, Abdul had told them. We have to save those girls, and if we get enough of his people, maybe someone will flip. This is happening, now. We've wasted too much time already.

"Open the crate," Prakoso said in his clipped, dead voice, and with those words he confirmed Jen's suspicions. After all this time, the blood and the tears and the lies and the close calls, they weren't going to get him. He'd slip away, move on somewhere else, and she'd have nothing to show for the year of her life she'd sacrificed to this job. Nothing but heartbreak and the sour taste of regret in her mouth, nothing but memories of a man she could have loved, if only thing had been different. There was no time for her to linger on thoughts of regret; the porters were already moving, and Jen and Wesley took a step back, let them get to work while Prakoso sidled up to them. Jen didn't like that; the man made her skin crawl, and if Hartono knew that something was afoot, Prakoso would know, too. Unless Hartono set him up, Jen thought. Either he's here to kill us, or he's here to take the fall.

"Thought we might see our friend this evening," Wesley said, his voice calm and even. There was no accusation in his tone, no anxiety. Maybe Prakoso would buy it.

"He had urgent business elsewhere." Jen was trying not to stare, but it looked to her like Prakoso's hand was drifting towards his hip, as if discreetly reaching for something he kept concealed there. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe he was armed, and preparing to slaughter them where they stood. Either way their very lives hung on her reaction; she had to remain calm, no matter how her heart was screaming, no matter the fear that choked her.

"He's a busy man," Wesley said easily.

The container was open, now, and the porters stepped in, and Jen held her breath, waiting. If there was nothing inside but boxes, maybe SIS wouldn't come charging in. Maybe she'd get a little more time with Wesley, maybe they'd be able to snag Hartono for good.

One of the porters drew a torch, and the whole lot of them began to approach the container. The feeble light of the torch flashed off a myriad of faces inside the container, and Jen's heart sank. It was quite the most awful thing she'd ever seen, a bevy of young women - she couldn't say quite how many - with dirty faces and vacant eyes - drugged, most like, she thought - crowded together at the back of the container. Living, breathing, human women who'd been bought and sold like cattle, brought to this country for reasons too horrible to contemplate, their misery orchestrated by a man who'd sat at Jen's table while she served him tea. She wanted to vomit; she wanted to weep. She wanted to scream; she wanted to pummel Prakoso with her fists. Wesley's hand tightened against her waist, drew her in closer, as if to keep them both from making a mistake.

"Bring them out, and let's get them moving!" Prakoso called to the porters.

And then all hell broke loose.

In the briefing later Jen would struggle to recall the details; it was dark, and everything happened so quickly. SIS agents carrying guns and dressed in black came swarming over them like flies over a corpse, screaming for everyone to get down. A few of Hartono's men dropped to the dirt; a few tried to run, and those that did quickly ran into a wall of bodies, herding them back towards the side of the container. The girls inside the container - the ones who were awake, at least - began to scream. And beside her, Prakoso drew his gun.

The hand at Jen's hip vanished; Wesley threw her down into the dirt, quickly, and dropped over her, shielded her head against his chest. His quick thinking saved them both, for it gave SIS a clear shot at Prakoso. He had a bullet in his arm before he even managed to aim at them properly; Jen screamed when she heard the sound, thinking Wesley had been hit, but he just held her tighter, her face buried in his shirt.

"It's all right, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair.

And then strong hands came for them, wrenched them apart; Jen could hardly hear over the din, could only watch in horror as Wesley was pulled away from her, his hand still stretched out towards her. Sweetheart was the last word she'd ever hear him say, for his mouth was closed, now, resigned to his fate as two SIS agents bundled him away, and two others took Jen, and pulled her in the opposite direction. That was the last she would ever see of him, his soft hair, his warm eyes, his hand reaching for her.

Tears gathered in her eyes, and this time she let them fall; Hartono's men would think Trish was weeping for her husband, and the SIS agents...the SIS agents could hang, she thought. She hated them, in that moment, hated them for the lives that had been lost, hated them for the way they had used her, hated them bringing Wesley into her life, and taking him away again.

This is it, she thought. This is the end of everything.