Author's note:
Just a wee warning - there is a suggestion of predatory sexual behaviour. Nothing graphic at all, but just in case some folks find it uncomfortable to read. But it is part of the baddie's character.
LEVERAGE
The children dozed almost all of the way back to Tennant Creek from Alice Springs on the Cessna, a result of excitement and exhaustion after a busy two days. The adults relaxed during the flight, although Hardison sat apart from everyone else as he leaned forward, inputting information on his laptop, focussed on whatever was popping up on the screen. Without taking his eyes off the screen he reached out and rummaged for a gummy frog from the bag sitting on the seat beside him. Chewing thoughtfully, he jotted down information on a small notebook, pressed a button and then scrolled through the document which instantly appeared on-screen.
"You still tryin' to find her?" Eliot said as he dropped tiredly into the seat opposite.
"Mmmm … hmm," Hardison hummed, and then brought up a tracking app on his cell 'phone. "'Tryin,' bein' the operative word," he murmured, obviously deep in thought. "She's like a frikkin' shadow out of the corner of your eye … you just get a glimpse of her an' she's gone."
"Yeah … that sounds about right," Eliot concurred, and eased a crick out of his neck. For a second night he had sat in a chair in the large hotel suite with his knife beside him, and it hadn't been the most comfortable of pastimes. "And I can't help you much because there ain't much to know about her."
Hardison glanced at his friend, seeing the lines of strain on Eliot's face.
"So … you never said where you knew her from," he asked, his curiosity piqued. There was no guarantee that Eliot would answer. The hitter wasn't known for his volubility when it came to his past, so when Eliot began to speak Hardison sat back, surprised but more than willing to listen.
"I met her only once," Eliot said, "an' that was enough."
Hardison waited, knowing this was one of those times he had to shut up and not hassle the man.
Eliot hesitated for just a fraction of a second and then let out a gusty breath. Then he began to talk.
LEVERAGE
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, March 1st, 2006
Isabella Mengue was a breathtakingly beautiful woman.
Eliot stood discreetly behind Damien Moreau in the luxurious casa set in the tranquil reaches of Rio de Janeiro's historic Santa Teresa quarter. This was Moreau's centre of business when he was in Brazil, one of his regular ports of call when in South America.
The ceiling fans in the huge, elegant room whispered softly in the shadowed light, and Eliot could hear the laughter of Moreau's ever-present gaggle of young women as they frolicked in the outside pool. The doors to the beautifully-kept garden were open to let in a slight breeze, and Eliot had positioned himself with his back a few feet from the wall and between Moreau and the doors, hands clasped in front of him, silent but attentive. From there he had the entire room – and Damien Moreau - within his purview.
Moreau sat in an antique ormolu chair picking at a bowl of fruit set on a small table beside him, and once in a while he fed a grape to a magnificent hyacinth macaw on the sturdy perch to his right.
Isabella Mengue did not sit down. She seemed content to stand and gaze out of the window opposite, studying the sprawl of the city below.
Eliot thought she was what could be called statuesque. Tall - certainly as tall as Eliot - her slender but strong frame was clothed in an exquisitely-cut but sombre dark blue dress. She wore no jewellery and her shoes were stylish but sensible. Her hair was the colour of dark, bitter chocolate and if let loose from its delicate, expensive net snood it would have reached her waist, Eliot was sure.
"So … can you do this thing for me?" Moreau asked Mengue, offering a grape to the macaw. The bird took it carefully with one clawed foot and nibbled at the fruit with its powerful beak, tongue working to turn the grape as it ate.
Mengue turned and studied Moreau, her arms crossed. The finger of her left hand tapped the slim biceps of her right arm.
She wore minimal make-up, just a dusting of eyeshadow and a little mascara, but it was obvious to Eliot that she simply didn't need it. Her skin was the colour of caramel, flawless and smooth, and high cheekbones accented her heart-shaped face. But it was her eyes that set her apart. Large and almond-shaped, they glittered in the shaded light.
Ignoring Moreau's query she turned her amber-gold eyes on Eliot, studying him carefully. Her perfect lips turned up at the corners, appreciating the stocky, handsome man in the dark suit, blue eyes the colour of the ocean looking right back at her, cautious but unafraid.
"Who is this man?" she asked, gesturing at Eliot with her chin.
Moreau sighed. He was well-used to Mengue's interest in men.
"Isabella … we can discuss Eliot later, alright? We have business to discuss –"
"Eliot, is it?" Mengue asked, her mouth widening into a genuine smile. "Eliot …" she repeated, as though tasting the name on her tongue. Her accent was almost perfect with only a hint of the soft syllabics of her native Portuguese. She cocked her head and studied Eliot as though he was a piece of meat. "Do you like women, Eliot?" she asked suddenly, and Moreau let out a noise of irritation.
"Not now, Isabella. You can play with Eliot later, when we have finished our business!"
Eliot's eyes narrowed slightly, but he gazed steadily back at the woman who perused him with such care.
Mengue pouted and finally turned back to Moreau.
"Promise?"
Moreau waved a hand in Eliot's direction.
"He's yours, Isabella, if … if … you get me the information I require." He turned to Eliot, a calculating smile on his chiselled features. "You won't mind, will you Eliot? Isabella, I am told, treats her men very, very well."
The only sign that Eliot was listening was the sudden jumping of muscles along his jawline.
"I'm not for sale," he finally gritted out. His blue eyes darkened to the shade of an ocean storm.
Moreau let out a chuckle and fed the macaw another grape.
"Oh, Eliot, stop being such a prude! I'll get you back! It's just until … well … until she's … ah … satisfied." He emphasised the word with a leer. "And I hear you aren't lacking in the 'satisfaction' department, my friend." Moreau shrugged. "Treat it as a holiday."
Mengue suddenly walked around Moreau to stand before Eliot, studying his features. He looked back at her, unblinking. She really was remarkably beautiful. She pursed her lips and then slowly wandered around Eliot, taking in his broad shoulders and capable hands, and she had trouble subduing a shiver of anticipation. She ran a finger down his chest towards his belt buckle.
Eliot took a slow, calculated step back, and she laughed softly.
"Is he shy?" she asked, glancing at Moreau. "I like the shy ones. They're fun to play with." She leaned forward and whispered in Eliot's ear. "Are you shy, Eliot? Surely not. A man like you … I think you will be most … responsive," she added and the tone of arousal in her voice was unmistakeable. She reached out again towards his belt.
Eliot had had enough. He grasped her wrist, holding tightly enough to control her movements but not enough to hurt.
"Touch me, lady, and you'll lose it at the elbow," he said with such calm that Mengue, just for a second, looked uncertain. But the smile returned and she looked Eliot squarely in the eye.
"Pain … I don't mind pain. Receiving it or inflicting it. Do you like pain, Eliot?" The question was couched in a silken whisper.
"Isabella …" Moreau's patience was wearing thin, and he stood up. "Isabella, leave Eliot alone. Can you get me the information I need?" he repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice.
Isabella Mengue relaxed and eased her wrist free of Eliot's grip, and he was happy to let her go. The woman's touch made his skin crawl.
"Don't be so impatient, Damien!" she chided, and the teasing tone made Moreau's cheek tic slightly. "Of course I can get you the information, my friend!" Mengue wandered over to another of the beautiful old chairs and sat down elegantly, crossing one leg over the other. She allowed the dress to ease up slightly, exposing one flawless thigh. Moreau let out a 'tsk' of frustration, but Mengue ignored him. "It may take me a few weeks, but there is already friction between Comando Vermelho and Terceiro Comando Puro*. They've both been recruiting in the favelas, and some careful … research … should find a weak point. I will give you names and locations, and then it will be on your own head what you do with the information." She held up a hand. "I do not get involved in such things," she added dismissively.
"Finally," Damien sighed, and gestured at another of his men standing guard by the door. "Please bring Ms. Mengue's car around." He turned back to Mengue. "As soon as the information is received, I will have the payment delivered in cash, as always." He arched an eyebrow as Mengue unfurled her legs and stood up.
"Have Eliot deliver it," she said.
Moreau gave a hawkish smile.
"Of course," he said, and fixed his dark gaze on Eliot.
Eliot, unfazed, stared back.
And then Isabella Mengue was gone, and all that was left was a faint scent of perfume and the memory of the lust in her golden eyes.
Eliot's nostrils flared in disgust, but Moreau sensed his assassin's dislike and perused the American.
"Why the attitude, Eliot? She's a beautiful woman, is she not? Sleeping with her would not be such a chore, surely?"
The younger man's shoulders straightened even further, and his look was pure ice.
"Do anything like that again, Damien, and I'll slit your throat," he said, and the threat was real.
"Oh, now," Damien replied, his tone conciliatory, "you know I didn't mean anything by it." He raised an eyebrow, amused by Eliot's rancour. "It's up to you. She'll get over it if you don't want what she offers. Although I hear she's quite the lover."
"I hear she's quite the predator too," Eliot answered, and his lip curled in distaste. "She's like a praying mantis. She has a habit of usin' a knife if a man isn't up to her standards – or even when he is."
Moreau's eyes widened in feigned surprise.
"What? Eliot Spencer frightened of a woman? Surely not!" he scoffed, but Eliot didn't rise to the bait.
"I just don't like havin' to keep an eye out for a knife slidin' between my ribs when I bed a woman, Damien. That's all." And without waiting for Moreau's answer, Eliot turned on his heel and left.
LEVERAGE
" … I left Moreau not long after that," Eliot continued, watching Hardison as the young man sat open-mouthed in the seat opposite him. "Not because of Mengue. She was nothin'. I had other reasons."
Hardison's mouth shut with a snap. He watched as Eliot relaxed back in his seat and closed his eyes, shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable.
"I forgot all about her, to be honest," Eliot continued softly, "she wasn't part of Damien's world. All I knew was that she gathered an' sold information. I only met her once an' never heard of her again after that, so I never gave her a second thought."
"Man, she sounds a real piece of work," Hardison pondered, and looked at Eliot with renewed wonder. Eliot's life was, as ever, a never-ending source of mystery, and this new information made the hitter's past even more intriguing.
Eliot shrugged.
"She was … is … someone who keeps a low profile. All she does is gather information, and for that she has to be discreet and damn careful. I never moved in the same circles as she does. She's not limited to South America, but she does most of her business there. I know nothin' about her background … where she came from, or anythin' else. The only odd thing is her name. Mengue. It ain't Portuguese or indian. Hell, it sounds more Germanic than anythin'." Eliot thought about Isabella Mengue for a moment before speaking again. "If she's keepin' tabs on me … on us … then you can be damn sure it's for someone else."
Hardison singled out a gummy frog, popped it in his mouth and chewed solemnly. He swallowed and stared again at the screen of his laptop.
"So … who? Just who is this bitch workin' for?" he asked himself, and referred to his notes. "She's so frikkin' elusive, El. Like a ghost. All I got after workin' on this for hours is a girl called Eloise Isabella Mengue born in Rocinha … oldest of ten," he said, and ran his fingers down the list. "Her dad died durin' a bar fight when she was twelve. She disappeared after that. Nothin' in any official records, includin' police records. Nada." He shrugged. "Other than a whisper here and there of someone … a woman … who's met with oligarchs an' warlords an' other assholes here an' there, there's nothin' tangible. It's just a glimpse an' nothin' else."
Eliot nodded as he sank further back into his seat.
"Yeah … sounds like it could be her. Born in the favelas … a drunk for a dad … she sounds like she hauled herself out of the shit and made somethin' of herself. She's clever. And friggin' dangerous. She liked to use a knife, that I do know. I just got the feelin' she didn't like men much."
Hardison snorted.
"You don't say. So … why you? Why us? What have we done to get on her radar? Who the hell is she workin' for, an' why hire that sonofabitch Ponomarenko?" He scratched his chin and frowned. "Doesn't make sense."
"It will," Nate said, and dropped down into the seat across the aisle. He had obviously been listening to the conversation. "Once we find all the pieces it'll come together. It's just not going to be easy to find them, that's for sure."
"All I can do for now is try and dig up people she's dealt with, Nate. Those are the only hooks we have to hang the research on. Otherwise I got diddly-squat." Hardison shut the laptop with a disgusted flourish and rubbed his eyes with long fingers. "Maybe … maybe I just have to try trackin' her right from the beginning. From 'way back in the nineties. She's maybe about the same age as you, El, so … I got decades of work, bro." He allowed himself a cheeky grin as Eliot let loose a rumble of annoyance from deep in his chest and Nate grinned at the muttered "Wiseass!" that came from the Oklahoman.
Sophie's head suddenly popped up behind Eliot and she peered at them over the back of her seat, obviously deep in thought.
"Eliot … do you think she's vain? You said she's beautiful. She's also getting older … in her early forties now, yes?"
Eliot thought about it.
"Yeah. That'd be about right." He opened his eyes and eased forward, his shoulders taut. "She was all over me, real sure of herself. Confident. She knew she was beautiful an' was happy to use it to get what she wanted." He allowed himself a smirk. "Well, she tried."
"So … she's over-compensating," Sophie was turning over the little information they had about Mengue in her head. "If she's had a rough start – and if she's from the favelas then yes, she's probably been through hell - then she'll use every advantage she has to further her cause. And if her beauty is her only asset other than her brain, or so she thinks, then for that asset to lessen due to, what shall we call it … " she did a quick hand-flap to make her point, "… the ravages of time, say, then she may seek out some sort of help."
"A plastic surgeon?" Hardison's eyebrows rose quizzically. "Now, there's a thought."
Sophie quirked a tiny smile.
"She's a grifter, just like me. And I'm not shy about it – I use my looks to assist in what I do. For goodness sake, we've all done it. We've even auctioned Eliot and Hardison off for charity before now," she added gleefully.
Hardison let loose a white, cheery grin.
"Yeah, an' who got the biggest bid!" he crowed quietly, and Eliot gave him a glare, "man, fifteen thousand bucks! Got me a steak dinner an' everythin'!"
"What's an auction?" Lizzie piped up as she flung herself into the seat next to her father.
Nate looked at the blatant curiosity on his daughter's face as she gazed up at him, and for the umpteenth time was amazed by her bottomless need for information.
"Well, it's a kind of sale where people bid against each other to buy things," he explained, but to his dismay he saw a look of horror wash over Lizzie's face.
"You sold Eliot and Alec?" she gasped, but before Nate could explain further, her dark eyes turned to her mother. "Mama, that's really bad! You can't sell people!"
"'Lizbeth Grace, it's okay – " Eliot began, but the little girl shook her head, appalled at what she was hearing.
"No, Eliot! It's not! Nana says it's bad to sell people, and she told me it even happens today and it's nasty because children and grown-ups are treated really, really badly and –"
It was Hardison who finally stopped her, reaching out to place a big hand on her shoulder and smiling gently at his god-daughter.
"It wasn't like that, baby-girl," he began, his voice softening to consoling gentleness. "It was a con … Eliot an' me … it was just a way in to get to the bad guys. We weren't harmed, sweetheart. Pretty ladies just bid on us so we could keep 'em company an' take 'em to dinner an' stuff – "
"Why?" Kip asked as he joined Lizzie. "What kind of stuff?"
"Um …" Hardison realised he had backed himself into a corner. "Ask Eliot."
"Me? Why're you askin' me?" Eliot's voice hitched up a note or two, and he sat up, pointing at Sophie. "Ask Soph!"
All eyes turned to the grifter, who glared at Eliot.
"You bugger," she said.
Eliot's grin was pure nastiness.
As Sophie tried to explain the reason why Eliot and Hardison had been auctioned off to apparently rich young women for thousands of dollars, Hardison remembered coming upon his Nana and Lizzie on their visit to Chicago the previous year.
Nana had been showing Lizzie photographs of Hardison as a boy, much to the hacker's embarrassment, but as the photograph albums began to add up on the table in Nana's cluttered kitchen, Nana explained that her great-great-grandparents had been born into slavery.
Lizzie had been deeply shocked.
Nana had gently explained how they had both been emancipated, and they and their children had settled in Mississippi to farm. Lizzie had gazed at a photograph from the 1880s of the large family sitting in front of their small, hand-built but neat house, all of them stiff and dignified for the photographer, and Nana told Lizzie how proud she was of them.
Hardison quietly slipped away as Nana and Lizzie talked into the night, and Lizzie had never forgotten how the elderly woman had told her of terrible times, but had also spoken of hope and kindness and tolerance. Hardison was so very, very glad his Nana made him her own.
But he had other things to deal with, and leaving his family to bicker and field awkward questions from two very curious children, he returned to his laptop.
Isabella Mengue and Tomas Ponomarenko. The names were earworms that wouldn't leave him alone, and they came to him in his dreams.
The whats, whys and wherefores had Hardison beginning to comprehend how overwhelming it all was. As he opened his laptop and returned to his research, he grimly wondered what deep and very, very nasty can of worms he was digging into, and what terrified him most of all was the feeling that if he missed even the tiniest hint of what was going on, it could cost all of them their lives.
LEVERAGE
For the thirteenth time in the past hour, Mei Munro's eyes strayed to the rise of the hill where the stringybarks grew, where the road ran towards distant civilisation and brought loved ones home to the place called Wapanjara.
"Why are they not home yet, Papa Soapy?" she asked, worry clouding her dark eyes. Jamie sat beside her on the swing-seat, giggling as she tickled him gently.
Soapy had to hide a smile as he stood on the veranda rocking Rose in his arms, her head resting on his chest as she listened to the steady, lulling beat of her grandfather's heart.
"Don't worry, my girl, they'll be home soon. Nate called us from the airport so –"
As if on cue, the rumble of vehicle engines came faintly through the shimmering heat of this summer's day, and Mei broke into a relieved smile. Picking up Jamie she hugged him, the little boy burbling with glee. Mei stood on her tiptoes and kissed a surprised Soapy Munro on his leathery cheek, and Soapy, still unused to having a daughter who adored him, raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
"They're home!" Mei cried and trotted down the veranda steps, Jamie held tightly to her chest, to wait for her family. She waved with enthusiasm as Doris appeared over the brow of the hill, heading down the incline and past the ancient gum tree that guarded the homestead gate. Bernadette trundled along behind her, and both vehicles were soon parked in the shade beneath the trees, people spilling out into the dry, arid heat.
Effie was helped out of Bernadette and she stumped through the small crowd of happy people, her RAAF hat jammed on her head and voluminous handbag hanging from one arm. With saying a word, she made her way up the steps, through the veranda and into the house. Once in her kitchen, she put the kettle on, dumped her handbag on the enormous oak table and sighed happily.
She was home, and she was dying for a good cuppa.
Jo appeared through the doorway and pulled out a stool, perching on it as she studied Effie.
"Well?" she said. "How did it go?"
Effie took a moment or two before replying, and then reached into her handbag and brought out her extendable cosh, placing it gently on the table.
"Alright, I suppose," she grumbled. "I didn't need to use this on anyone. The Yank made sure we was all safe. Other than that … it was just bleedin' bonzer!"
Jo chuckled and stood up to fetch cups from their cupboard and dumped teabags into Effie's big teapot, and was about to dig out Mei's experimental marble cake for everyone to try when two children stormed into the kitchen followed by Parker, all three of them chattering about Santa and decorations and were they going to have a tree. Parker dumped a very large cardboard box on the table and flung herself onto a stool. She gazed at the marble cake.
"Yum!" she said.
"Dammit, Eff!" Eliot grunted as he dragged Effie's suitcase past the kitchen door towards her room, "are you sure you ain't got bricks in this thing? It weighs a ton!"
Effie snorted, ignored him and focused on Kip and Lizzie, the two children retrieving juice from the enormous refrigerator and pouring it carefully into bright lime-green glasses.
The kitchen was suddenly swarming with people, all talking at once, and as Jo pulled out more cups and placed plates and forks beside Mei's marble cake, she happily absorbed every moment of bickering, laughter and love that made her house feel like home.
"Yes, there's a tree!" Soapy shouted above the noise, and Parker let out a yip of delight. "Not a real one, I'm afraid," the old pastoralist continued, "it wouldn't last in this heat, but we found a decent pretend-tree which I think will do nicely!"
Parker cut herself and the children a slice of cake each and handed out forks as Eliot joined them, complaining about Effie's suitcase as he pulled out a stool and slumped down on it. Hardison squeezed past him, Rose tucked against his chest, and headed for the cake, eyes bright with anticipation.
"Man-oh-man, will you look at that! All chocolatey an' scrumptious an' headin' straight for my tummy, little sister!" he added and tickled Rose, who giggled happily, arms flailing as Hardison sat her on his knee so that she could rest back on his chest. "Your momma's a genius!" He leaned over and kissed Rose's tousled hair.
Parker forked cake into her mouth and a pink tongue stuck out chasing a crumb on her lip. Humming to herself, she reached over and upended the scruffy cardboard box onto the table.
A river of glittering beauty spilled over the old oak table's spotless surface. Necklaces and earrings aglow with flawless diamonds and sapphires the colour of the vast reaches of the ocean lay winking under the kitchen lights. Fire opals shimmered in silver bracelets and loose, uncut emeralds echoing the shadowed green of the forests of Colombia tumbled over cabochons of rubies which glowed the deepest blood-red. The colours caught the reflection of the lights and draped the ceiling and walls of the cavernous kitchen with the soft glimmer of stained-glass, turning the room into a place of beauty that would not have looked out of place in the great medieval cathedrals of Europe.
Effie almost dropped her teacup.
"Bloody hell!" she whispered, and before she could stop herself she picked up a necklace that slipped through her fingers like jewelled water. Tiny slivers of sapphires and pink diamonds were set into an intricate filigree tracery made of platinum and white gold. Larger square-cut sapphires lay snug in tiny egg-shaped settings, and Effie fumbled for her spectacles, pulling them out of her pocket and shoving them with a shaking hand onto her face. She peered more closely at the oval, diamond-encrusted sliding clasp from which hung a large, single, deep blue sapphire teardrop on a chain. Worn with a backless dress, it would have made quite an impression. There was a tiny stamp on the back of the clasp, and Effie suddenly gasped.
"This … this …" she stammered, and then lost the ability to speak.
Sophie smiled.
"Yes," she said with enviable calm, "nice, isn't it? Carl Fabergé did make some quite fetching necklaces when he wasn't making imperial eggs."
Jo's face was a picture, Eliot thought, as she reached out to touch a small brooch in the shape of a dragonfly, with rock-crystal wings and a glittering abdomen of green and gold. The eyes were moonstones, and the insect appeared to be gazing at Jo with limpid moon-glow.
Parker helped herself to more cake as Kip ran his fingers through a small river of rubies. The little thief waved her fork at Jo.
"Do you like it?" she asked as Jo picked up the dragonfly, its rich yellow-gold frame bright against Jo's tanned skin, " 'cause you can have it if you want. I was going to put it on the tree like I always do, but I think it would look really pretty on you, Jo." She grinned happily. "Keep it."
Jo's mouth opened and closed a few times as she tried to get some words out, and when she did they were nothing more than a croak.
"Parker … I … I can't … it's … but I can't! Where … are these all … y'know … stolen?"
Parker let out a snorky giggle and sipped her orange juice.
"Well, yeah!" she exclaimed, and seeing the look of dismay on Jo's face, she thought she had better elucidate. "Oh, I took them from bad guys, so don't worry! That one came from a creep who trafficked people from Eastern Europe and sold 'em as servants Stateside."
"Slaves, Parker," Nate murmured as he finished his cake slice and helped himself to more. "That's basically what they were. Indentured servants, without a hope in hell of paying that piece of trash back for the outlay in getting them to the States."
Mei, sitting beside Hardison with Jamie in her arms, shuddered. She knew all about the horrific trade in human beings.
Jo turned the golden dragonfly over in her fingers.
"So what happened to him?" she asked quietly, and then handed the dragonfly to Soapy as he sat beside her.
"Jail," Eliot explained. "Both he an' his men. And his wife. He got sent to White Swan Prison in the Urals." The hitter grinned wickedly. "The S.O.B. spends his time minin' salt."
Parker cocked her head at Jo and her blue eyes softened.
"Please, Jo. Keep it. I'd like you to have it. Soapy, tell Jo to keep it!" she insisted, and her pleasure at the idea warmed her through and through.
Soapy frowned thoughtfully, and then turned and pinned the dragonfly on Jo's lapel. Then he kissed his wife thoroughly and winked at Parker. Tucking a silver-auburn curl behind Jo's ear, he studied her carefully.
"It matches your eyes," he murmured. "My golden girl wearing a golden dragonfly. Just perfect."
Jo gazed into her husband's lugubrious face, his black eyes carrying that spark of love she saw every time he looked at her. Her hand touched the dragonfly, and for once in her life didn't seem to know what to say, so Parker said it for her.
"See? Now it has a new home, and it won't have to be in this box any more." She poked at the loose stones scattered on the table, idly tracing a line through them. "These … I want to give these to the Kangaroo Sanctuary. They just get dusty sitting on their own in my box. The necklaces and stuff are nice and I like to wear them to bed sometimes, or put them on the Christmas tree, which is why I brought them, but these things … they're not much use." Her face scrunched up as she thought about it. The magpie in her loved the glitter and shine, but she preferred things she could wear or use as decoration. The loose stones she had taken simply because she could.
Conversation drifted into silence as everyone realised the enormity of what Parker was saying. The stones were worth millions.
"Parker … are you sure?" Nate asked, realising that Parker had reached some sort of crossroads. Empathy had never been Parker's strong point.
She nodded, her gamine features set into the look her team recognised as Parker's 'sure … why not?' look. They all realised that the stones had never meant that much to the little thief, whereas the plight of the little, helpless pinkies had somehow wormed its way into her heart.
Sophie reached out and squeezed Parker's arm, and nodded.
"I think that's a great idea, Parker. But I have a suggestion," she said, gentleness in every syllable. "How about sharing them around? There are lots of sanctuaries out there who could use your help. What with the bush fires and everything … there are lots of animals who have no-one to help them, or have to deal with the mess we've made of our world … why not find a way to give them the money so they can make a real impact?"
"Is there a way to set up some sort of system where money can be given anonymously?" Jo asked, knowing the team had to be careful, security always at the forefront of their minds.
Hardison waved a hand, holding Rose securely on his lap with the other.
"It's no problem, Jo. I can set up somethin', easy as hell. Change these lil' beauties into hard cash. We have our contacts." He grinned, teeth flashing, at Parker, eyes warm with delight. "You go, girl! That's a helluva good idea."
"It's almost like I would be Santa!" she giggled, and earnestly began to gather the scattered jewels up and throw them back in the cardboard box. Kip and Lizzie started to help, and the children giggled as they made a game of dropping sapphires and diamonds into the box. Parker's smile widened and her blue eyes sparked with joy. "Kip and Lizzie could be my elves!"
Kip laughed out loud as his father winked at him, and he tugged at Parker's sleeve.
"Can we help choose who to give the jewels to?" he asked, eyes huge with excitement.
Parker let out an indignant snorkle.
"Hell, yeah!" she stated, "I don't know where these places are! You can help me decide, huh." Her brow wrinkled thoughtfully. "I wish I had a sleigh and reindeer."
"Ah," Soapy said, and clasped Jo's hand where it lay on the table, "Santa doesn't use reindeer in Australia," he explained.
"Why?" Parker asked, and suddenly her world was a little out of kilter. No reindeer? "How does he -"
"Boomers," Soapy said with authority. "Santa lets the reindeer have a rest when he gets to Australia on Christmas night. He's already been all over the place, so they deserve a carrot and some hay. So … he uses boomers. Six white boomers."
Lizzie was astounded.
"Seriously? Santa uses kangaroos?" she asked, agog.
"Sure does," Eliot said, cutting a piece of cake. "Six big, pure white boomers. Reindeer don't deal too well with the outback, so Santa uses kangaroos. Makes sense, dontcha think?"
Kip and Lizzie exchanged glances.
"Effie," Kip said hurriedly, "can we leave some food out for the boomers?"
This was Kip's first Christmas with his friend, as the Warumungu didn't really celebrate the holiday other than with some gifts and maybe a corroboree. But he had been delighted to be included in Lizzie's plans for the day, and the idea of decorating a tree sounded bonzer, especially as they could use Parker's lovely shiny jewellery.
Effie screwed up her pudgy face as she thought about it. Kip and Lizzie each hung onto Parker as all three of them watched the old cook ruminate on the issue.
"And something for Santa too!" Lizzie added, "he'll be really, really tired by the time he gets to Wapanjara, I bet!"
"Well now, nippers … let me think …" Effie pondered, and it was obvious that both children and one thief hung desperately on every word. "I suppose … I suppose I can think of something. But the boomers're not my bleedin' responsibility, young 'uns! They'll need hay and water and a bit of a treat … somethin' special, I reckon."
Lizzie and Kip immediately turned to Charlie.
"Dad?" Kip gasped, worried that the boomers would die of exhaustion on the spot if his father didn't help.
"Please?" Lizzie begged, eyes huge with concern, and Parker nodded vigorously in agreement.
Charlie frowned, taking the children's fears very seriously. Dead boomers couldn't pull Santa's sleigh anywhere.
"I suppose I could dig out a carrot or two. Gertie won't mind, I'm sure." Gertie had her own supply of carrots. "And I suppose we can leave 'em a bucket of cattle feed to keep their energy levels up."
Both children let out a gusty sigh of relief, and Parker grinned happily. Christmas was back on with a vengeance, with Santa and his boomers taken care of. Now all they needed to do was put up the tree, decorate it and stack lots of presents underneath it. She had brought her illuminated flashy reindeer antlers to wear, and she just couldn't wait.
LEVERAGE
The two days left before Christmas were busy ones.
The rotisserie arrived the day after everyone came home, and Effie had a wonderful time with the children unwrapping it and figuring out how everything worked. It was much admired, and with Eliot's help Effie immediately plugged it in beside the little deck and stairs outside the kitchen.
That night everyone ate melt-in-the-mouth chicken and a wonderful marinated rack of beef. The rotisserie, much to Effie's delight, was deemed an overwhelming success.
Soapy dug out the pretend-tree and set it up on the veranda. It took Parker, Mei, Lizzie and Kip all afternoon to decorate it, with lots of laughter, tweaks of priceless jewellery and the installation of a white kangaroo wearing a Santa hat on the apex of the tree. Hardison's height made him the ideal victim to hang lights around the eaves of the house, and even Eliot was deployed to help Nate hang tiny, twinkling lights on the huge old gum tree by the homestead gate. Eliot growled, complained and argued while Nate directed him from ground level, saying that climbing trees wasn't his forte. Eliot had no idea why Parker couldn't hang the frikkin' lights and was told that Parker was busy putting lights all over the roof of the house.
By the time everyone had finished, Sophie was sure the house would be seen from the International Space Station.
By Christmas Eve, the pile of presents under the tree had grown so much that Soapy and Nate had to put out a small table to carry the excess. Buster spent a lot of his time sniffing the mysterious packages, all wrapped in shiny paper, and Parker skipped about the house wearing her reindeer antlers. The children refused to remove their elf hats.
Jo and Soapy loved every moment. Their home was full to the brim with people they loved, and for the first time in their lives they had their own family with which to celebrate. There was laughter and joy, and the tree glittered on the shadowed veranda, the soft, twinkling lights mirrored by the fireflies and the stars above shining in the reaches of the endless night.
Eliot sat in his recliner and let the happiness wash over him. His family was safe and sound, and Hardison's security system was thrumming quietly to itself, alert and ready to guard the people of Wapanjara.
"Can we stay up to wait for Santa?" Lizzie asked sleepily. Kip sprawled beside her, full of Effie's excellent chicken parmigiana, and he sighed happily.
"D'you think Santa will land on the roof?" he asked, "''cause the boomers won't get anything to eat if they land on the roof!"
A bale of hay with a bunch of carrots and a bucket of feed sat beside the veranda, put there by Jacko and the crew. The arguments about how much food to leave out and what special treat the boomers would like had gone on for hours.
"Nah!" Charlie scoffed with a grin. "He'll land in the yard. There's more room there, anyway. He can come in through the veranda door instead of trying to go down the chimney," he explained. "Then he can get his glass of beer and his sarnies and cake."
The children, tired though they were, wriggled with excitement.
Eliot, looking at the somnolent people around him, decided he needed to stretch his legs before bedtime. So he stood up, yawned, and ran his fingers through his thick hair.
"Gonna go check Gertie," he rumbled, "She's pretty close now. You two want to come?" he asked the children. Both of them scrambled to their feet and eagerly followed Eliot down the veranda steps, Buster as always tagging along behind them.
As they disappeared into the night on their now-regular Gertie-check, Nate gazed after them, sipping his cup of coffee.
"I hope this baby arrives soon before Eliot wastes away with worry," he murmured to Sophie, who was curled up beside him on the roomy swing seat.
"God help us if something goes wrong," she whispered, elegant eyebrows drawn down in concern. "Eliot'll be bad enough, but Lizzie … I don't know if she'd ever get over it."
Looking around at the people settled in their comfortable chairs, she saw the same expression on every face. Much as they were looking forward to Christmas, the cloud of worry over a very-middle-aged camel having her first baby hovered like a miasma over the group.
Effie decided the silence was too depressing.
"Righto, you bludgers!" She rumbled, and got to her lumpy feet. "Who wants pannacotta?"
LEVERAGE
The children followed Eliot up the incline towards the barn, the old building now sporting a plethora of tiny, multi-coloured winking lights. The mares and foals were standing patiently beside the paddock gate awaiting their suppers, and Lizzie and Kip stopped for a minute or two to fuss over Sparky, who gave out a soft nicker of pleasure as they headed towards him, his dam Dottie reaching out to nuzzle the children's heads. Eliot kept going, hands deep in his pockets as he strode through the big door into the lit interior. Letting out a soft whistle, he waited to hear Gertie's burble of delight at the arrival of her best friend as he tried to see if she was resting in the big foaling box. But there was no sign of her ears through the grilles, usually swivelling like radar antenna as soon as she heard Eliot's whistle.
Eliot was met with silence.
He broke into a run, and reaching the foaling box, he heard a deep, pained groan. Oh. Oh God. He reached for the door, slid it open and took in the scene before him. His breath hitched and he turned swiftly as the children appeared through the barn entrance.
"Go get Charlie! NOW!" he bawled, and dropped down into the straw beside Gertie.
To be continued …
LEVERAGE
* Comando Vermelho and Terceiro Comando Puro are both Brazilian criminal organisations active in Rio de Janeiro.