Unbidden

UNBIDDEN PART I: MORTAL THOUGHTS

Chapter One

Doug Mulcahy always wanted another smoke before he’d finished the last one, more to feel a cigarette between his lips than nicotine in his lungs. An oral fixation, his ex-wife used to call it, usually earning herself a smack. The only oral fixation he ever admitted to suffering was how to shut her smart mouth.

Gripping the wheel with both hands, searching for the turn, he saw a black snake standing on its tail in the distance down the road, swaying like a charmer’s trick in the midday rising heat.

Getting closer, the snake became a pair of black, stretch denim jeans, long blonde hair, a backpack – and the potential for female company. But then sharper focus revealed scrawny shoulders wider than the hips, a lack of arse and an unfeminine stride.

The snake stuck out a thumb.

Good fucking luck, growled the man seated beside Doug.

The truck didn’t slow. In the rear-view Doug saw the hitchhiker hawk and spit in their direction, never breaking stride.

Enjoy the walk, smartarse.

A sign ahead showed their destination writ large in faded letters: Mirribindi Aerodrome. As Doug slowed for the turn, an oncoming white Ford Falcon hurtled past back toward town. Sporting an ostentatious bullbar and radio antennas like fishing poles, it was the kind of vehicle endemic in country areas, favoured by the landed gentry. Its tyres kicked up a stone which cracked hard against Doug’s windscreen.

Doug thought he disguised his reaction, but his passenger chuckled.

Prick.

Both knew he’d never enjoyed the loud, sudden bangs that punctuated their line of work.

***

The white Falcon passed the truck and then swung back to the centre of the road, holding its line. But as the hitchhiker came into sight, the car slowly started to drift.

The hiker glanced up briefly to register the approaching vehicle, then returned his gaze to the verge and his trudging feet. It wasn’t going his way.

He continued ignoring the car until it was almost upon him, raising his head and leaping sideways in almost the same movement. The Falcon missed him by a whisker. A flash of a gleeful, bearded man’s face in the window, trailed by uproarious laughter a second later. The hitchhiker was enveloped inside a choking whirlwind of dust, cursing holy hell between coughing and spluttering. He flipped the long-gone Falcon the finger, jabbing the air so furiously the dust cloud should have cracked.

***

Aerodrome was technically correct, albeit a touch glorified. Flat, dirt field was a better description. The main building, with its large plate-glass front windows, looked like a cross between a control tower and convenience store. The large aluminium shed adjacent was a prefabricated deal, its doors chocked open, an uneven trestle table at the entry displaying the guts of a plane. Close by, a dispirited windsock knocked against a peeling pole. Two parked cars nudged the side of the shed, hugging the shade.

Doug drove onto the crazy quilt of bitumen and cement slabs in front of the main building. He parked alongside the plate-glass windows, effectively cutting the view to the airfield. That would get their attention. He was in a hurry and was never one for waiting in line. Fetching his clipboard, he got out of the truck. His passenger – his co-worker – exited the other side.

Doug was a man of few vanities, but was conscious of his appearance in company uniform. Starched, wide in the leg, his reflection in the window looked faintly ridiculous, like an action figure wearing a jumpsuit. In a different context it could give him a military demeanour, putting people on their guard.

He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the glare off the tarmac. He blinked at the shadow that appeared alongside his own. Doug wasn’t a tall man, though he was sometimes wrongly remembered as one. He was stocky and square, like a dependable wall. Any fat on him was evenly distributed and made him look approachable, a cloak to the hard muscle carried beneath.

No-one would ever mistake the size of the man beside him. If Doug was a stone wall, here was the full brick shithouse – the kind that came in two storeys. The coarse body hair peeking from his collar and sleeves gave him the look of a circus bear wearing human clothes. The truck’s cab, built to fit three men, had felt like a squeeze.

Doug stared up at Cutter with hard eyes, if a little watery around the edges. Take off the damn sunnies. You look like you’re about to rob the place.

Cutter slid his shades off, blinking unevenly. Doug preferred him that way. He appeared slow, instead of mean.

The door to the building burst open and two men in non-matching clothes shot out with such force, Doug almost raised his hands in surrender.

Move that truck, said the taller of the two, his neck as wide as his head.

Doug was just as curt. Sure. And on behalf of Quik-Vend we apologise for the delay. Now, where do you want it?

Away from the front of the building. Over there.

Doug turned and saw the indicated parking space, a bare plot of cement poked by weeds. He turned back. No, I mean where do you want the drink dispenser?

The two other men swapped looks of confusion.

The Coke machine, Doug suggested gently.

A vending machine? asked the taller man, obviously in charge. Like, you put money in?

Doug nodded, but couldn’t hide his look of someone who smelled a cock-up.

There’s a mistake. We didn’t order any soda.

Gives me gas, the shorter man said, speaking for the first time. He sported a moustache thicker than a table ledge, trying to hide a pronounced overbite.

Doug shrugged. I just make the deliveries.

Cutter ignored the conversation altogether. He went to the back of the truck, opened the rear doors and slid the ramp planks out.

The two men pursued him, Doug following.

Hey, hang on! said the taller one, who Doug had silently christened Neck.

Cutter climbed inside, lost in the gloomy interior. The others peered at him, eyes adjusting to the dark, watching him untie furry loops of rope securing the lone piece of cargo. It could be mistaken for nothing but a vending machine, the bright logo and colours forceful even in the dark.

I think you should save yourself the trouble, said the lackey. Doug dubbed him Duckbill.

Cutter ignored them, wrestling the machine onto a trolley and down the ramps. It looked a heavy bastard to keep steady, but the only sign of strain was the jumping veins in his neck. The trolley hit the tarmac in a smart stop. But the machine kept going and tipped onto its front with a crash. Doug’s teeth rattled but he was too late to stop it.

Christ! Damn it! That’s a valuable piece of property!

Cutter did not register the reprimand, but simply bent over to right the machine. Doug went to help, the other two men slower to do so. Cutter motioned them back. In a shameless display of strength, he stood the machine upright. If he had to put his back into the effort, it didn’t show. He dusted the machine off, then gave it an amiable slap.

No harm done.

I’m more concerned with what’s inside, Doug growled.

Cutter shrugged, smiling at some private idea.

Want to open it up and take a look?

Take it inside, Doug said. Can you manage that? Or should I do it?

The other men had fallen silent to watch the tension, but mention of moving the machine brought Neck back into play. No, you’re leaving that thing right there.

It’s alright. I understand, Doug said reasonably. You’re not to know. You weren’t told. Happens all the time. Can I talk to whoever’s in charge?

I’m the one left to sort out the shit that happens around here, Neck snarled. And I didn’t order a bloody drink machine.

Hey, fine, Doug said. No drama. Sign for it and we’ll go. If you still don’t want it we can swing back in a few weeks and pick it up again. I get paid the same.

Neck was not a man easily led, despite a head that looked built for the chopping block. You can take it back now! And I’m not signing anything!

Doug resisted. That won’t do. I need a signature to prove we were here.

Duckbill inspected the machine. There’re scratches down the front of it.

I won’t tell if you don’t, Cutter winked. Even a friendly gesture from Cutter seemed to imply violence. Duckbill didn’t like it, backing away.

Maybe someone on the council ordered it? he said to Neck. You’re always telling them to do up the place.

Neck distractedly brushed at his thinning pate, now as red as his face and beading with sweat. Look, let’s see if we can sort this out inside, under some shade.

The machine shouldn’t be left in the sun, Doug said. Not good for it.

Neck was fed up. Then put it back in the truck!

Can we choose what comes out of it? Duckbill asked hopefully. Like, juice?

Neck was on his way to becoming a beaten man. Oh, for … come inside and we’ll figure something out. He pointed to a corner of the building. There’s cover over there. You’ll have to leave it outside. You’ll see why.

***

The one-room office was a tight fit, shaped into narrow corridors by desks, radio equipment, kitchenette, filing cabinets and an antique photocopier. A wall-mounted fan oscillated back and forth, achieving little more than shifting the hot air around. Occasionally, for no discernible reason, it emitted a loud, ripping fart.

There was a small, lifeless waiting room glimpsed through a partition door, crammed high with sagging cardboard boxes. Neck explained that a delivery was overdue to be collected. Normally the boxes would be left undercover outside, he told Doug, but thieving had worsened lately. Doug readily sympathised.

There was one other notable feature of the office, and since entering Cutter had barely taken his eyes from her: a young, pretty woman sitting at the corner desk laden with paperwork. She wasn’t introduced, and after initially looking over the visitors, went back to working on her computer and fussing over a stray twist of hair, picking at her clothes, brushing her bared skin self-consciously. Whenever she glanced back up at Cutter, he answered her increasingly shy looks with an unwavering smile.

Duckbill scanned Doug’s clipboard while Neck directed the young woman to scroll through old emails, looking for any sign of the order.

The sound of the whirring, farting fan rose sharply for a moment before its pivot began to slow, the dusty blades becoming visible in their cage, slowing to a halt.

Great, said Neck. Open the windows will you, Sonya?

They are open.

Open them wider.

It was through the windows they heard it first – the distant droning of an approaching plane.

Duckbill bumped into Doug and Cutter in his rush to get outside.

No-one’s due this morning, Neck muttered for everyone’s benefit. Sonya, get them on the radio. Ask them who they are and their flight plan.

Doug spied Sonya rolling her eyes as she went to the radio.

The droning dropped to an abridged roar as a low-flying plane buzzed the building. Its shadow flitted past the windows.

No, let me, Neck insisted, elbowing Sonya aside.

Duckbill came back, stopping in the doorway. It’s circling.

Neck turned from fussing with the radio, his cheeks and Adam’s apple a heated pink. Get that truck out of the way!

Sure, Doug said congenially, right after you sign the invoice.

Neck clicked the radio repeatedly. It’s not working! He ducked under the desk. For god’s sake … don’t tell me it’s not plugged in!

Maybe it’s blown a fuse, Duckbill suggested.

Neck stood again, rubbing his ear furiously having clipped it on the edge of the desk. Does it look like it’s in trouble? he asked Duckbill as he reached for a mobile phone lying nearby.

From what I could see, it’s flying fine, Duckbill said.

Doug was closer to the mobile. Reaching to pick it up for Neck he bunted it away instead. It slipped down between the wall and desk.

Whoops. Sorry.

Neck pushed past Doug and Cutter, heading outside, glancing down at Doug’s nametag. Just get out of the bloody way… Russell.

The plane’s engine noise began swelling again. Duckbill skipped aside as Neck passed through the door. Doug looked over at Sonya, shrugged and gestured, Ladies first, yet she declined to exit until he and Cutter went ahead. Doug wasn’t offended. It wasn’t about him. It was Cutter. He made anybody nervous.

***

They made it outside in time to see the medium-sized plane – a twin-engine propeller – finish banking beyond the far end of the runway and level out for its approach.

After the build-up, the landing was almost a disappointment, strictly by-the-book. Two light skips and the plane was smoothly riding the packed dirt like it was asphalt. It taxied to the cement quilt in front of the office.

A corporate logo was displayed on its fuselage, the lettering as particular as the name, all swirls and flourishes: Del Rossi Mines, Coober Pedy, SA. Props winding down, the plane eased to a stop before the impromptu welcoming committee.

Doug peered through the glare sparking off the cockpit glass. Two pilots, apparently in a hurry. The men could be seen hastily unbuckling their seats, almost colliding with each other as they vacated the cockpit. It could have been the tinted glass, but their expressions looked grey, as if they had just averted a major disaster.

A hatch was released in the side of the plane, a flash of arm foisting it open and then causing the stair to unfold. After that, the hatchway was left standing empty. Neck and Duckbill trotted over to it, mindful of the props winding down. A sharp command from inside made them nearly trip over their own feet.

Stop! Back off!

They halted, but otherwise didn’t, or couldn’t, move.

The same barking command: Back off! Now!

A hunched, heavyset man backed out of the plane. He wore a fawn uniform with the Del Rossi logo on the back. Eyes downcast, he descended the stair while hauling one end of a heavy crate. The back of his neck glistened with sweat. He was a security guard judging by the large black utility belt and gun holster he wore.

When the crate was struck by full sunlight, it dazzled; a shiny lead crisscrossed with silver bands, it looked more like a safe than a crate, and just as heavy.

A second guard emerged toting the other end. He looked like something recently used for target practice, his ginger flat-top hair matted with blood and sweat. And as befitted a wounded animal, his nerves were on edge, his eyes darting across these new surroundings, jumping from one person to the next.

The two guards struggled with the crate, sliding and thumping it down the stair. The first guard slipped and dropped a corner on his foot, barely raising a grunt. Their hearts clearly weren’t in it. An untrained eye might have missed the empty holsters flapping at their hips, but Doug saw things quickly. Both of them had been disarmed.

Two more men followed the guards: the pilots Doug had glimpsed in the cockpit. Airline crew never appeared to wilt, even under duress. Their white short-sleeved shirts remained crisp, the Del Rossi logo looking smart on their pockets. At a guess, the older, thicker-set fellow with the salt and pepper mane was the pilot. The more serious younger one, skinny and standing a head taller, his deputy. Their hands were held out to their sides, like men easing themselves into cold water.

Last to exit was a third guard, holding a pistol aimed at the others as he marched them onto the tarmac. There he halted, breathing purposefully, staring at Doug and Cutter and the ground crew as if implying the next move was theirs. But no-one thought to run, to make a break for the parked cars. They could have, since they were too loosely gathered for one man to cover effectively. Doug knew that Neck, Duckbill and Sonya could never have prepared for anything as unlikely as a hijacking.

He and Cutter, however …

He shot his partner a look that said time to move.

Listen! Doug shouted, as he and Cutter retrieved hidden pistols from their overalls. This is a hold-up!

It didn’t seem quite right for the situation, but Doug stuck with what he knew. The ground crew spun to face him. If previously they were shocked, they were utterly dumbstruck now. The men carrying the crate paused. Cutter kept his gaze and gun firmly on the armed security guard, who curiously didn’t react.

You lot, Doug said, motioning Neck, Duckbill and Sonya together with his pistol, get friendly. Snuggle.

The trio hesitated, then Doug stepped toward Neck, raising the pistol into his line of sight, confirming this was really happening. The big man began moving stiffly and the other two followed.

That’s it. Keep together. Stay nice, Doug said. He herded them away from Cutter, creating separate targets for the guard with the gun.

Stop. Now, hold hands.

At this last order, the woman and two men peered at him, confused.

I mean it! Hold hands! Now!

They clumsily did as they were told. Joining hands appeared to make the men more docile, left without even the presence of mind to position the girl between them.

Now for the more delicate part: Doug knew better than to begin ordering the pilots and guards to do the same. They weren’t his to do anything with yet.

Check them, he told Cutter. He made his voice carry so the guard with the gun heard it plainly. Just to make sure they’re not carrying.

Doug didn’t think it was a set-up. If it was a trick they deserved Oscars, including Best Makeup award for the guard with the bloody gash on his head. But, best to be sure. He knew from experience you could look worried whether you were carrying a gun into a fight or not.

Cutter did not frisk as much as pummel, almost knocking down the slender pilot. When it was their turn, the guards looked churlish enough to try something dumb, but resisted. Doug didn’t much care for private security. The work attracted men with an inflated sense of importance, emboldened by the value of the cargo they watched over. And what these guards had in their possession was very valuable indeed.

Well? It was the final guard, who had remained silent during the process.

Doug knew little about him, but what he knew was key. That his name was Torlach. That he was good at his job and also a loving family man. That he was here under duress and couldn’t be pushed much further.

Doug sympathised, but kept a bead on him. He nodded at Cutter, who broke into a flat jog as he went back toward the main building.

This better be on the up and up! Torlach shouted.

Doug kept his tone reasonable and sure. It is on our end, if it is on yours.

Torlach tried to lock his glare on Doug. He was finding it difficult. Doug moved out of direct sight, behind the ground crew, making it harder for Torlach to get a fix. Sensibly, everyone else kept still, quiet. One of the ground staff began to sob. Doug wasn’t entirely sure it was the girl.

Cutter came back trundling the soda machine on the trolley. Torlach looked ready to unravel with impatience.

Easy, Doug assured him. We’re getting to it.

Cutter parked the machine so everyone had a clear view. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the box and swung the front panel open.

Except for one or two muted gasps the silence on the tarmac was profound.

Revealed inside the hollowed-out machine was a bound and gagged boy.

The wall of the improvised cell was lined with a thin mattress – to soundproof the machine as much as to insulate and protect the occupant. Though there were nominal air vents, an oxygen tank was attached to the ceiling and tuned to a constant low pressure. There was even a container at the boy’s feet to catch spills in the event he had to go to the toilet. Some cruel wag – it had to be Cutter – had ripped a page from a Where’s Wally? book and stuck it to the inside of the door to give the boy something to do. Like it was possible to read in the dark.

Doug could barely make himself look. He had eventually reconciled himself to the machine’s use in transporting the boy, and then done what he could to make it comfortable. But he suspected the child would suffer claustrophobia for the rest of his life. He noticed now the boy’s nose was bloodied. No doubt due to Cutter’s lack of care.

Torlach’s anxiety rose up in a cry: Matthew!

The boy’s cheeks were huffing and puffing behind the gag. A large blood bubble burst from one nostril.

Take the gag off him, Doug told Cutter, and wipe his nose, for god’s sake.

Cutter pulled the gag down, the boy’s head nodding roughly with it. He produced a bandanna from his pocket and dabbed roughly under the child’s nose, spreading the blood around a bit, making the kid look like he’d been into a jam jar.

I’m here, Matthew, Torlach called.

The boy’s blinking eyes found his father and went wide with yearning.

It’s okay, Matty. Torlach’s voice cracked midway. I’ll get you out of there.

Doug said, I’ve shown you mine, mate. Now show me yours.

Fishing a key from his pocket, Torlach tossed it to the guard with the bloodied head, ordering him to open the crate. The key bounced off the other man’s chest. He was reluctant to bend down and pick it up, almost comically slow. Torlach ordered the third guard to hand his key over as well. To those two keys, the bloodied guard – Doug called him Red – added his own, trying not to look like he was stalling. Red squatted down in front of the crate to fit the first key in the lock. The keys were colour-coded, one for each of the three locks on the crate.

His hand still gripping the key, Red gave vent to his anger. Don’t go through with this. You’ll never work again, Torlach. Not in security. The company will see to it.

Cutter snorted. Even Doug had to smile. What a joke.

Hearing them, Red’s face flamed. He had to fumble with the key twice before he could turn it. You won’t be paid to count change in a tuckshop! he yelled at Torlach.

Cutter could barely contain himself, hooting his delight.

Red fitted the second key. Doug didn’t know why he let him keep talking. Maybe because he was still doing what he was told. Or perhaps Doug relished the man’s helplessness. Perhaps things around here simply needed livening up.

Del Rossi will go after you for every last cent. Your children’s grandchildren will be paying it off after you’re dead! Red barked.

He just got funnier. Cutter guffawed out loud and stamped his foot.

I think you’re in with this lot, Red shouted. He nodded at the drink machine and the boy in it. What sort of mongrel would do that to his own kid?

Torlach suddenly looked wild. He would have done something, but Doug got in first. Shut up, he said with menacing finality, although he would have enjoyed seeing Torlach pistol-whip Red to the ground. The last key turned in the crate. Red hesitated when he grasped what looked to be a large black button.

I don’t know the combination.

It set off a ferocious vibration in Torlach, threatening to shake him apart.

Stop fucking around or I’ll kill you myself!

Red baulked, but then held firm. I don’t know the combination. I’m not supposed to. Only the sender and receiver know the numbers. Company policy.

In response, Torlach took three large paces and held the pistol to Red’s temple.

Red hesitated for only a moment longer, then bent swiftly to the task. He gave the combination lock a few rough twists and threw the lid of the crate open before stepping away, washing his hands of the whole business.

But Doug wouldn’t let him off that easily.

No, come back. Throw me a sample.

He didn’t want to get too close to Torlach, not while he still had a gun.

Red returned to the crate, reached inside and then tossed a small, soft drawstring bag in Doug’s direction. It fell far short. Whether it was to show he wasn’t cowed or because he had mischief in mind, Doug didn’t know. He reminded himself to deliver Red a pistol-whipping of his own before they parted company.

He nudged the girl.

Go get that for me, will you, love?

The girl slowly prised her hands from her two colleagues, then approached the dropped bag on trembling legs, expecting to be shot in the back any moment.

She returned and timorously handed it over.

Thank you, Sonya, Doug said.

She looked shocked and terrified that he should know her name, sliding her sweaty hands back into those of her two equally frightened co-workers.

Making sure Cutter had everyone covered, Doug loosened the bag’s drawstring. The sensation of handling the velvety deep purple bag was almost electric. He upended it to inspect the miracle that dropped onto his open palm.

At first glance it was a worthless chunk of rock, until the sun caught the uncut promise in its core. Then you were in the presence of black opal, the rarest gemstone on earth, queen of the queen of gems. This specimen was easily the size of a hen’s egg.

Despite needing to move things along, Doug turned the stone back and forth in the light, enraptured. The opal would be indicative of several more in the crate: large stones with high domes, laced with a distinctive rolling flash pattern. It was the brilliant colour play that spoke value. The stone in his hand was saturated with a crimson so vivid he could almost feel it beating with his life’s blood.

Not since laying eyes on his ex-wife for the first time, or holding his newborn son in his arms, had Doug fallen so quickly, so absolutely in love.

Chapter Two

Torlach had done as instructed: divert a shipment of showcase gems en route to a hush-hush shareholder’s exhibition in Brisbane to a pissant airfield in the middle of nowhere.

You’ve got what you wanted, now give me my son!

And Doug would honour the deal – in his fashion. He and Cutter had enough plastic ties to truss everyone hand and foot, before locking them in the office. Torlach would get his son. Doug would make sure they were tied together.

Or would have, until he heard a loud bang and things went completely to shit. Cutter had slammed the drink machine’s door shut on the boy.

We’re taking the kid, he said.

Torlach remained deadly quiet. Doug would have preferred bulging eyes and a screaming fit. Cutter? Doug enquired.

But Cutter was speaking to Torlach. You’ll get little Matty back when we know we’re home free.

Torlach rocked in place, his feet anchored. I want my boy!

Cutter … Doug cautioned. But he was unsure of how to follow it up. They had to appear to be in agreement or they’d lose control of the situation real quick.

Give me my son! Torlach shouted again. He lurched two steps forward.

You can come too, if you like, Cutter replied. Might get a bit squashed with both of you in there, though.

Cutter! Torlach! But Doug couldn’t get their attention.

And suddenly the spell was broken. The element of surprise and shock wearing off. The guards were backing away. Doug saw them eye their surroundings, plotting.

You two pricks! He pointed his gun at them. On the ground, now!

Red started to crouch, then hesitated, shooting a look to his partner.

I said, now! Doug shouted with all the authority he could muster. He would have risked a shot in the air, or even bounced one off the tarmac at their feet, except it could have sparked Cutter and Torlach into blazing away. So far, they were all talk.

He had to make a move, and do it resolutely, make it part of the plan, so began striding toward Cutter. It was a calculated risk. It was also a mistake.

Red saw his opening and made a break for it. He charged directly for Torlach, as if to tackle him, but then veered away at the last moment, leaping up the stairs and into the plane. Torlach hadn’t noticed, or chose to ignore it, his only focus his son.

Doug yelled for Red to stop, to come back, but might as well have been shouting at the wind. Damn! Even if he couldn’t take off, Red could radio for help. The bastard could make things tough just by locking the bloody door.

The hostages looked set to scatter. It was coming apart. There was no way to retrieve the situation, only salvage what he could. Doug raised his gun to bring down Torlach and was about to shoot when Red appeared again at the hatch, holding what looked like a closed umbrella, trying to cock it. The automatic rifle jumped crazily as he opened fire, spraying bullets at anything and everything in sight.

***

A car pulled up on the highway. A Ford station wagon, lime-green with a muddy skirt of a rich-red brown, a nausea-inducing combination if considered too long. But there were more jarring sights this day.

The car had slowed to a halt alongside the hitchhiker, but not to offer a lift. The driver’s attention was seized by the same spectacle that held the long-haired weirdo. They stared with the same slack-jawed astonishment, absorbed in the gun battle underway at the distant airfield. The sounds carried clearly.

The driver, a red-faced man in his fifties with wisps of blond hair wreathed around his ears, slowly wound down the window.

What is it?

The hitchhiker spun with a shriek, caught totally unaware. Hanging from his waist was a battered bumbag, slung low like a distended crotch. He shoved both hands inside and pulled out a walkie-talkie. It’s on! he screamed into it. It’s fucking on!

Then, ogling wildly at the driver, the hitchhiker scrabbled to retrieve something from his backpack. He danced clumsily around in a half-circle, giving the startled driver a good gander at the stock of a sawn-off shotgun he was trying to pull free. The station wagon stung the hitchhiker with loose gravel as it swung around, fishtailing, and went haring back toward town.

Ahead, company was coming. A second car, the white Falcon that almost ironed out the hitchhiker earlier, appeared on the rise, returning fast. The station wagon flashed its lights and sounded a horn, the driver waving frantically, signalling to turn back.

The Falcon got the message but didn’t retreat. Instead it screeched to a sliding halt, taking up both lanes of the road, blocking the station wagon’s path. As it rocked on its springs, a short, rotund man leapt from the Falcon’s passenger seat, the shotgun in his hands erupting the instant his bandy legs hit the bitumen.

The first shot slammed the hood open on the oncoming station wagon, obscuring the windshield and causing the vehicle to veer off road into the scrub. The bandy-legged man chased it with a second blast. The rear licence plate caved in and the boot flew ajar, but still the wagon didn’t stop. Bucking so hard its rear axle was seen, the car cantered into the low brush, the boot and hood flapping like a scrub turkey being chased by a fox.

The Falcon screeched in a tight circle, collecting the rotund man, then went for the hitchhiker, tyres smoking. Skidding to a stop beside him, the hippie was draped in a poisonous black cloud. He had not so much as managed to release the safety on his sawn-off. The fat chap in the passenger seat leaned over and threw open the back door.

Get in!

The shout was pure eagerness, the charged cry of someone who did not want to miss out on any of the fun. The car door closed on the hitchhiker’s leg as the Falcon peeled away, gunning toward the aerodrome.

The third occupant of the Falcon was hunched over the wheel, a wiry, leathery man surely nudging a pension, the ruthless concentration in his red-rimmed eyes magnified by round spectacles. The hitchhiker was still spluttering excuses for missing the station wagon when the gun-toting passenger twisted round in the front seat. His eyes were wide and manic.

Gimmee.

The hitchhiker rummaged through his bumbag and pulled out a small clear plastic bag, clip-sealed and bottom-heavy with white powder. Before he could speak it was snatched from his hands, his pinkie ring nearly taken with it.

***

Red fired the automatic rifle indiscriminately, uncaring who he might hit, which perhaps explained why he’d hit no-one on the first pass, nor the second.

Doug shouted at anyone who would listen to get down. Sonya and her workmates needed no encouragement. Neck ran in long, looping strides, more like he was coasting than running for his life. He staggered, did a big pantomime of deciding whether to fall or not, then slapped a hand to his bleeding left thigh and kept going with a limp. Incredibly, Duckbill approached the spraying automatic rifle, his face scrunched up and his hands out as if pleading for his life. He was an enticing target but any shots taken at him somehow missed. Sonya did the only half-smart thing, dropping on the spot, arms wrapped over her head. It was a shambles, rather than a proper gun battle. But not without real danger.

Cutter backed away casually as he returned fire on Red.

Don’t shoot the bloody plane! Doug yelled at him.

Red, in turn, began to concentrate fire on Cutter. His shots sparked the ground near the Coke machine, causing Torlach to scream and begin firing at him as well.

Red disappeared inside the plane; whether because he was shot or doing a swift dodge, Doug couldn’t tell.

Torlach hesitated, looking toward Doug, unsure what to do next. Were they now working together? Cutter took immediate advantage, firing as he strode toward Torlach, swearing as he went, finding his target.

The third guard hadn’t yet moved, watching from a frozen crouch beside the crate, his fingers splayed on the tarmac like at the beginning of a foot race. He picked the wrong moment to set off. Cutter swivelled and kept firing, ending the guard’s run before he made the first hurdle. The guard fell, thrashing and screaming, rolling over and over as if trying to put out a fire, not the two bullets in his back.

Cutter returned his attention to Torlach, firing until he was empty. No matter: he could take his time reloading. Torlach was in a bad way. He was crawling on his belly. He made a dazed start for the plane’s stair, then changed his mind and began crawling toward the vending machine.

Matthew, he croaked.

Cutter misheard him. Fuck you, too, he replied and shot him point-blank. Torlach’s head snapped back, then drooped forward again with a tired sigh that seemed to come from every atom. A moment later his dead weight smacked into the tarmac.

Doug watched, dumbstruck, his back against the side of the plane, gun trained on the hatch. He was praying Red would reveal his head so he could blow it off. From somewhere inside, Red let off short bursts of automatic fire through the open door.

Doug sidled up to the opening, as close as he dared … then he was stuck, unable to think of what to do next. The plane had emergency exits on the other side, but inaccessible without making a lot of noise. And he wasn’t going to charge a fortified position; that shit went out with Gallipoli.

Cutter flattened himself against the fuselage on the other side of the hatch. For all his devil-may-care attitude, he didn’t look ready to volunteer going in either.

They were stuffed.

Then the white Falcon broke the stalemate. It came racing up the aerodrome’s dirt road, drawing a rolling dust cloud. The bandy-legged ball of a man burst from the car as it slewed to a stop on the tarmac.

Fatboy! Doug shouted.

Mistaking the Falcon for the arrival of help, the pilot broke cover and ran toward the car. Who knew why he thought Fatboy meant safety: he was essentially a bikie without the bike. He wore a large, splayed beard, a black T-shirt taut across a bulging belly, tan workpants, motorcycle boots, and dissolving blue tats on his wrists. His nose and beard carried a spray of white dust like he’d been kissing a packet of cornflour.

Fatboy saw the pilot coming and responded without hesitation. His shotgun roared. The pilot’s pristine shirt was socked by an invisible fist. There was no sense of him having fallen. One moment he was running at Fatboy; the next, he was sprawled on his back with a fan of gore spread behind him.

The hitchhiker gawked from the backseat of the Falcon before noticing the injured security guard attempting feeble push-ups with his forehead on the tarmac.

Ah, shit, I … ah … hey …

Stunned, he stayed put.

But the Falcon’s driver was an old pro, and almost as quick as Fatboy. He exited the car and crouched behind an open door brandishing the same make of pistol as Doug, his polarised spectacles flashing hard light. He had sussed out the situation. So had Fatboy, who went totally berserk after offing the pilot. He started a roar that never stopped as he ran straight for the hatch.

Fatboy was the name everyone knew him by, the only name most knew him by. He had always behaved like a maniac, but this was new. Doug froze at first, then swung in behind as the biker tore past, caught up in the charge. The roaring madman gave him the cover he needed to storm the plane.

Doug was fast but Fatboy was faster. Doug had only one foot on the stair before Fatboy disappeared inside, his shotgun blasting once more before a harsh metallic chipping came in response. Then Fatboy was coming out as fast as he went in.

Doug slammed his shoulder into Fatboy’s bulk and reversed thrust. It was his good fortune that Fatboy’s legs were still pumping, though perhaps mindlessly. Doug shoved him forward onto the plane.

Another chatter of shots. Doug felt the shock enter Fatboy. Red had backed up against the wall opposite the hatch, positioned on one knee. Fatboy fell onto him. Doug crashed down on both, becoming the top of the pile.

Trying to get at Red, Doug briefly contemplated shooting through Fatboy’s carcass, but respect for his demented colleague stopped him; he managed to wrestle Fatboy enough to reveal Red’s contorted face beneath, his weapon pinned to his chest. He whipped his head manically from side to side trying to free himself. He wouldn’t stay still, so Doug shot him in the throat. Red tried to curse, but coughed and died as Doug stared him down.

A screech of wheels from outside told of vehicles leaving in a hurry.

Doug got to his feet and searched the plane. He snapped open the concertina shutter to the cockpit, then kicked down toilet cubicle’s door. No-one was waiting behind either. He went back outside, his face tingling as if it’d been slapped hard. Before him was carnage. And the white Falcon gone.

Where’s the car? Doug shouted.

The hitchhiker was alone on the tarmac. My gun jammed. I couldn’t –

The car! Doug bellowed.

Mick took it.

Who else? He’d been driving, and there was no sign of him. As well as the Falcon, one of the cars near the office was gone. The three ground staff had scarpered, nowhere to be seen. And neither was the co-pilot. What a fucked-up outcome. Fatboy was supposed to hang back in case of trouble; technically, he was their getaway driver – the only one who knew how to pilot a plane.

Doug tried to think. It was hard to do with the hitchhiker whining.

Mick made me get out!

Cutter was standing guard over the crate of opals, staunching a bleeding hand using his bandanna. It was nothing compared to the torments Doug had in mind.

We’re fucked, aren’t we? the hitchhiker despaired behind Doug’s back. His name was Wayne, but he liked to be called Warlock and Fatboy had convinced everyone to go along.

We’re totally fucked now, aren’t we?

Doug turned on him. You will be if you don’t shut up and do as you’re told. There’re two more dead in the plane. Fatboy and a guard. Go inside –

Fatboy’s dead?

Go inside and drag them out.

Doug didn’t want to give up on the plane yet. And anybody else who arrived playing hero would hesitate when they saw the bodies. But Warlock jogged in place, trying to suggest there had to be something else he could do.

Move!

Warlock reluctantly started up the stairway. Doug headed for the remaining car. It would have to do. The delivery truck wasn’t a choice. But