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  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 then the Falcon was seen returning, thumping over the field between runway and highway. The car rocked onto the tarmac, clipping Torlach’s dead body before screeching to a stop before Doug.

  Mick, with gun in hand and out of breath, exited the car. The co-pilot came out through the same door, dragged by the collar of a considerably less-smart shirt.

  “Caught him before he made the highway,” the old man gasped. “He tried to lose me in the grass. Fast bugger for someone with pigeon-feet.” He bent over at the waist to get his breath back, inadvertently pulling the co-pilot down with him.

  Doug could have covered the old man’s face with kisses.

  “You’re a bloody lifesaver, Mick.”

  “I’ll put him in the plane.”

  “Yes. No, wait a sec. Have him check it out, first. See if it’s damaged.”

  The dazed co-pilot was nicely broken in. Mick led him away with a short tug on the collar.

  Warlock popped his head out of the plane, frantic.

  “Fatboy’s still alive!”

  Jesus, Doug thought. That crazy bastard had to be indestructible. But explanations would have to wait.

  “Move the guard. Then help Cutter load the crate on the plane.”

  He stared at Cutter, his fury unabated. “You up for that?”

  Cutter peered back as if he was a dot on the landscape before moving languidly toward the crate. He spat on Torlach’s corpse in passing, surely just to rile Doug.

  Christ, the boy!

  Doug trotted toward the vending machine, the front panel still shut. Somehow it appeared to have come through unscathed. A miracle. He sighed with relief. Doug could still do something for the boy. He would leave the panel open to aid the authorities. He’d turn the machine so the boy would not have to look upon his father. Small favours, indeed.

  Then Doug stopped short.

  The machine had a single neat hole in the front casing, alongside the coin slot. The puncture was round, with a small dent at the top forming a shape like a teardrop. Doug touched it, a finger in the dyke, the position bothering him. He strained to listen for any sound from inside, but couldn’t hear a thing. He already knew why.

  He might have stayed like that all day if Mick hadn’t arrived at his side. Prompted by the old man’s sudden hand on his shoulder, he shrugged off Mick’s grasp to open the panel. The confirmation brought a sudden roaring in his ears. Then Mick was again pulling on his arm, dragging him aside, throwing the panel door shut again.

  The outside world returned with a crash. Mick was shouting. And rising over the screams of the guard writhing on the tarmac was the far-off wail of a siren. But it was a third noise that caught his attention – a sharp succession of bangs. He turned to see Warlock dragging Red by the feet from the plane, Red’s head bouncing on each step.

  Doug focussed on Mick.

  “The plane?”
<
br />   “A few dings. Nothing serious. It could use refuelling.”

  “Well, we can forget about that.”

  The siren was close enough to be heard, but maintaining a prudent distance. Those driving wanted to know what they were up against. He knew such reticence wouldn’t last forever.

  “The pilot says we’ll get three hours. That’s enough.”

  “Clear the wheels!” Doug shouted at Warlock, then to Mick. “Where’s Cutter?”

  “In the plane. Looking after the pilot.”

  Doug sharply nodded to the carnage around them. “He made this happen.”

  Mick already looked grim. He didn’t improve with this news.

  Doug bent close and Mick could sense his barely contained rage.

  “If I ever have my back to him, make sure yours isn’t.”

  Flushing deeply, Mick broke eye contact first. Shame never sat well on an old man’s face.

  ***

  Doug re-entered the plane, nearly tripping over Fatboy near the door.

  “Christ, Warlock! Do something. He’s bleeding like a pig!”

  He looked down through gritted teeth. It wasn’t blood or the open gunshot wounds that put him off. It was the crazed expression of glee set on the sweaty, stoned face, like it wasn’t over for him yet. Like it wasn’t over for any of them.

  The opals had been given better consideration, sat neatly astride two adjoining seats. Doug kissed his fingers and slapped the crate as he went past.

  Cutter was leaning against the entry to the cockpit, contemplating the sopping bandanna wrapped around his hand. He appeared to have little interest in anything else.

  “You watching him?” Doug asked, referring to the co-pilot.

  Cutter’s face suddenly switched on, all sly. “Oh, yeah. He thought he was being sneaky. Thought I couldn’t tell he was planning to fuck around with the controls. I was going to surprise him, but you came along and ruined my fun.”

  Doug shoved into the cockpit, not looking at him. “You still have one working hand. Go help Mick. You and I’ll talk later.”

  Sitting at the controls, the co-pilot flinched at Doug’s entrance, looking guilty and terrified. Doug leaned over and made sure the two-way communication wasn’t on “send” – an old trick. When he was satisfied no-one was eavesdropping, he removed his pistol from his overalls, let the man have a good look, then pressed it to the centre of his captive’s forehead. The co-pilot’s eyes rolled wildly. Sweat sprouted above his lip.

  “You have a satellite tracking device on this plane. Don’t lie. I know about it. Turn it off or I will kill you,” Doug said calmly.

  The co-pilot didn’t try to bluff. He scrabbled for a switch beneath one corner of the control panel, the place where all alarm buttons seem to be kept, and turned it off.

  Doug bent down to check he’d done it correctly. “Good. Now get organised. I want this plane ready in two.”

  Left with a round impression between his eyebrows, the co-pilot began busying himself, trembling badly, fidgeting at the controls, anxious.

  Doug watched for a moment, then hoisted the man from his seat and slapped him across the face, once, twice. He dropped him back down again, stepped behind his seat and began massaging his shoulders.

  “Don’t worry about us, just concentrate on your job. You’ll live.”

  Mick poked his head in.

  “Everything’s set,” Mick said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. You want to check?” It hurt Mick to say it.

  “No, I believe you.” Doug turned his attention back to the co-pilot, who was looking more composed. Barely.

  “We ready to go?”

  The co-pilot nodded vigorously as he spoke. “I think so. Yes. Yes.”

  “Good. Once we’re in the air, head east.”

  The co-pilot watched him expectantly.

  Doug pointed to the ceiling, did it with the gun. “Up.”

  The co-pilot came alert. “Yes, sir.”

  The plane become airborne without further incident, banking east. Once they were out of visual range, Doug would redirect the co-pilot to head north.

  For now he watched as the aerodrome diminished below. He saw a white vehicle with a blue and red winking bar blocking the road to the highway. Two darker vehicles were parked at rough angles to it. Further away, a convoy of vehicles looking like an irregular string of beads, wound its way from town to join them.

  Doug spied the vending machine on the faraway tarmac. It looked innocuous from so high … nothing of consequence. Nothing he had to think about any more. In moments it would be entirely someone else’s problem.

  Chapter Three

  Locating the gear retrieved from the Falcon, Doug changed out of his tacky overalls into clean drill pants and a thick cotton shirt, the better to exorcise the events of the airfield. Although perhaps it was premature to do so, considering the state of the plane’s cabin.

  Doug took a quick head count of his crew. It didn’t seem possible, but they were all there, even if one was just barely hanging on. Poor Fatboy. He’d grown up wanting nothing more than to be an airline pilot. When he failed the medical (“extraordinarily high blood pressure,” he often recounted in a rage that made his eyes constrict), he became a biker instead, a member of the Sons of Loki. But Fatboy couldn’t stay away from planes and learned to fly anyway. There were plenty of bush pilots willing to teach him for the right price. Fatboy made a lot of unscheduled flights in light planes around the Top End and to the more rock ’n’ roll parts of South-East Asia, often carrying cargo that would never see the inside of a customs office. It was through Fatboy that Mick found out Cambodia had no extradition treaty with Australia.

  It was a fucking shame. Fatboy had been vocal about what a treat it’d be to go up in something as flash as a Dornier.

  He lay now where he’d fallen, made a little more comfortable with some pulled-out seat cushions wedged under him. He had attained a syrupy form of consciousness, his eyes swivelling round with exquisite slowness to watch anyone speaking. His breath whistled through his blue lips and the holes in his chest. Mick and Warlock had wrapped him like a mummy, running out of bandages before they had run out of wounds. They dispensed medication from the plane’s first-aid locker, but Warlock also brought stronger stuff from his bumbag, cracking capsules to tip powder that could dissolve on Fatboy’s tongue. He hadn’t the strength to swallow. He wouldn’t take water. He was just lying there, waiting to die.

  Warlock sat as far as he could get from the shambles, chastened. He was only on this job at Fatboy’s insistence. The punk looked like a drowned reed and just as useful. The most lively thing about him were the designer tats along his arms – a tapestry of thorny vines featuring druids, gnomes and other ancient wise faces.

  Warlock – real name Wayne, though Mick preferred Wally – was what some might call a performance artist. Twirling a flaming torch he would open biker rally concerts with a dedication to Lord Beelzebub and all his works. In between acts, when the next AC/DC or Guns N’ Roses clones were setting up, he’d perform mock blood sacrifices to ye olde gods with bikie-moll “virgins” and hard-faced strippers. For all the fake blood, cowls and oversized crosses, it was a titty show and the more tit shown, the fewer beer bottles were thrown at him.

  It was through Fatboy that Warlock started selling drugs for the Brisbane chapter of the Sons of Loki. It was mostly cannabis, and amphetamines cooked in buried freight containers and backyard caravans, but Warlock also dabbled in other pharmaceuticals, both legal and some experimental combinations of his own. He was a fair hand at it. He’d read a few books, nearly enrolled in a TAFE course. Fatboy was his best customer. Eventually Fatboy got to the stage where he was always flying, with or without a plane, and insisted Warlock come on this job to artificially regulate his moods. The rest of them were stuck with the punk.

  And Cutter? He was the mystery man from Melbourne. The rumours were that he was good at whatever he did and he didn’t baulk at anythin
g. Mick had brought him in after Doug had agreed to the heist but refused to perform the kidnapping of the boy. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Mick couldn’t do it alone, and he couldn’t rely on Fatboy. He needed another hand for that.

  Cutter didn’t seem much the worse for wear. He’d found a pen and was idly moving it back and forth in a sawing motion along the webbing between the fingers of his injured hand. He did it with a bemused look, as if practising a magic trick. Warlock was sitting across the aisle, watching with reluctant fascination.

  On closer look, Doug saw why. Cutter was sliding the pen back and forth through his hand. Warlock couldn’t stop staring, but appeared ready to bolt if the magic trick came any closer.

  Mick was seated apart. He was observing the trick too, but it appeared to have less effect on him. His mind seemed elsewhere.

  For a bizarre finale, Cutter swivelled the pen while it was completely through his hand, before removing it and dumping a small bottle of antiseptic over the hole left behind. The contents poured out the other side.

  The large man hissed theatrically, but the pain was real enough to make him crack the back of his head against the cabin wall. He then packed the wound with what swabs he could find in the medical kit, grinning and grimacing as he went about it.

  “Warlock?” Doug said.

  No response.

  “Warlock!”

  The youth woke from his stunned contemplation of Cutter’s self-doctoring.

  “Unnh? Yeah?”

  “Go up front and look after our pilot for a while.”

  Warlock jumped to it, eager to leave this scene behind. As he sidled past, Doug grabbed his arm and squeezed until the punk grimaced.

  “Don’t talk to him. Don’t let him talk. If he must tell you something, come and get me.”

  He gave Warlock a firmer grip, pulling strings controlling the punk’s grimacing face.

  “We’re on our way, but we can’t relax yet, alright?”

  Warlock nodded vigorously, anything to escape.

  Doug went to where Cutter sat. Mick saw his face as he passed by and spoke up.

  “It’s done, mate. It’s over.”