Rain whipped the windscreen. Set against a turbulent sky, visibility cut to eighty metres. The truck’s headlights illuminated an obscure shape.
As they approached, the mass divided.
Three combatants.
And one in the middle.
Georgie, being pulverised.
Franklin yelled, ‘b****y hell. Get them to send backup here, not Schlicht’s. And a f*****g ambo.’
hereHart radioed D24. Franklin planted his foot.
They’d cut strobes and siren before they slipped down One Mile Track, planning to confirm that Georgie’s car was gone, then await backup for the advance on Schlicht’s property.
That strategy detonated, Franklin hit various switches. Colour and noise resonated. The distance to their target seemed impossible.
‘Jesus. They’re going to kill her,’ Hart shouted over the clamour. He shucked off his
