full of senior citizens that had left town earlier that morning.
He’d found the bus forty minutes ago. Had even brought the helicopter down on the road ahead of it, brought it to a halt and—under the guise of the Ridge’s friendly senior constable making sure everything was okay with its passengers—checked if Dani was on board.
She hadn’t been.
“There’s a guy in town,” his deputy went on, either ignoring Charlie’s sarcasm or unaware of it. Distance and radio static crackled the line. “Asking around about someone called Rudy Wellam.”
Charlie gripped the cyclic stick. His throat grew thick. His heart thumped hard. Rudy Wellam was the agreed name his contact would use if anyone from Charlie’s past was asking about him. A code to Charlie that someone was trying to find him.
The only person apart from Charlie who knew of that name was his contact. A man killed by the director.
“Describe him to me.”
“I haven’t seen him, but the way this guy describes him, he looked like you.”
“Not Rudy Wellam, Tim.” Charlie fought to keep his voice steady. “The bloke doing the asking.”
“Oh, that guy. Five eight, bald. Bulgy eyes. Could be fat, could be beefy muscle. It’s hard to tell in the suit he’s wearing. Looks like he’s carrying.”
Of course he’s carrying. When was the director ever not carrying?
The thought played with Charlie’s sanity. As did an image of Bruce Fisher strolling down the main drag of the Ridge, smug smirk firmly in place, his dead-eyed gaze tracking everyone in town.
Charlie’s town.
Fucking bastard was in Charlie’s town.
Something cold and hard and absolute pressed at Charlie—the need to kill. The need to terminate a problem, a life.
Savagely. Painfully.
Slowly.
“Where did you see him last?” he asked, increasing the chopper’s speed. How long would it take him to get back to the Ridge? Fifty-five minutes?
Fuck a bloody duck, what could the director do in that time?
What would he do?
And where the hell was Dani?
“He was talking to the Flying Doctor’s doc.”
“Matt?” The cold pressure engulfed Charlie completely. An image of the director pressing the end of his gun to the back of the doc’s head accompanied it.
“Yeah, Matt Corvin. He was talking to Doctor Corvin.” Timothy paused. “You sound stressed, Senior Constable. Is there a problem? Do you want me to go bring this guy in? You know him?”
The image of the director pressing his gun to the back of Matt’s head changed. Turned bloody. Horrific.
Deadly.
“No,” he said with a laugh into his headphone’s mic. “He’s an old friend. The Rudy Wellam thing’s a private joke. Leave him be.”
“Okay.” His deputy didn’t sound convinced. Fuck, could he get back to town before Timothy decided to go talk to the director?
“Do me a favour though,” he said, forcing every bit of jovial calm he could into his voice. “Can you give the doc a call on his mobile? Ask him to come in and check on the Dutch tourist in lock up 2? I’m beginning to suspect those oliebollen Ross made him yesterday may have had something funny in them.”
“You think Ross is going for payback via pastries?” His deputy chuckled. “Sly old bugger. Sure, I’ll call the doc in.”
“Thanks, Tim.” Charlie pushed the chopper faster. “I’ll be back soon.”
He ended the com.
It took him longer to get back to the Ridge than he wanted. A hot wind from the west blasted constantly at the chopper, like an invisible hand shoving against him. On the far, distant horizon, hundreds of kilometres past where Wallaby Ridge lay in the arid, flat desert, a rust-colour bruise filled the sky.
Charlie didn’t like the look of it.
A dust storm. Way out whoop whoop. A big one. Hopefully, it didn’t head toward the Ridge. When a dust storm blew in from the west, the town took a pounding. The last thing Charlie needed was to deal with the savage force of nature assaulting his town and its people at the
He’d found the bus forty minutes ago. Had even brought the helicopter down on the road ahead of it, brought it to a halt and—under the guise of the Ridge’s friendly senior constable making sure everything was okay with its passengers—checked if Dani was on board.
She hadn’t been.
“There’s a guy in town,” his deputy went on, either ignoring Charlie’s sarcasm or unaware of it. Distance and radio static crackled the line. “Asking around about someone called Rudy Wellam.”
Charlie gripped the cyclic stick. His throat grew thick. His heart thumped hard. Rudy Wellam was the agreed name his contact would use if anyone from Charlie’s past was asking about him. A code to Charlie that someone was trying to find him.
The only person apart from Charlie who knew of that name was his contact. A man killed by the director.
“Describe him to me.”
“I haven’t seen him, but the way this guy describes him, he looked like you.”
“Not Rudy Wellam, Tim.” Charlie fought to keep his voice steady. “The bloke doing the asking.”
“Oh, that guy. Five eight, bald. Bulgy eyes. Could be fat, could be beefy muscle. It’s hard to tell in the suit he’s wearing. Looks like he’s carrying.”
Of course he’s carrying. When was the director ever not carrying?
The thought played with Charlie’s sanity. As did an image of Bruce Fisher strolling down the main drag of the Ridge, smug smirk firmly in place, his dead-eyed gaze tracking everyone in town.
Charlie’s town.
Fucking bastard was in Charlie’s town.
Something cold and hard and absolute pressed at Charlie—the need to kill. The need to terminate a problem, a life.
Savagely. Painfully.
Slowly.
“Where did you see him last?” he asked, increasing the chopper’s speed. How long would it take him to get back to the Ridge? Fifty-five minutes?
Fuck a bloody duck, what could the director do in that time?
What would he do?
And where the hell was Dani?
“He was talking to the Flying Doctor’s doc.”
“Matt?” The cold pressure engulfed Charlie completely. An image of the director pressing the end of his gun to the back of the doc’s head accompanied it.
“Yeah, Matt Corvin. He was talking to Doctor Corvin.” Timothy paused. “You sound stressed, Senior Constable. Is there a problem? Do you want me to go bring this guy in? You know him?”
The image of the director pressing his gun to the back of Matt’s head changed. Turned bloody. Horrific.
Deadly.
“No,” he said with a laugh into his headphone’s mic. “He’s an old friend. The Rudy Wellam thing’s a private joke. Leave him be.”
“Okay.” His deputy didn’t sound convinced. Fuck, could he get back to town before Timothy decided to go talk to the director?
“Do me a favour though,” he said, forcing every bit of jovial calm he could into his voice. “Can you give the doc a call on his mobile? Ask him to come in and check on the Dutch tourist in lock up 2? I’m beginning to suspect those oliebollen Ross made him yesterday may have had something funny in them.”
“You think Ross is going for payback via pastries?” His deputy chuckled. “Sly old bugger. Sure, I’ll call the doc in.”
“Thanks, Tim.” Charlie pushed the chopper faster. “I’ll be back soon.”
He ended the com.
It took him longer to get back to the Ridge than he wanted. A hot wind from the west blasted constantly at the chopper, like an invisible hand shoving against him. On the far, distant horizon, hundreds of kilometres past where Wallaby Ridge lay in the arid, flat desert, a rust-colour bruise filled the sky.
Charlie didn’t like the look of it.
A dust storm. Way out whoop whoop. A big one. Hopefully, it didn’t head toward the Ridge. When a dust storm blew in from the west, the town took a pounding. The last thing Charlie needed was to deal with the savage force of nature assaulting his town and its people at the
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