Quick by Steve Worland

place is beautiful. Rustic leather sofas, antique furniture, Malaysian artefacts hanging on the walls. Everyone inside, about ten people in total, turns to look at the shirtless man on the dirt bike.
     
    Billy’s suddenly very embarrassed. ‘Sorry to disturb.’ He can see the French doors on the far side of the clubhouse. Best to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. He revs the bike and rides across the large room. ‘Pardon me.’
     
    Halfway across he remembers he can’t let the parachutist see his face. If, somehow, he doesn’t arrest him, the guy can’t know what Billy looks like, otherwise the whole undercover operation will be blown on the first day. He needs some kind of disguise. But what?
     
    He immediately sees what he needs. He swerves across the room, narrowly misses an ornate table supporting a large vase full of flowers and plucks the item off the wall. ‘Just gonna borrow this.’ He then swerves back towards the French doors. Thankfully an old guy sees him coming and opens them for him.
     
    ‘Thanks mate.’ Billy accelerates across the patio, jumps down a flight of three steps, cuts across the practice putting green, manages to avoid everyone’s golf balls, ignores the cries of anger from the members, then scans the sky.
     
    There. To the right, the parachute disappears behind a tree line. He sets a course for it, can’t believe he’s so close. He’s going to capture this prick!
     
    On my first day!
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Red looks down at the perfectly manicured grass as it whips past thirty metres below. The designated landing spot is just ahead. It’s all working out beautifully —
     
    A noise, below. The throb and whine of an engine echoes across the golf course. It sounds like a two-stroke, except more urgent. Is it a lawn mower? Or a whipper snipper? Red glances down, searches for the source, sees nothing. He then looks behind.
     
    What is that?
     
    One hundred metres away a white dot races along the fairway towards him. It moves fast. Really fast. It’s not a lawn mower or a whipper snipper. It’s a dirt bike.
     
    And the devil rides it.
     
    ~ * ~
     
     
     
     
    6
     
     
     
     
    The tribal mask Billy plucked off the wall of the clubhouse is tied onto his head with two fat ribbons. It is blood red in colour, has a shock of long dark hair, thick black eyebrows, giant mouse ears, flared nostrils and oversized ivory teeth that look like the fangs of a cartoon werewolf. The plaque said it represented the Malaysian version of the devil, which will do just fine for his camouflage requirements today.
     
    The Australian wrenches the throttle back and gives the dirt bike full power. The parachute is close, barely twenty metres off the ground and forty metres ahead.
     
    Adrenaline surges. He can see the bloody guy and his red helmet, the Schumacher helmet. He laughs, delighted by his own awesomeness. ‘Billy Hotchkiss, you magnificent bastard!’ It’s the same bloke from Collins Street but this time Billy has his gun so arresting him will be easy —
     
    ‘Oh no!’ Billy remembers he left it back at the Iron Rhino motorhome. ‘Come on!’ He takes a deep breath, can’t believe it. Yes, it’s a bit of setback, a huge one actually, but if he tackles the guy the moment he touches down he’ll still have the advantage. There’s no need for a gun. He’s got this far without one, hasn’t he?
     
    Well sure, because I haven’t needed one yet.
     
    He takes a breath. He just has to forget about it and move on. What’s done is done.
     
    The parachute is now twenty metres ahead and ten metres above, and descending steadily. He can see the guy expertly work the canopy’s steering lines.
     
    Where’s he headed?
     
    Billy’s eyes scan the fairway ahead.
     
    There.
     
    A large, dense thicket by the side of the course, about a football field away. It looks like—is that a motorcycle hidden there?
     
    So that’s his getaway plan.
     
    Not today. Billy’s right on