Page 33

Dimitry

Gascoyne Region, Western Australia

Present Day

I didn’t think I’d sleep, but I must have, because when I open my eyes again it’s dark and Luke has pulled the four-wheel drive to a halt.

“Where are we?” I look around, but all I can see is what looks like a moonscape of gravel, interspersed by a few low bushes that gleam palely beneath a glittering sea of stars.

“About ten clicks from Turbo’s hideout.” Luke opens the door and swings himself out of the vehicle, stretching.

“You need to change your clothes, and I want to call him before we get there. Turbo isn’t the kind of bloke who appreciates late-night visitors.

We’re just as likely to be met by a double-barrel shotgun as a cold beer, and I’d rather start off on good terms.”

“Call him?” I look around. “You mean there’s reception out here? ”

He holds his phone up. “Couple of bars. Enough to make the call.” He grins. “There’s a town close by, remember?”

The night is almost completely silent, and I can’t see a single light on the horizon. I shake my head. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Here.” Luke throws me the clothes currently hanging out of the car windows. “Put these on. They’ve hung outside for a few clicks down a dirt road, so they should look suitably crusty.”

I pull on the Wrangler jeans, which we picked up in a charity shop in Perth, and a navy drill shirt with three buttons down the front and a V neck.

Both look suitably worn and faded after Luke’s quick-aging treatment.

The boots were another charity pickup, low-heeled brown leather, scuffed and worn.

He throws me a felt hat that looks equally battered and aged. “That’s my good one,” he says, grinning. “Don’t lose it.”

I eye the hat skeptically. “I feel like a fucking cowboy.”

“Well, so does everyone around here, so lean into it. You spent a fair bit of time in London, didn’t you?”

“Several years on and off, yes.”

“Can you pull off the accent?”

I nod. “No problem.”

“Good.” Luke pulls on jeans and a shirt similar to my own. “Australians tend to loathe Americans on sight, so my advice is to come off as British. That way I can explain you away as an army mate.”

“Copy that.” I give him a curious look. “What’s the issue with Americans?”

He shrugs. “Started during the Second World War. The Seppos were paid a hell of a lot more than the Australian soldiers, so the local ladies were pretty happy to go out with them. The saying at the time was that Americans were oversexed, overpaid, and over here . And given the fact that since then we’ve been dragged into every one of your wars, from Korea to Vietnam and on into the Gulf and Afghanistan, you can probably imagine why Seppos aren’t particularly popular. ”

“Seppos?”

“Seppos. Yanks. Americans.” He grins at my confusion. “ Yanks rhymes with septic tanks . Seppos for short Basically, it’s a polite way of saying Americans are full of shit.”

“Ha.” I accept the beer he throws me. “Well, technically, I’m Russian. How do Australians feel about those guys?”

Luke screws up his face. “Couldn’t give a fuck, for the most part. But let’s stick to British to be safe.”

We take a series of obscure dirt roads and eventually come to a chained gate, which I jump out and open, then close and lock when Luke drives through.

It takes another five minutes until we come to a grass clearing.

The lone building on it is a prefabricated transportable with a corrugated roof, set on low concrete blocks.

It looks like it fell off the back of a truck.

I’m guessing that a construction site somewhere is missing its office building.

An enormous man is silhouetted in the open doorway. He’s almost as tall as me and broad enough to block most of the light. Even in the darkness I can see the bulge of an extremely lush beard around his face and equally wild hair. As Luke predicted, he’s pointing a shotgun at us.

“Hey, Turbo,” Luke calls as we pull up. “It’s just me and the army mate I told you about on the phone.”

He gestures with the gun. “Get out of the car.”

Despite Luke’s reassurances, the man doesn’t sound chill at all .

“Easy,” Luke murmurs as we open the doors. “Hands where he can see them.”

I do as he says, suddenly very aware that I’m unarmed.

“Luke.” The big man walks down the steps and puts out his hand, looking around warily. “It’s just you two, then?”

“Like I said.” Luke gives him a quizzical look. “You seem even more jumpy than usual, mate.”

Turbo scans the yard. “Yeah. Had a bit going on lately.” He has rings on every finger and ink on all visible skin, including all over his face.

He must weigh at least three hundred pounds, much of which is on display over his jeans and heavy black belt.

He wears no shirt, just a black leather waistcoat open over his burly torso.

His black beard hangs down to his chest, and his hair is a wild mass halfway down his back.

Let’s just say I doubt most people would wait to see his gun before they started running.

Luke gestures at me. “This is Dimitry.”

I put my hand out, and Turbo’s smile disappears. His handshake is like a metal clamp, and he glares fiercely at me while he does it. I take Luke’s advice and don’t say a word.

When he’s done showing me who’s boss, Turbo looks at Luke and tilts his head toward the house. “Come out the back. I’ve got beers on ice.”

Luke holds up a carton. “Brought reinforcements.”

Turbo smiles for the first time since our arrival. “That’s my boy.”

A low fire is burning in a cut-off iron barrel out the back, and three camp chairs are set up next to an icebox. Turbo takes out three cans of beer, pushes them into foam holders, and throws one each to Luke and me before pulling back the tab on his own.

“Cheers.” He downs half the can in one long swallow, then gives a rich belch. He sits back in the straining camp chair and starts rolling a joint. “So,” he says, eyeing Luke. “Spit it out, then. What kind of trouble you in?”

“No trouble.” Luke’s large figure dwarfs the small camp chair, but where Turbo is meaty, Luke’s bulk is every inch hard muscle. He might look like a surfer in his downtime, but I pity any shark who decides he’s fair game.

“A friend of mine could be in trouble,” Luke says. “I was hoping you might know something about it.”

“This friend.” Turbo lights his enormous joint and takes a deep pull on it. “He in the game or a civilian?”

“He is a she.” Luke shakes his head when Turbo offers him the joint. “Her name is Abby Chalmers, although she’s also used the name Abby Connelly. The short answer is that she’s a civilian—these days. She wasn’t always.”

Turbo takes another drag, beady eyes moving between Luke and me.

“And you’re here because this Abby chick has gone AWOL?”

“Pretty much.” Luke nods.

Turbo swallows the remainder of his can in a series of long gulps, crushes it, and pulls out a fresh one.

“This chick. She’s his woman?” He nods in my direction while addressing Luke.

“Yup.”

Turbo’s eyes cut to me, then away. “Then, mate, I’d recommend you find yourself a new one.” Avoiding my eyes, he drinks down most of the can in long gulps.

It takes all my self-restraint not to upturn the fat fuck’s chair.

It’s only Luke’s warning stare, and his words to me in the car, that stop me.

Think of Abby. That’s all that matters. You can kill this prick later.

Turbo eyes me warily. “Got a bit of fight in him, your boy here, Luke. Army mate, you reckon?” His eyes settle on the rose-and-barbed-wire tattoo snaking up my arm. “That doesn’t look like army ink to me.”

I force myself to remain silent.

“We’ve fought together.” Luke’s tone is still calm, but there’s a hard look in his eye that makes the fat man’s grin fade. “And Dimitry is a mate, Turbo. A good one.”

A short silence falls, during which Turbo stares anywhere except at me.

I don’t take my eyes off him. After a time, he leans forward in his chair, meaty arms dangling between his legs, the can dwarfed in his huge hand.

He shakes his head slowly at Luke. “You don’t want to get mixed up in this shit, Hoppy. ”

Hoppy?

For the first time since I sat down, I’m actually amused.

Turbo glances at me. “Something funny, big boy?”

“That’s your nickname?” I ask Luke, raising my eyebrows. “Hoppy? Very dangerous, kangaroos, so I’ve heard.”

“Not a fuckin’ ’roo.” Turbo looks slightly indignant. “Dickhead here is named after a Hoppy Joe. An ant,” he says, when I look uncomprehending.

“An ant.” Now I can’t hide my smirk. “Even more dangerous, then.”

“Fuck me.” Turbo looks at Luke with an expression that implies I’m of less-than-human intelligence, but for the first time, he seems to have relaxed slightly.

“Where did you dig this dickhead up? A Hoppy Joe is a bulldog ant,” he explains with exaggerated patience.

“They sting like a bastard, and you never see them coming.”

“Oh.”

That makes more sense.

Luke throws me another can. “Just drink your beer, Big Boy,” he says, grinning .

I have an uncomfortable feeling that I’ve just been given my Australian nickname.

Either way, the exchange seems to have broken the ice, because the next time Turbo speaks, he actually looks at me as well as Luke.

“I’m just saying that you’re set up well, Hop.

Out of the uniform, earning good coin with that overseas private contracting shit, from what Liana tells me.

And she’s set up, too, your sister. With her husband and boys in the suburbs.

It’s all come out well for you kids, and you worked hard to make that happen.

” His eyes turn serious. “Don’t go fucking all that up, Hoppy. This shit is some seriously bad news.”

“Too late for that.” Luke’s tone is light, but there’s no missing the hard look in his eyes when he fixes them on Turbo. “We’re going to find Abby with or without you. I’m not asking you to rat on your brothers, Turbo. I just need to know if it’s the Banderos who took her.”