Chapter 1 #2
To the right, a door marked OIC sat half-open, revealing a uniformed officer deep in a phone call.
On the left, a large table—cluttered with half-read magazines, a closed laptop, and a chair buried under a landslide of folders—bridged the space between the back of the reception desk and a cramped kitchenette.
‘Down the hall, on the right. Finn’s there.’ Then, Tanisha smirked. ‘Don’t worry. He only bites when provoked.’
‘Well, okay then…’ Taryn nodded. Although in desperate need of a hairbrush and an industrial dust buster, she marched down the hallway with her heels clicking sharply on the worn lino.
The cool air did little to hide the scent of dust, coffee, and whatever secrets old paperwork held onto after decades in a filing cabinet.
She tugged her suitcase behind her, wincing at the soft thud thud of its uneven wheels, half-convinced she was leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of red dust.
When she reached the door it was slightly ajar. Stuck to it was a plain printout that read:
STOCK SQUAD
Beneath it, someone had scrawled in pen:
THE BATCAVE: Enter at your own risk.
Taryn brushed down her suit again—though at this point it was more symbolic than effective. But she was aiming for composed. Polished. Government-grade. Professional.
Even if it had taken the better part of two days with a flight that took her the long way around, that included three cities, and a questionable vending machine sandwich to get to the tiny tropical city of Darwin—where she’d landed just after midnight, bleary-eyed and questioning her life choices.
Then five hours in a plastic airport chair with all the ergonomic charm of a cattle crate, until the mail plane took off at dawn.
What followed was a six-hour rollercoaster ride across the outback skies. Bouncing through turbulence, along with numerous take-offs and landings where the pilot chucked parcels out the door like Santa wearing a hi-vis vest, boots, and denim cut-off shorts.
By the time they landed in Elsie Creek, she was exhausted, fried, and sweating through clothes that used to be clean. Just to stare at a door marked Batcave.
She pushed the door open.
Inside the long rectangular room, whiteboards lined the walls on the right, crowded with photos, scribbled notes, and red string, that looked more like a murder board than a mission plan.
Large maps were spread across a table big enough for a family reunion.
On the left were assorted desks. One desk held a graveyard of drone parts.
Another, a V8 engine manual. A third sported cowboy spurs, a whip, and—naturally—dust.
And there he was.
Finn Wilde.
Or so she assumed, as he was the only one in the office.
Yet the man filled the room. With shirtsleeves rolled up, his tattooed forearms flexed as he adjusted something metallic on a workbench, while half-reading a file that seemed small in his heavily inked hands. Yet he seemed quiet. Intent.
She opened her mouth—
And immediately wished she’d rehearsed this bit.
He didn’t look up as his muscular neck corded with tension, while working calmly, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Another sliver of ink peeked from beneath his collar, no doubt curling down his shoulder where there had to be more bad-arse tattoos.
Effectively giving him the presence of someone who didn’t need to announce authority—it just rolled off him in waves.
Quiet. Controlled. Coiled. That if danger walked in, it’d regret it quick smart and look for the nearest exit.
‘You the Fed?’ His deep voice was rough as gravel and not at all surprised.
Taryn straightened her shoulders. Come on, she’d dealt with worse. ‘Yes. I’m Taryn Hayes. I’m here to—’
‘Audit. Assess. And tear us down.’ He dropped the folder he’d been reading. ‘Yeah, we got the memo.’
She stepped forward, holding out a hand.
He didn’t take it. Just gave her a once-over. ‘You look hot.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s thirty-nine degrees in the shade today. Why are you wearing a woollen blazer?’
Taryn straightened her shoulders, ignoring the heat rushing to her cheeks. ‘I’m here in an official capacity, Sergeant. I’d prefer to keep this professional.’
‘So would I.’ He walked past her to the filing cabinet that looked like it had survived a flood. ‘You’ll find we don’t pander much to Canberra types around here.’
‘I’m not a type. I’m a federal investigator operating under ministerial directive with full review authority—’
‘Good for you.’ Finn didn’t even look up as he rummaged through the files.
Her jaw tightened. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Finn finally turned to face her, his dark eyes cold and unreadable. ‘It means I’ve got cattle going missing, a tracker in the scrub, and half my team spread across two hundred k’s of dust. So if you’re here to flex a badge, do it quick. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
At the filing cabinet, he grabbed a manila folder and dropped it on the empty desk.
‘There are your review requests. The interviews have been pencilled in for the days squad members are around. We run mobile, so don’t expect everyone in the same room.
And try not to get in the way when we are.
Be nice to the Territory cops, as we share this station’s space as their guests.
And whatever you do, don’t tick off Tanisha at the front counter, or she’ll make your life a living hell. ’
Taryn nodded, even if most of that had flown straight past her. Because Finn Wilde had crossed the room. And with every step, her brain had lost its signal to apply any logic.
Finn moved like a man used to handling trouble, one who didn’t need backup.
Tattoos shifted over tanned skin and hard muscle, disappearing into sleeves rolled just high enough to be distracting.
With a lazy flick, he popped open the small fridge and grabbed a water bottle, making the veins and muscles shift under his inked skin like a living warning label.
He was everything her mother had warned her about.
Tall. Brooding. Built like a threat. Probably smelled like the fuel from lots of bad choices—along with a double load of female-attracting pheromones.
‘Where are you going?’ Honestly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer.
He paused in the doorway. ‘Back to work. You want to audit us? Start with your list of requests. Constable Montrose put it together, talk to her if you want more. She’s our paperwork queen.’
‘You’re just leaving me here?’
‘I’m not here to hold your hand.’
She scowled at him.
And yet his eyes glistened with a hint of amusement.
The prick.
‘Email me a memo of what you want. Or better yet, send it by courier pigeon and I might actually read it.’ And just like that, he was gone.
No goodbye. Just an exit so abrupt it left her blinking in the vacuum he’d left behind.
Taryn was pretty sure she wanted to throttle him. Still gripping her laminated ID with the folded official memo tucked behind it, that was practically an in-house warrant granting her access to all areas.
The only other sound in the room came from the squeak of a fan struggling to rotate the air in the corner.
Taryn turned in a slow circle. Left alone in the Batcave with a suitcase full of wrinkled suits and a truckload of bureaucratic determination. Finn Wilde wasn’t the first hostile to walk away from her during an audit, and he wouldn’t be the last.
She crossed to the desk he’d clearly meant for her, considering it was the only one not buried under gear, maps, or stockwhips and spurs.
Another desk held a PC, but it was so military precise with its layout of pens, Post-it notes, and other stationery items, she didn’t dare upset the meticulous feng shui layout.
The small fridge hummed more enthusiastically than the outdated fan as she yanked the door open. Snatching up a water bottle, she downed half of it like she’d just crawled in from the Simpson Desert.
With a long breath, she pulled out her notepad, flipped it open… and froze.
Tucked into the inner pocket, a photo stared back at her. Her cousin, smiling beside her, like sisters sharing a joke.
Justice wasn’t abstract. It was a job—and this job was personal. And if shutting down this so-called Stock Squad was the only way to get that justice?
Then so be it.