Chapter 8
Eight
The short and sharp session with Stone had left Taryn with two pages of scribbles, half a headache, and the unmistakable sense that the Stock Squad wasn’t just cobbled together—it had been carefully curated by Finn. The so-called mastermind.
And yet none of this matched her orders.
She’d been sent to audit a waste of government funding. Specifically told to tear it apart with a fine-tooth something-or-other.
The briefing had painted a picture of unqualified misfits, paying their mates to gallop around the outback like cowboys with badges. No resumes. No job descriptions. Not even proper job titles for half the roles, let alone documentation for bizarre purchases like sand for rodeo bulls to roll in.
It was utter, unapologetic chaos.
And somehow… it was working. The case files—those few she had access to— proved that.
She hadn’t even interviewed the full team yet, and she was a long way off from finishing her investigation—but maybe, just maybe, Finn Wilde actually knew what he was doing.
In dire need of coffee, Taryn headed back to the front desk area, expecting the usual silent treatment, but Tanisha offered her a nod and—was that—a smile.
‘Thank you for the catnip kit,’ she said, swinging her legs from her high stool to match the front reception counter. ‘You’ve bought some civility. For now.’
Taryn grinned. Diplomacy and bribery still worked.
She was halfway through making herself a terrible instant coffee when another police officer strolled in. Utility belt slung over one shoulder, NT Police shirt unbuttoned and flapping, with his hair windswept as if he’d driven through a cyclone and enjoyed it.
He pulled off his sunglasses and squinted at her like she’d grown a second head. ‘Hello. And who might you be?’ He was polite, even.
‘That’s the Fed touching our kettle,’ Tanisha answered.
‘Is that a problem?’ Or did Taryn need to add coffee to her list, to steer clear of their kitchenette?
‘Only if you break it. Or leave the milk out. Then we’ll all have to suffer one of Tanisha’s scoldings.’ The man grinned. Big and easy.
He dumped his police belt down with a thud onto the large table and nodded at her cup. ‘Are you making it that strong on purpose? Late night? Or is the coffee trying to help you fight something?’
‘It’s fine-ish.’ Oops, she’d forgotten how many spoons of coffee she’d put into the cup.
‘Sure it is.’ The senior constable reached past her and gently tugged the spoon free from her hand like he was disarming her. ‘Sit down, Fed, and I’ll make you one that doesn’t taste like regret.’
‘You’re offering to make me a coffee?’
‘Why not? You’re not my enemy.’ He shrugged, plucking up a fresh mug for himself, and Tanisha’s prickly cactus cup, then went about making coffee for everyone.
‘I’ve still got my job. Still got a station to work out of.
And I get you’re just doing your job, but it doesn’t mean we can’t have caffeine and some civil conversation when working in the same space, right? ’
Tanisha spun around in her high stool, her immaculately groomed eyebrows arching, with her claws quietly retracting.
‘Who are you?’
‘Senior Constable Porter,’ he added, grabbing the milk. ‘NT Police. I live here. Well, not here here. Just… you know. Around.’
The interaction was so normal. Without any of the clipped silences or side-eye looks as if she’d kicked someone’s dog on the way in.
‘Federal Investigator Taryn Hayes.’
‘Nice to meet you, Taryn.’ Porter shook her hand, then handed over a cup of actual coffee, not just muddy water. ‘You’ll want that. Especially if your next interview is with Stone. Bloke’s a menace.’
‘Already survived him. Barely.’
‘Then you’ve earned it.’ Porter dragged out a chair before the silent laptop that occupied the far end of the large table, lifted the laptop lid and sipped on his coffee while giving Taryn an inviting nod to sit.
Did she dare?
She did.
‘I’ve been told that you’re the man to ask about the Hellhound. I found some receipts,’ she said, cradling her cup. ‘Exactly what is the Hellhound?’
Porter grinned. ‘It’s a four-wheel-drive-converted beach buggy that looks like a Frankenstein’s version of a Mad Max movie escapee. Built it myself—ex-speedway junkie.’
‘You raced?’
‘Junior Champion many times. But these days, the Hellhound’s more of a bush-bashing speed machine I use for hunting ferals. And those receipts were for a manhunt while on that Wild Stock case.’
‘So you work for the NT Police, stationed at Elsie Creek, but help the Federal Stock Squad?’
‘Sure. When they need me. Prison transfers. Manhunts. Bit of backup. Sarge, there,’ he said, pointing to the OIC’s closed door, ‘he’ll loan me out—especially if something’s gone bush.
I do some tracking. Nothing like Cowboy Craig, who’s a master at it.
But after wearing out three patrol vehicles, I do know the roads in this region. ’
‘And the Hellhound?’
‘Can go places no patrol ute can. Here, I’ve got a picture…’ Porter thumbed through a few images on his phone. ‘There’s the hell on wheels.’
It was a beast. The Hellhound looked like it had been forged in a thunderstorm.
Caked in red dust, on oversized tyres, with welded mesh for a bull bar that’d definitely hit things on purpose.
Racing seats, roll bars, lots of spotlights, and aerials that reached skyward like antennae on a monster-eating creature that could sniff out trouble from a kilometre away. And fast.
But leaning against the side of it, in dusty boots, was Constable Amara Montrose. Her stockman’s hat tipped low, her hair down, and laughing. Relaxed. And herself.
Porter stood beside her, holding her hand, sharing a laugh with her in the kind of unguarded moment that didn’t need explaining. They were a young couple sharing a moment together, and were deeply in love.
Taryn said nothing.
Porter just took the phone and shared a soft smile at the photo lighting up his screen. ‘She keeps up with me, even when the Hellhound doesn’t.’
‘How big an area do you patrol, if you’ve worn out three patrol vehicles?
’ She’d seen the hefty ute parked in the back.
It was nothing like the simple police vans she’d seen in the city.
Porter’s police vehicle was a big four-wheel-drive ute with a cage, winches, beefy tyres, rows of spotlights, and a solid bull bar, heavily kitted for the outback.
Porter dug around his pile of files occupying the nearby chair and pulled out a heavily creased map.
He spread it across the desk like he was rolling out a blueprint.
‘This area…’ He drew a circle on the map.
‘It’s what this station, NT Police, cover.
My patrol area. It’s big enough to get lost in twice, huh? ’
Her eyes widened. ‘That landmass is over a third the size of Victoria.’
‘But then…’ Porter flipped the map over and tapped a broader area that dwarfed the first map. ‘That’s the area Finn’s team covers. All these cattle stations that run from the north, west, and east.’
She blinked a few times as if ridding some grit in her eyes. He was talking about Northern Australia. ‘That’s got to be—’
‘A hundred times bigger than our area.’ Porter nodded. ‘And we’ve got how many cops trained in livestock crime out here?’
She didn’t answer.
Ported did. ‘Two. Four, if you count the part-timers. I’d say the Stock Squad’s running lean, wouldn’t you?’
She stared at the map, gripping onto her coffee mug. No one had put it that plainly before. The sheer scale. The overwhelming odds. And yet they kept showing up.
Before she could ask another question, the back door slammed shut, followed by a set of heavy boots that came down the corridor, heading for the coffee.
It was Finn Wilde, complete with dust in his wake.
He stopped. Then narrowed his eyes, which were full of heat, on her.
He said nothing. Just turned and barged straight into the OIC’s office—
And slammed the door behind him.
‘I think the big man likes you.’ Porter casually sipped his coffee as he eyed the door that Finn had just slammed. ‘What do you reckon, Tanisha?’
‘Please…’ Tanisha over-dramatically rolled her eyes.
‘That was a full-blown I like you, but I’m emotionally constipated about it door slam.
That man right there,’ she said, pointing at the closed door with one of her dangerously long fingernails, ‘needs glitter, a double cocktail, and a big bear hug.’ Tanisha then winked as if she’d just dropped the juiciest gossip of the day.
Porter laughed so easily, fist-bumping Tanisha, while casually keeping Taryn involved, like she belonged.
How was Taryn meant to audit this?
Not when Finn’s silent storm had somehow stirred up an in-house scandal.