Chapter 19
Nineteen
The local police station’s interview room wasn’t much, just a metal table and two chairs in the kind of space meant to squeeze out the truth by sheer discomfort. The same place the Fed had extracted information from Finn’s team these past ten days, in the place he’d been trying to avoid.
At the table sat the busted truck driver. His wrists were still zip-tied behind his back, with sweat soaking his shirt collar.
And sitting opposite?
The Fed. Taryn Hayes. Clipboard in hand, posture sharp enough to cut steel—like she ran the AFP’s entire interrogation unit.
Especially in that vest of hers.
Tactical. Tailored. And way too polished for the Territory.
And somehow, on her, it worked wonders on his pulse.
Not only was the woman gifted at always having the last word—she was now running point.
Didn’t help that Finn had no team left in town, either.
Craig and Amara had taken the truck and cattle to the quarantine station to meet the vet to check the animals’ condition after that jack-knife.
There, they’d do a check on cattle brands and stock against the so-called paperwork.
Porter, towing the Hellhound behind his patrol ute, had to meet his own sergeant for an NT Police job.
While Stone and Romy were in the air, stealthily following that other truck.
Which left him with either Tanisha, from the front counter, to talk about glitter cannons, cocktails and cats… Or her. The Fed.
He hadn’t agreed. Not out loud.
But he’d stepped aside. And let her.
Which might’ve been the most dangerous thing he’d done all day.
Taryn pressed the button on the video recorder, its red light blinking, making sure to hold eye contact with the suspect as she spoke.
‘For the record, this interview is being recorded under caution. What you say can be used as evidence and may be admissible in court. And unlike telemarketers—this won’t be used for training purposes. ’
Then she took her seat opposite the driver, keeping her voice smooth as syrup and clicked her pen. ‘First, let’s do the cocktail party niceties, shall we, and confirm your name and address…’
And damn if she didn’t pull it off, delicately peeling back the guy’s defensive layers without him even realising it.
No bluff. No stutter. Just steel in a silk shirt, jeans and boots.
Finn stayed quiet, occasionally shifting his weight in the open doorway, careful to never cross that threshold, with his boots creaking on the old tile. But giving enough of a death glare to make the driver swallow nails and let the beads of sweat trickle down his face.
He’d done interviews alone before. Maybe hundreds. But something about watching her do it—on his turf, with his suspect—felt like the beginning of something neither of them were ready to admit.
The driver cracked fast, sweat pouring down his temples, nerves twitching, and stuttering through every answer, like it was his first time in such a situation.
And it may be, just from the basic research they had: Darren Tooley. Forty-two. Long-haul truckie out of Katherine. Married, two kids, with a mortgage hanging over him like a dust cloud. No criminal record.
Desperate? Maybe.
Dangerous? Not likely.
But someone had his leash, and Finn wanted to know who was holding it. And he was letting her do the talking.
Taryn didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t lean in. She just kept pressing calmly with the preliminary questions—but, damn, if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d seen her do all day.
‘Who gave you the order for the trailer swap?’ she asked.
‘The other driver, didn’t get a name.’
‘Seriously?’ She raised an eyebrow at Tooley.
‘Bob. Okay?’
‘Bob who?’
‘Bob. Y’know Two-bob Bob.’ Tooley shrugged.
Taryn tilted her head. ‘Two-bob Bob? What—couldn’t he score an upgrade to Fifty-cent Frank?’
Finn sniffed to stop the smirk.
It was enough for her to reset with a click of her pen. ‘So, you’ve driven for this Bob before?’
Tooley sucked in his bottom lip as he hesitated.
But Taryn just waited patiently.
It was Finn who sniffed with impatience.
‘I’ve got kids and a mortgage…’
‘I’ll make a note of that.’ She flicked a page, as if she were making up a list of plus and minuses, that if the driver gave her enough pluses, he’d win some lucky door prize. But she never actually said it, just implied it, giving the driver enough hope.
Oh, she was good.
‘So…’ she said with that buttery voice, followed by that click of the pen. ‘You work for Two-bob Bob. How?’
‘Said he’d call when he needed a job, like all my other customers do. I’m just the truck driver.’
‘How many times have you done this for Bob?’
‘A coupla times. Always in the early hours, just before Train Day’s cut-off time.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘All over.’ Tooley shrugged. ‘It’s muster season, so I’ll take whatever driving contracts I can this time of year.’
‘I meant, where and when do you meet this guy, Bob?’
‘Depends. Today it was one click south of Billycan Corner. Once it was at this makeshift holding yard just outside of Tinderflats, just twenty clicks shy, along the Spinifex Highway. Another, down that old Ridgeback Road that links out toward the Black River mouth.’
Finn’s brow lifted. ‘Where the old cattle barge used to load?’
Tooley gave a series of nervous nods. ‘I overheard Bob’s mate natter on about flying some boxes out from the airfield tucked behind the old quarry from here on out. Swear one of ‘em cannisters was smoking, had this misty appearance to it like dry ice gets.’
Cryogenic canisters. Did Taryn realise the importance of this?
Finn clocked the way Taryn didn’t react outwardly, but he caught the flicker of interest.
Please ask the right questions, Fed.
Her pen barely made a sound, but every tick was like a clock, winding tighter. ‘So how big were these things, the canisters?’
Tooley squinted, unable to lift his hands from the flex cuffs. ‘Um…’
Taryn moved without hesitation, tugging a cutter from her fancy police vest and sliced through Tooley’s plastic restraints. ‘Don’t even think about walking out of here,’ she said lightly, ‘not with a six-foot wall of law blocking the only exit.’
Finn didn’t move. Didn’t need to.
She flashed Tooley a grin. ‘And trust me, you don’t want to try your luck with him.’ She sat back in her seat, swapping the tool for the pen and clipboard. ‘So, where were we? The cannisters…’
Tooley held his hands apart, roughly just over half a metre. ‘They were silver. Cylinder-shaped things.’
Taryn tilted her head at the distance of his hands as if seeing it differently. ‘So, like a gym junkie’s water bottle on steroids? Made of metal, about five litres. The bulky ones you know they’re never going to drink, but carry to look good.’
Finn didn’t move from the doorway, fighting the twitch of an eye roll trying to break free.
Tooley gave a vague nod. ‘Kinda, I guess. To me, they look like them welder’s gas bottles. Only much smaller. And shinier. They had these weird nozzles and labels all over ‘em.’
Taryn nodded slowly. ‘Do you think those canisters could hold biological material? Semen? Embryos?’
Tooley’s eyes went wide. ‘Like… bull semen?’
‘Or high-end embryos. Rare prime stock.’ She clicked her pen.
‘I never looked or asked.’ He gave an awkward shrug. ‘But they paid me triple for that run straight to the export yards in Darwin. Didn’t think much of it at the time—just saw a bunch of boxes tucked under the tray that held them shiny canisters. They looked expensive.’
‘Cryogenic-grade canisters can burn you. It’s all about liquid nitrogen. And that’s instant frostbite.’
Tooley swallowed hard. ‘Yeah, there was this smoky mist coming off ’em.
Cold, not hot. Didn’t know they were there, you know.
I only stopped because the back trailer started knocking like it’d dropped an axle.
Pulled over on the side of the Spinifex Highway, and had a look, and found them loose, rattling around under the tray. ’
Finn watched the bloke scratch at his neck, guilt sweating through the bravado.
‘I called Bob,’ Tooley went on. ‘Told him something had come loose. He turned up not long after and helped me get the new boxes out of the ute and repack everything. Told me not to touch the bottles or I’d lose a few fingers. Said we’d get it sorted. And we did. I guess…’
Tooley hesitated as he frowned at the grains that made up the tabletop as if remembering that day.
‘Then Bob handed me a bonus on the spot. Cash. Said to buy the missus some flowers and take her out somewhere fancy. I figured…’ He shrugged, looking up to face Taryn.
‘It was hazard pay. And to not ask any questions, so I didn’t, and just drove as planned. ’
‘What kind of boxes?’
Tooley rubbed his palms down his thighs. ‘They were just boxes. Plain cardboard with brown tape. Didn’t pay much attention, except they were light enough to lift.’
‘Like a shoe box?’
‘Nah, more like the size of them boxes you get for nappies or load up your groceries in.’
‘Did they have any labels or addresses on them?’
‘Just something like Conference Pack—NT Tourism with a bunch of flags on the side. Thought they were full of brochures or tourist junk. You know, the kind you chuck in a bin at a servo.’
Finn didn’t know what part had her hooked, as much as he was, waiting to see which thread she’d pull through to unravel.
‘Where do those boxes go?’ she asked Tooley.
‘They used to stash them under the trailer, but the heat melted the glue on the tape. That’s when I heard Bob talking on the phone to someone about meeting the plane for future pickups.
Don’t ask me where.’ Tooley shook his head.
‘I haven’t got a clue. And most cattle stations have airstrips, you know. ’
Finn scowled. Out here, airstrips were like ballpoint pens—everywhere until you needed one. But finding the right one? That was like chasing a single grain of sand across a sunburnt outback.
‘So, do you know who’s behind it?’ she asked.