Chapter 39
Thirty-nine
The tarmac at Darwin International Airport shimmered under floodlights, with the heat still clinging to the concrete long after the sun had set.
Another jet screamed overhead—military. Flashing like a streak of light and flame, it vanished over the Top End’s sprawling suburbia like a shooting star across the black night sky.
Most folks forgot that the airport shared its runway with the RAAF base, who actually owned it.
And on nights like tonight suburbia just had to deal with it, as three military jets launched one after another, cutting ahead of commercial traffic and stacking the airspace like it was theirs to own. Because it was.
Commissioner Andrew Bannon squinted skyward as the third fighter jet tore across the night sky, banking sharply above the runway. A blazing stream trailed behind it like a roman candle on steroids, brilliant and volatile, punching through barriers like it owned the sky.
The sound hit seconds later with a low, violent roar that dragged behind the jet like a late guest, rolling into his back and out through his chest. It always came like that, delayed and dominant.
Drew didn’t flinch. Because he rather liked it. The theatrics. The precision. The kind of firepower that bent airspace and made every other aircraft sit and wait—including his own jet, which sat grounded, while the boys in grey showed off.
But damn if they weren’t magnificent to watch from his unhindered view on the airstrip.
Drew checked his watch again.
Clancy was late.
Another member of Drew’s mentorship scheme. Quick with his fists, slow with his reasoning, but useful in situations where subtlety was optional.
Drew never expected brilliance from his boys. Only results.
And if not, he always had a backup plan, or three.
That’s how it always worked, building contingencies since his first years in the sticks. Recruiting smart kids, the angry ones, the broken ones. Moulding them. Positioning them in case he needed them.
Some, like Finn Wilde, had exceeded all his expectations.
The scruffy boy who’d taught him everything he knew about cattle, back when Drew was just a city-born probationary constable, dumped in the outback by a bitter recruiter with a grudge. That’s what started his first plots for revenge.
Finn had been his first real asset. Like a son, once. Bright, loyal—raw. Then he’d fallen, just as Drew knew he would.
Perfect, really.
That boy had been born for a redemption arc, and Drew, of course, had been the hero to drag Finn out of that savage little pit, dress him up with a badge, put a bit of fire back into his spine, and sent him striding into the wild like a good little errand boy.
And Finn thought he’d built the Stock Squad.
Please.
Finn was just a tool—a sharp one, sure—but still a tool. And tools were effective, until they weren’t. Like Finn, who wasn’t playing the game the way he was meant to. And Red had gotten lazy enough to attract Finn’s attention.
So now it was time to tap another one of the boys on the shoulder—Clancy.
It was all part of his final play.
Of course, he would not run like Red, reeking of failure and desperation. No, Drew Bannon did not run. He walked. Head high, suit tailored to precision, pockets full, and future assured.
It was all part of being well-prepared.
The second Bob’s email came through—panicked, clumsy, and laced with the story of a blood trail—Drew knew it was time to go. Red’s little domestic disaster had only accelerated the inevitable. Idiot.
If there was any doubt that someone had been watching the operation before, they sure as hell would be watching now.
So Drew did what he always did—moved first.
His mentor once told him: Always plan your exits before your entries. Basic politics 101.
And so, he followed the plan.
Within minutes, he’d cancelled his speech, packed his case, booked a jet under a clean shell company, and was in a taxi to the airport.
He’d left a miserably wet and rainy Adelaide just past midnight, with the winter rain biting through his coat, creating the kind of cold that clung to your bones.
He then landed in Darwin at 4:15 in the morning.
Under a warm tropical sky, filled with stars, and no one around to bother him, it gave him the perfect cover to strip off his heavy coat and find his car in the long-term FIFO parking bay, where it sat untouched.
Inside the boot was his exit plan: passport, cash, burner phone, and an invaluable collection of government-cleared travel documents. All quietly approved and never dated, just waiting for him to choose the country.
Half an hour later, he’d checked into a hotel to play tourist, ordered breakfast and coffee.
Unpacked first—because he always unpacked first. Then dressed in some luxury resort wear starting with an unbuttoned linen shirt, designer slides, and tailored swim shorts sharp enough to pass for dress shorts, the kind he’d seen worn by Bond, as played by Craig, in Skyfall.
The perfect attire for a man sitting poolside while committing international crime, sending emails to Clancy and the pilot to prep the jet out of Adelaide.
Then he sent another email to log the empty Canberra flight, purely as a distraction in case anyone was watching.
And finally—to Red.
Letting that bastard sweat had been fun. Because no one threatened Drew Bannon and got away with it.
All of it done with coffee in hand, poolside. Just another FIFO exec, or a southern tourist dodging winter. No one gave him a second glance.
And now he waited under the cover of darkness for the quarry jet to arrive.
Only the RAAF held things up, with their fighter jets clogging the sky with noise.
Just a minor inconvenience, really. Nothing more.
He glanced at his watch. Again. Almost 8pm.
The cargo came first, and he wasn’t leaving without it.
That much was non-negotiable. Not after everything it had taken to collect, preserve, and move covertly across state borders, under fake names and falsified manifests.
The product was too valuable. It was the kind of freight that could sink a nation’s trade economy—if ever exposed.
Again, he checked his watch.
A breeze carried the acrid tang of turbine exhaust fumes across the airfield, offering no relief from the heat and sweat as it curled beneath his collar where he stood ready to climb on board his waiting jet.
But only once the quarry shipment had arrived.
He wouldn’t touch it. That’s what he paid others for.
Like Clancy, who he’d sent to collect the boxes with the extra duty of permanently releasing Red and Bob from the fold.
Along with a little torching of the stolen truck and everything else remaining at the quarry, to destroy all evidence.
And then the pilot, being handsomely paid to keep quiet—especially with that little bit of blackmail of him flying high from a cocaine-party spree—would fly Clancy up to Darwin to offload the boxes to Drew’s waiting jet.
No witnesses. No loose ends. Goodbye Elsie Creek.
And then Drew would step aboard jet number two, take the boxes, and vanish.
Now all he needed was Clancy’s jet from the quarry to land.
A flicker of movement caught his eye across the tarmac.
Surprisingly, the quarry’s jet had arrived without him noticing. Quietly slipping in-between cargo holds as the floodlights poured over it, followed by the soft hiss of its undercarriage settling.
The hatch opened away from him.
He squinted. The way the two jets were positioned, and the angle of the floodlights, it kept the disembarking crew in silhouette. Just a few figures who seamlessly transferred the freight, box by box, from that aircraft to his.
One of the ground crew, carrying a clipboard, gave a wave, as he exited Drew’s jet. ‘Cargo transfer is complete. You’re clear to board.’
‘It’s about time.’ Drew dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a pressed handkerchief. He tucked it neatly into the breast pocket of his tailored suit. In his bespoke boots, with his crocodile-leather briefcase tucked under one arm, he dragged his carry-on across the tarmac to the second aircraft.
He didn’t look back as he climbed on board.
‘We’re already behind schedule. So, let’s leave now, please,’ he instructed the pilot, while the co-pilot, seated with his back to him in the cockpit, busily flicked the switches in preparation for take-off.
‘Cabin crew, prepare for immediate departure.’ The head pilot’s voice carried over the cabin’s speakers.
The door sealed shut behind him.
Inside, cool air greeted him, along with grey leather seats, silence, and a hint of jet fuel. It was the scent of polished power. Exactly how he liked it.
Drew barely glanced at the boxes, stacked among the seats. That would wait. First, he strapped into his seat.
Soon, the lights of Darwin flickered beyond the windows as they raced down the runway. The jet lifted. Levelled. And then banked left for the open seas. He could be in Bali in two hours. Singapore in four. Anywhere but here.
Once the jet had levelled out, Drew loosened his tie, undid his top button, then unbuckled his seatbelt, and moved down the aisle to where the boxes, marked Conference Pack—NT Tourism, took up space.
What a joke.
He broke the simple taped seal on one of the boxes.
A hush of cold mist slipped free, curling like breath into the cabin’s still air. Inside, the sleek, silver cryogenic canisters rested in their foam cradles.
Drew pulled on his custom-made leather gloves. He wasn’t about to lose skin, even over a million dollars’ worth of embryos.
He then lifted one canister with care, both hands beneath it as if cradling a child. Only better…
A silver vessel that wasn’t just valuable, it was reproductive power. Elite bloodlines. Genetic superiority. Potential livestock that could outbreed, outlast, and outprice anything else on the market.
And with that came power and control as the source. Where access would be sold to the highest bidder.
It wasn’t just payday, these canisters were pure profit.
But this also represented so much more. This is what he’d be remembered for, not a badge or a title passed down by some short-lived government. But something he’d done that would last. Something that would outlive them all. The world called it livestock. Drew called it his legacy.
And then—click.
There was a bright flash in his eyes.
He staggered back, blinded.
‘Smile, Drew.’ It was Taryn Hayes. The federal auditor he’d sent to destroy the Stock Squad. With phone in hand, badge at her hip. Smiling like a woman who’d just won a Christmas ham at some pub’s meat raffle.
And beside her—Finn Wilde, tall and silent. Holding a pair of handcuffs, wearing a death glare that said: Run, and I’ll make sure you never walk again.