Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-seven
‘We’re about to head out of range, Montrose,’ Porter warned, checking his phone. ‘We have no satphone or radio in this car, and if we go any further, we’ll have no backup.’
With the racket back at the ball, he doubted his boss had even heard the phone ring.
All Porter could do was leave a message about the general area they were headed.
He’d just managed to fire off a backup text to both Craig and Stone to find Brodie at the ball for more information, before he lost signal.
‘I’m not letting that Ram out of my sight.’ Amara gripped the steering wheel with sheer determination.
Not that he had much faith in the car to begin with. Her Land Rover had speed along the blacktop, sure. But out here, the bitumen never lasted long, not when most roads were dirt tracks carved by cattle, road trains, and severe weather conditions.
He wasn’t against women drivers—hell, Amara handled herself fine—it was the ageing city-slicker vehicle he didn’t trust. Too low to the ground, too pretty to get dirty.
The hum of asphalt faded beneath the tyres, replaced by the crunch and scatter of dirt. Amara’s car dipped slightly as the bitumen ended, its suspension shuddering at the sudden change in terrain.
Porter had to hand it to her, Amara was prepared for that slight skid from bitumen to dirt that had many drivers, not used to the terrain, lose control.
Now, the once-smooth purr of the engine buzzed with a low, gritty growl, as tyres flicked pebbles into the wheel wells with a hollow tick tick tick.
Inside the cabin, every bump rattled louder, like it’d shake the life out of its bones. Along with the faint clatter of something loose in the glove box, it marked their shift from town to bush.
Sadly, they were now following a dust trail, with no chance of getting close enough to the Ram ahead—not even for a number plate reading—now hidden behind a churning wall of thick dust, catching the Land Rover’s high beams and throwing the light back at them.
Amara squinted through the windscreen, the visibility almost zero. It was like driving into a sandstorm at night.
‘Slow down, Montrose.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’ She didn’t look away, but her knuckles were white from her grip on the steering wheel.
‘You don’t know this road. Especially at night.’
Thankfully, it got through to her and she eased off.
‘We should wait—’
‘You chase after people in the dark all the time.’
‘In a police vehicle that’s built for this terrain—with a satphone, a tracker, a long-range radio—and armed to the teeth.
Unless you’ve got a pistol tucked under that ballgown, Montrose, we’re unprepared and unarmed.
’ The windscreen was smeared with a red haze, and her simple factory-installed headlights were useless against the dust, like a candle in a tornado.
Worse, she had no bull bar.
He gripped the doorhandle tighter as the car jolted across the corrugations, while he kept watch for livestock or wallabies that might wander onto the road—like they normally did at night.
‘Are you pulling rank on me?’
‘I will, if I have to.’ It was the first time, too. And it felt like swallowing barbed wire. ‘Just think about what you’re doing, Montrose.’
They were chasing an unknown vehicle into cattle country, in the dark, with no comms, in a car better suited for school drop-offs than deep bush pursuit.
Then came the rolling thump thump thump—the familiar clatter of a cattle grid. The jolt rocked the Land Rover, rattling through Porter’s spine like a loose fence post.
‘Your suspension’s shot,’ he muttered, eyeing the dash as if it might fall off, too.
‘It’s old. Not shot,’ Amara fired back.
He gave the interior a doubtful glance. ‘Old and shot. This thing’s about as outback-ready as a shopping trolley. I’m pretty sure I saw a wheelie bin with better clearance than this thing.’
She shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through the next cattle grid. ‘Funny. I don’t see the Hellhound parked out here doing the hard yards.’
Porter smirked as he leaned into the passenger door. ‘The Hellhound wouldn’t even feel this road.’
‘Yeah, well, some of us don’t need a V8 midlife crisis parked in some man cave to prove a point.’
That shut him up.
For about two seconds.
His gut churned as he tightened his grip on the handrail, recognising the posts where a sign once stood near the cattle grid. ‘We’re on Dixby Downs.’
‘Really?’
Now he was curious. ‘Slow down, Montrose. On this side of the station, the tracks are thick with bulldust.’
‘I can handle it. The advantage is I can see his tracks now.’ That were taking them over a rise and away from the main road.
Suddenly, the dust thickened, rising around them like fog, and for a bit she did a brilliant job of dodging the worst the terrain threw at her. But then the front wheels dipped just a little too deep.
Amara cursed under her breath as the tyres spun once—twice—before the Land Rover lurched, nose tilting forward.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Don’t say it,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Porter snapped. ‘We’re bogged.’
‘I’ll get us out.’ The wheels spun again, throwing up another spray of fine red dust. The Land Rover lurched, then sank itself.
‘Stop.’ He yanked on her handbrake. ‘You’re only digging us in deeper.
It’s bulldust, not dirt. This stuff’s worse than sand or mud.
It looks solid, but it’s a bloody deathtrap.
No bottom, no grip. And if you keep spinning those wheels, we’ll just sink deeper until you’re buried to the chassis, where it’ll then choke-up your engine. ’
She pulled her hands back from the steering wheel like it was scalding her. ‘You’re right.’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Porter barked out, while bracing one hand on the dash. ‘You bogged us in bulldust, Montrose.’
‘He was right there! We almost had him.’
‘Yeah? And now we’re stuck halfway to nowhere, with no radio, no satphone, and zero backup.
’ He scrubbed a hand down his face. ‘Deadset, Montrose. You’re the queen of colour-coded micro-plans to unload a dishwasher.
Where was the rule book on this expedition?
’ He gestured through the front window, showing off the endless dust bowl.
‘Where’s your laminated escape routes you’ve got in duplicate for this? ’
Her jaw set.
‘But no. One flash of a red Ram and suddenly we’re bush bashing without a clue. You know, I didn’t think you even knew how to wing it.’ It was so unlike her to be like this—and how his words were sharper than he’d meant.
Porter sucked in a breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a beat long enough to let the heat bleed out of his voice.
This wasn’t his first bog hole, not by a long shot. But it sure as hell wasn’t where he thought he’d end up tonight.
But this wasn’t classic Amara Montrose behaviour, either. She’d never run off in the dark without a plan—yet she did.
‘Are you okay?’ Ensuring he’d softened his tone.
‘Fine.’ She turned off the engine, slid on her heels, and shoved the door open—only to meet resistance, pushing against something softer than sand.
Bulldust billowed in on a cloud, settling over their laps and the dashboard like smoke. It coated everything even his teeth.
She stepped out—then promptly sank.
‘Hell’s bells.’
‘Careful.’ Porter reached out, but she shook his hand away.
‘I’ve got it.’ But the crust gave way beneath her weight. Bulldust swallowed her legs, and her shoes.
‘Go slow with this stuff.’ He tried to open his door, but it was stuck under the weight like pushing against the tide. But when he shoved hard to open it, the car leaned like they were on water.
That didn’t feel right.
‘I mean it Amara, take it easy with this stuff.’ It was enough to hold his breath, and gently push on the door, or he was going to have to crawl out on Amara’s side.
Determined, she gathered up her skirts, then yanked her foot free with a soft sucking sound, with the powder clinging all the way to mid-calf.
Bracing a hand on the doorframe, she plunged her arm deep into the powder. Soon, she dragged her arm back, her fingers clutching the lost shoe, with her entire arm now floured like it was ready to be battered and deep-fried. ‘Got it.’
‘I could’ve done that.’ Wishing he’d been quick enough to help her, but he was still surveying the scenery while getting out of the car. ‘Wait—’
‘I did just fine, thank you.’
The stubborn thing. Coughing as quietly as she could, while staggering with her bare feet sinking again as she half-hopped toward firmer ground. Her ballgown shimmered in the headlights, the hem already rimmed in red dirt. He hated seeing her dress ruined like that.
This wasn’t just dust. This was a pit, where her car’s headlights cast a hazy glow over the fine, shifting surface.
The locals called it outback quicksand. Where seasonal runoff channels that dried out just enough to hide the trap beneath, leaving a soft crust on top.
Some a metre-deep, others more like dry wells—filled with powder instead of water, and deeper than any man dared to dive.
Then, come the Wet Season’s rains, it’ll wash it all away like it was never there.
He’d lost count of how many tourists he’d hauled out of bulldust traps since he’d been stationed to Elsie Creek.
First time he’d heard about it, he thought the locals were overreacting.
Now he knew better. The stuff was deeper than common sense—and twice as deadly. One wrong turn and the earth swallowed you whole.
‘I’ll just dig us out,’ she muttered, as her skirt glimmered in the headlights like a disco ball caught in a dirt storm.
‘While wearing a ballgown? Yeah, right.’ Porter followed in his borrowed suit, his good boots crunching into powder that went soft fast. ‘Tell me you’ve at least got a shovel in this thing?’
Amara hesitated.
Porter swore under his breath. ‘Do you have anything? Recovery boards? Snatch strap? Tyre deflator? Kangaroo Jack? Compressor? Hell, even a bloody tarp to wedge under the wheels?’
Her silence said it all.
‘Deadset,’ he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. ‘You came out here chasing a suspect, in the dark, dressed like you’re about to walk the red carpet, in a car with no recovery gear in the outback?!’
‘I wasn’t expecting to go bush bashing tonight!’
‘That’s my bloody point, Montrose. Out here, you always expect it. No matter if you’re just out for a Sunday drive.’
‘I’m normally in the Stock Squad car. Finn’s troopy.’ Slipping on her heels, she then stepped around the front, only for her heels to sink in the dust—again! ‘Are you done lecturing me?’
‘Not even close.’ He crouched beside the tyre, brushing away the top layer of dust—only to reveal it went deeper. ‘We’re well and truly rooted. No traction, no clearance, and this whole dust pit will swallow us if we try to force it.’
It was a big ditch, made from a natural runoff from the wet season that was full of bulldust. He didn’t know how deep it went, but it was deep enough for him to sink up to his knees in it already.
‘So, what now? We just sit here and wait for Finn to come find us and lecture me.’
He climbed out of the dust for more solid ground and straightened slowly. ‘How, Montrose? Because it’s dark, and with the amount of traffic on the road tonight from the ball, your car tracks will be gone—buried under the bulldust, especially after what we just stirred up to get here.’
His voice echoed across the empty outback that swallowed sound and gave nothing back. There was no breeze. No night birds of insect sounds. Just silence.
The Ram had vanished. Even its spotlights couldn’t be seen. Only the stars offered a faint silver sheen that stretched across the spinifex and scrub. No moon. No town glow. Nothing but dust and darkness.
They were well and truly on their own.
‘Do we dig?’ Amara struggled to open the back of the Land Rover, the movement causing the car to descend deeper into the dust.
‘Go slow, Montrose. Your car will sink if we’re not careful.’ Porter glanced around for a long stick. He wanted to check the depth of this bog hole of bulldust.
‘Well, I’ve got some rope. A first-aid kit. There’s water and a torch in the car.’ She rummaged around in the back seat. ‘There’s a raincoat. A big one, from down south. We could wedge it under a wheel for traction.’
‘That’s a start…’ It was either start digging, pray someone would come looking, or start the long walk back in the dark.
Then he heard it—a low rumble rolling in from the other side.
Tyres crunched on dirt.
But there were no headlights.
Just the occasional red glow of brake lights cutting through the dark.
He stiffened.
That was the Ram trying to sneak up on them!
‘Back in the car. Now, Montrose.’ His voice dropped to a growl.
Of course she didn’t listen, instead squinting past him.
He stepped in front of her, a solid wall between her and whatever the hell was out there.
‘Now, Amara.’ There wasn’t time to argue.
Automatically, his hand hovered near his hip—but he had no weapon on him. But if it came to it, he’d throw fists and fury to keep her safe. Whatever was coming, he’d take it head-on before he’d let anyone or anything get near her.
‘I’m not helpless. I am a police officer.’ Even in a ballgown.
‘Yeah? Well, whatever happens—play it cool.’