Chapter 36
Thirty-six
The tricked-up troop carrier roared as its large tyres chewed through bulldust and loose gravel. Stones pinged off the undercarriage like gunfire, as every rut in the road rattled straight up Porter’s spine and into his pounding skull.
He was grateful for the air conditioning, blowing hard through the vents. But riding shotgun in a metal tomb, beside a ticking bomb, was just another form of hell.
Finn didn’t say a word. Just kept one heavily tattooed hand on the wheel, with his eyes fixed on the endless ribbon of dirt ahead.
The silence was worse than yelling.
Porter cleared his throat. ‘For what it’s worth, I take full responsibility.’
Finn’s jaw tightened, a vein ticking near his temple. ‘The constable doesn’t break the rules, Porter. Not unless someone gives her a bloody good reason. So, she followed you out here.’
‘Yeah.’ Porter rubbed a hand across his face, dust caked into the worry lines around his tired eyes. The fancy shirt he’d started the night in was no longer white—or fancy.
‘I know Montrose is the one dragging your paperwork out of the mess half the time. She works twice as hard as anyone else to prove she deserves a spot in your squad.’
Finn shot him an evil side glance.
You’d think Porter would shut up.
Hell no, he was already neck deep. Might as well wade in further.
‘Craig and Stone got recruited easy enough. But Montrose? She had to beg for the job after you told her no.’
‘And she still got hurt on the job.’ Finn wasn’t the only one scowling at those words.
‘Because of me. I know. But she didn’t go out there chasing trouble. Montrose was chasing justice. Just like she always does.’
The tyres hit a washout and the whole vehicle jolted sideways, forcing Porter’s shoulder to smack hard against the door.
Finn didn’t flinch. Just kept driving like the road owed him something—while trying to turn Porter into every shade of purple and blue with each bump.
Porter shifted in his seat, grabbing the Hail-Mary handlebar above the glove box, and the panic strap hanging by the door. Hopefully, well out of elbow range.
‘You know what Montrose used to do for her old man? She’d pick him up, passed out in the gutter.
Hide his keys so he couldn’t drive. Pretty much the same thing she does for you—driving you home from the pub, making sure to fill up your water bottles and put out the hangover pills for you to find in the morning. ’
Finn shot him a look, sharp and dangerous. ‘And you’re telling me this because…?’
‘Because she’d never tell you herself. And someone should.’
Finn was silent for a long beat. The hum of the AC was the only sound inside the cab.
‘She’s always had my back,’ Finn said after a long spell. ‘Even when I didn’t deserve it.’
‘That’s who she is. And she’s a bloody good cop. Not just on the paperwork, but her instincts are on point, too, especially with horses. Montrose knows the other side of stations, the paperwork and management side of it, too. I know you’re a stockman, but…’
‘I know. It’s why I gave her the job. She has a unique set of skills that helps to complete the team.’ Finn exhaled, low and hard. ‘I reckon maybe she saw something in you, too.’
‘Eh…’
‘You have skills too, Porter.’
Porter huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m not a stockman, I don’t know livestock, and I can’t ride a horse. Isn’t that part of the job description for being on the Stock Squad?’
Again, Porter shifted in his seat, glancing out at the scrub rushing by. ‘Look, you might be Stock Squad, all backed by Federal money and fancy titles. But out here? At Elsie Creek Police Station? We’re all part of the same team.’ And teamwork meant something to Porter.
Finn glanced at him, the troopy churning through the dirt track like a tank that missed the war and was trying to make up for it. ‘You run the banteng permit register, yeah?’
‘Yeah…’
‘You’d also know where every feral mob shifts through the ranges, and every waterhole they hit on the way, as a hunter... Have you ever thought about doing it full-time?’
Porter flicked him a sideways glance. ‘Hunting?’
‘The kind that wears a badge.’
Porter grinned. ‘Are you offering me a job?’
Deadset.
What was it with cops, always throwing curveballs?
Here he was, bracing for an elbow to the head for bush bashing his way across boundaries, trying to save Montrose’s butt with her boss—and now Finn was offering him a job?
Same bloody thing had happened with Marcus. Porter got Sarge’s wife kidnapped on his watch and had figured he’d be lucky to keep his badge. But no—he got promoted.
Worst nine weeks of his life.
‘I’m just saying… not everyone has your boots-on-the-ground knowledge as an outback cop. And that mutant hunting buggy of yours would be an advantage to the squad.’
Before Porter could reply, the radio crackled to life.
‘Hey, Bossman, we’ve got movement,’ said Stone. ‘North-east, over by that rocky hill.’
‘That’s Tilly’s Crown.’ Porter pointed through the bug-splattered window.
Finn grabbed the handset. ‘Copy that. On our way.’ He tossed a sideways glance at Porter. ‘Let’s catch the bastard. Then you can keep defending the constable over a beer and explain to me how she sunk her car. When you and I both know what a bulldust sinkhole looks like and how to avoid them.’