Territory cop or not, he wasn’t letting the Feds make him sit this one out—not when it was Amara, and not on his home turf.
He moved in, caught Finn’s eye as the man ended his call, and gave a tilt of his chin towards her.‘Is Montrose okay?’
Finn’s brows pulled together.‘The constable is handling it.’
‘She’s got her cop face on, sure,’ Porter muttered, already moving towards his boss.‘But that doesn’t mean she’s fine.’
And he wasn’t going to stand back and let her deal with it all alone.
‘Porter.’Marcus, his boss, met him head on, dropping a firm hand on his shoulder.‘Let Finn and his team do their job.’
Porter clenched his jaw.‘While we just stand around like outback garden ornaments having a picnic, yeah?’
‘You know the drill.’
‘Yeah, but this—’ Porter waved a hand at the cluster of officers from his local cop shop.‘We didn’t need to involve everyone, Sarge.’
‘Yes, we did.’Marcus’ tone left no room for argument.‘This is a policeman’s house, and a theft like this sends the wrong message to the community.You feel me?’
Porter’s teeth ground together, but he gave a sharp nod.‘Loud and clear.’
‘Good.’Marcus turned to Finn.‘What do you need from us?’
Finn ran a hand over his stubble, eyes bloodshot from last night’s drinking session, but his voice was sharp when he spoke.‘Craig and Amara are handling forensics—boot prints, tyre tracks, fingerprints, photographs.Standard drill.’
Finn then gestured towards the sky, where a helicopter rumbled overhead in slow, sweeping rows.‘Stone’s got eyes from above.Romy’s running the drones for close footage.It’d be handy if we had some bikes to follow that wallaby track.’
Marcus glanced at Porter.‘Like a hunter’s buggy.’
Porter’s frustration stilled for a second.
Marcus knew exactly what he was doing—giving Porter something tangible to sink his teeth into.
‘Yeah, what have you got?’Finn asked Marcus.
‘Porter, take Cowboy Craig and run the broken fence line.Find me some decent tracks.’But it’s what Marcus didn’t say that was just as clear—Do what you do best, just don’t make a mess of it, and for god’s sake, call it in before you go cowboy.
Fine.He’d play the game.
But if they thought they’d could just shuffle him aside, they had another thing coming.
Porter strode over to his newly renovated man cave.The roller door peeled back, the scent of oil, fuel, and hot metal wrapping around him like an old friend.There were a few cars, a few dirt bikes.An old leather couch, and lots of metal benches, toolboxes, and a fancy beer fridge to suit his handmade bar.It was the place for vintage tin signs, a few beer-named mirrors and all his trophies.
He walked past the rack of helmets, part of the stash of his old speedway gear—along with the scuffed leathers from his junior days, a fire-retardant racing suit, and a stack of racing gloves, each with its own story of near misses and hard-won victories.
He vaulted into the driver’s seat of a blended beach buggy, bull catcher, and a rally racer, combined into a beast built for speed and survival in the harshest terrain.It sat high on all-terrain tyres, tough enough to claw through deep sand, bulldust, and rocky creek beds, without breaking a sweat.The suspension was reinforced for hard landings, the bull bar and roll cage custom-welded for safety.
And under the hood?A roaring V8 engine with enough grunt to outrun a cyclone.
Stitched together with outback ingenuity, it was practically a Frankenstein on wheels filled with an ex-speedway racer’s ambition and a feral hunter’s know-how of bush practicality.
And of course, it needed a name.Something fitting for a beast that tore through the Territory like it owned the place.It was…the Hellhound.
The key turned, and the Hellhound answered with a deep, delayed growl.That familiar lowlump-lump-lumpof its V8 idled under his hand, the supercharger letting out a soft, high-pitched whine like a breath held too long.
He hadn’t fired it up this past week, not with Tempest in the yard.
But now the shed echoed with nothing but engine rumbles.
