‘I have the pilot.’Taryn dragged the cuffed pilot to Amara, who then took him to kneel on the tarmac beside Red.‘Call out who’s secure?’
‘I’ve got Red… You mongrel thief.’The normally calm and casual cowboy was pissed.Craig yanked the flexi-cuffs tight, giving a grim nod—the kind a stockman gives when he’s caught someone who’d broken their cattleman’s code.
Dried blood had trickled down Red’s face to blend into his long red beard.The wound from Brodie’s blow still seeped beneath the rough, hastily wrapped bandage.
But no one showed him any pity.Not when every ringer who’d ever passed through the Elsie Creek Stockyards adored Lydia, especially Craig who was close to her.
On his knees, Red twisted his torso as he tried to fight the cuffs, the sun, and no doubt the ache from his head wound.‘Wait!Lydia?Is she—’
Craig gripped Red’s shirt front, his snarl bared teeth.‘You don’t get to say her name.And you sure as hell don’t get to ask.’
Red collapsed back onto his knees, head down, defeated.
Finn didn’t say a word.Didn’t need to.Craig would have the satisfaction of Red’s arrest.And he needed it.
They all did.
‘Bob’s down, too.’Porter forced Bob to kneel on the tarmac beside Red.
‘Second male from the jet, Clancy, secured.’Finn dropped the goon down beside the pilot, as the crims lined up along the tarmac, kneeling under the sun.
He turned to look for Taryn.
She was already heading for the jet’s stairs, gun drawn.‘I’m going in.’
‘I’ll back you.’Porter was fast as he took the steps two at a time to quickly catch up, to give her the support she needed.
That left the truck.
Finn flicked a signal to Amara.
No words needed.
She’d been shadowing him for over eighteen months now.The perfect apprentice, who was sharp, steady, and always two steps ahead when it counted.
They moved, one on each side, with boots light on the tarmac, side-arms raised, and every sense alert.Finn took the driver’s side, Amara the passenger’s, flanking the vehicle.
As the helicopter fell silent, and the rotor’s dust wash settled, Finn reached the back first, and raised a fist for Amara to pause.
They just had to be sure they had everyone.
As she aimed her gun at the back canopy, he peeled back the canvas flap.
No bodies.
No shooters.
Among the bale of feed hay and scattered tools, stood a pile of ordinary brown cardboard boxes.There were no address labels, just a strip of brown tape sealing the lid, and a faded sticker that read:Conference Pack—NT Tourism.
He drew his knife from his belt, and with a sharp flick, he slashed the box clean down the seam.
Inside… cryogenic canisters.
Four of them.Nestled tight within the moulded foam, where each silver cylinder stood upright—sealed, sweating, and still cold enough to burn.The box was lined with thermal packaging, the kind used for vet vials or lab-grade samples.
And yet, outside, it was nothing special.Just a brown cardboard box, sealed with cheap tape.The kind of box no one looked at twice.
Even its label:Conference Pack—NT Tourism, was harmless.Exactly the sort of thing that passed through airstrips and depots without question.
