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.
