Twenty-three
Sunlight was gone.Not faded—but gone.Swallowed by the escarpment and the creeping hush of the outback after dusk.The perfect cover for Finn and Amara as they moved low along the fence line, boots soft in the dirt, the air thick with the scents of diesel, dry grass, and cattle.
Stone’s chopper was using the shadows of the night sky to hide, but Romy’s drone would be close.
The clearing ahead revealed a small set of portable stockyards with galvanised panels, freshly welded.The area was so new the wet season rust or cobwebs hadn’t had a chance to settle in yet.
A water trough sat at one end, along with a fresh scatter of hay, its scent clinging to the breeze, where cattle shifted inside like calm shadows.
Finn stepped in close, careful not to startle them, and used his phone to take flash-less photos of their flanks—each marked with brands that he was pretty sure wouldn’t match the paperwork, let alone their ear tags.
He zoomed in, snapped another grainy shot.He wasn’t after quality like Romy’s imagery, he just needed the basic outline.
One brand he recognised, belonging to a station three hundred kilometres east.More interestingly, several wore the Tinderflats Station brand.He tapped his mic.‘Amara.The cattle are tagged.Stolen stock confirmed.Got my images?’
‘Yes, sir.We have enough to bust them, if we deny the camera’s existence and just say it was a tip-off,’ she murmured from the shadows.
‘But we won’t.Not yet.’Finn wasn’t here for small wins—he was after the one who signed the cheques.The ghost behind the cattle-dust curtain who never got their hands dirty.
Finn scanned the clearing beyond the trucks, and that’s when he saw it.Just past the fence line, a slight shimmer warped on the horizon where the last of the day’s heat rose finely over a flat, cleared airstrip.
On the other side, a demountable.A simple box with a door and a tin roof.No lights.But an antenna jutted from the flat roof.
This wasn’t some simple bush loading point.It was a depot that made up a big part of the supply chain.And with the Stock Squad setting up their stealth surveillance, it didn’t feel like he was breaking the rules to do it.
‘Camera check, Romy?’Finn asked.
‘Umm…’ Romy meditated like some monk over the airwaves, where Finn was expecting some gong to go off.Fully aware Romy was still learning the radio lingo.
Stone’s voice came over faintly in the background.‘Not a yoga class, hon, just say the thing and get off the air.’
‘Right.Yeah, sorry.Um—Camera one, live… Two, live.Three and four… standby—okay, now they’re live.Six to nine…’ Romy sighed with relief.‘All cameras are operational.’
‘Copy that,’ Finn said.‘Can you give a count of how many vehicles and work crews?Someone must be babysitting this livestock.’
Again, Romy’s voice came softly in the earpiece.‘Two livestock trucks.Six trailers.One single-cab LandCruiser ute.Besides the livestock, and you lot, the thermals are picking up on someone inside that demountable.’
Finn signalled to Amara, and they split.
He took the larger truck, moving like a shadow across the clearing.Amara curved toward the second trailer, her silhouette vanishing behind it.
Click.
The first tracker was set in place.He then peeled back the manifest folder tied to the frame and flipped through it.
A lot of it was blank.Or worse—deliberately vague.
He took a video of it from his phone.Then tapped his mic.‘Truck one’s tagged.Manifest is dodgy.’
‘Same here,’ Amara whispered.‘Generic descriptions.No brand IDs.Not even a receiving station listed.You want me to tag the ute?’
‘Do it.Then we pull out.’
‘Aw hell.Bossman?’Stone’s voice crackled over the comms, tight with tension.‘You’ve got a vehicle inbound.Moving fast.They just flicked on their headlights.They must’ve been running dark up the fence line.Bugger, I missed it.’
‘It’d be doing that to avoid detection,’ Finn muttered.‘Pull back, Constable.Now.’
‘Too late,’ came Amara’s voice.‘I’ve got a visual.Headlights inbound.’
