My stomach drops.
I recognize the president immediately. Broad shoulders. Salt-and-pepper beard. Cold eyes that sweep the room and land—unerringly—on me.
Conversations falter completely now. One of the baristas freezes mid-pour.
Across the shop, Tony goes still.
Against the wall, Piston and Arson shift almost imperceptibly, their posture changing from relaxed to lethal in a heartbeat.
Elise lowers her voice. “Do you know them?”
I don’t look away from the men.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
The Bushrangers walk deeper into the café.
CHAPTER 13: BUSH
The range of emotions that crosses Fred’s expression tells a story. Defiance shifts to panic. Panic morphs into regret. Regret settles into defeat. “It was a stupid move, but at the time, I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“You didn’t think it would come back to bite you in the ass?” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. I figured once they were in jail, they’d stay there. Or at least stay there long enough that by the time they got out, they’d have forgotten about us. I counted on time covering my actions. Do you think they figured out what I did?”
I look at Mode to answer.
“Depends on whether they have someone like me working for them. I know how to access banking data, but not everyone can. They likely know the money is gone. They could just think the authorities grabbed it. I’m surprised the authorities didn’t trace it to you.”
“So, what happens now? I don’t have the money, but I can pay them something. I didn’t keep it for myself,” he says quickly. “Not the way you think.”
“Then enlighten us,” I snap.
He nods once. “Do you think I started the movement to stand up to the Bushriders only to save my store? I saw what they were doing to my community. People were losing their livelihood. They hurt families. When you told me to take Zara and run, I did. However, on our way to New Zealand, I realized that if the authorities arrested the Bushrangers, they’d seize the money. We’d never see any of it, and that was unacceptable.”
Chrome’s eyes narrow. “So you played hero?”
“I made a decision to help the people they hurt the most,” Fred says firmly. “Anonymous payments. Medical bills. Rebuilding costs. School fees for kids who lost their homes. I gave them back their money.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “But you kept some, too?”
“I did,” he says quietly. “Some of that money was mine.”
The room goes still.
“What about the rest?” Mode asks.
Fred hesitates. “I used some to purchase my new store and to pay for Zara’s tuition. She deserved a chance at something better.”
At the sound of her name, something shifts in my chest. Sharp. Protective.
“And the charities?” Chrome prompts.
Fred nods. “Donations in Adelaide. And here in Arrowtown. Women’s shelters. Youth programs. I wanted the money to do some good.”
Chrome steps closer to the desk. “And you never considered the consequences?”
Fred’s gaze hardens. “It was blood money.”
