downside of having spent his youth driving around racetracks is that he never learned how to swim. Not the Aussie crawl, not breaststroke, not even bloody dog paddle. So why he’s now decided to jump into a large body of water can only be put down to a serious lack of options. Fortunately, there’s a wooden walkway beside the river.
Woh! He clears it by the width of a cigarette paper—and grabs it with his left hand as he plunges into the Yarra’s icy brown depths. He jolts to a stop as the water stings his gravel rash. He quickly rises to the surface, looks at the shoulder and realises it’s a bullet wound. It’s minor in the scheme of things, just a graze really, but still, that prick just shot him.
Billy turns and watches the truck drag the armoured car across the wrought-iron arch of Queens Bridge, catches sight of the red-helmeted bastard standing at the rear.
That’s it.
Billy knows why that red helmet looks so familiar. He can’t believe it took so long to work out. It’s the same helmet that Formula One world champion Michael Schumacher wore during his years driving for Ferrari.
~ * ~
2
The hotel room is dark. They only light slips in under the drawn curtains.
Helmet off, Black paces the small room. ‘That was too close.’
Helmet off too, Red sits and sips from a bottle of water, unconcerned. ‘It was fine.’
‘No, they nearly had us.’
‘You have to stop worrying so much. It was absolutely fine.’
Black turns to Red. ‘Absolutely fine? You shot at a guy.’
‘I was protecting us.’
‘You could have killed him, not to say how many people we hurt towing that truck —’
‘Nobody was hurt.’ Yellow turns from the desk, hundreds of glistening diamonds laid out on a large swath of black velvet before him. ‘It would have been reported.’
Black moves towards Yellow, imploring: ‘We should stop. There must be another way.’
‘We’re not stopping and there is no other way.’
‘But I think that if we —’
‘Don’t think.’ Yellow stands, steps towards Black, his jaw set. ‘You need to take a moment, breathe in and accept what’s happening. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. It’s incredibly annoying and a complete waste of time.’
Black stares at Yellow for a long moment, then turns to Red for support.
It is not forthcoming.
Yellow puts a hand on Black’s shoulder. ‘We’re nearly there. We can do it, but only if we remain strong, keep focused and stay the course.’
Black nods but clearly isn’t convinced.
~ * ~
3
Billy shifts in his seat as he looks across the bullpen.
The police station is all but empty. Everyone’s either working at the Formula One race or attending it. There are a few uniformed cops around but that’s about it. At the very rear of the room a small television is on with the sound down. Billy doesn’t need audio to see Nico Rosberg in a Mercedes leads the Melbourne Grand Prix by what looks like twenty seconds.
The German is only three years older than Billy, a true contemporary, and yet here Billy is during the first Formula One race of the season, waiting in a run-down cop shop in Melbourne while Rosberg commences his ninth year in the main game.
Billy shifts in his seat again. It hurts like hell, ‘it’ being his whole body. Chasing that truck yesterday had not worked out the way he had hoped. Sure he saved the security guard, but it had nearly killed him and put undue stress on a body that was already showing the kind of wear and tear a forty-year-old football player experiences, not a twenty-five-year-old who hadn’t played contact sport since primary school.
The door opposite Billy creaks open and an overweight man with a reddened drinker’s face and a pink shirt one size too small steps out and looks at him. Billy can see by the man’s
Woh! He clears it by the width of a cigarette paper—and grabs it with his left hand as he plunges into the Yarra’s icy brown depths. He jolts to a stop as the water stings his gravel rash. He quickly rises to the surface, looks at the shoulder and realises it’s a bullet wound. It’s minor in the scheme of things, just a graze really, but still, that prick just shot him.
Billy turns and watches the truck drag the armoured car across the wrought-iron arch of Queens Bridge, catches sight of the red-helmeted bastard standing at the rear.
That’s it.
Billy knows why that red helmet looks so familiar. He can’t believe it took so long to work out. It’s the same helmet that Formula One world champion Michael Schumacher wore during his years driving for Ferrari.
~ * ~
2
The hotel room is dark. They only light slips in under the drawn curtains.
Helmet off, Black paces the small room. ‘That was too close.’
Helmet off too, Red sits and sips from a bottle of water, unconcerned. ‘It was fine.’
‘No, they nearly had us.’
‘You have to stop worrying so much. It was absolutely fine.’
Black turns to Red. ‘Absolutely fine? You shot at a guy.’
‘I was protecting us.’
‘You could have killed him, not to say how many people we hurt towing that truck —’
‘Nobody was hurt.’ Yellow turns from the desk, hundreds of glistening diamonds laid out on a large swath of black velvet before him. ‘It would have been reported.’
Black moves towards Yellow, imploring: ‘We should stop. There must be another way.’
‘We’re not stopping and there is no other way.’
‘But I think that if we —’
‘Don’t think.’ Yellow stands, steps towards Black, his jaw set. ‘You need to take a moment, breathe in and accept what’s happening. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. It’s incredibly annoying and a complete waste of time.’
Black stares at Yellow for a long moment, then turns to Red for support.
It is not forthcoming.
Yellow puts a hand on Black’s shoulder. ‘We’re nearly there. We can do it, but only if we remain strong, keep focused and stay the course.’
Black nods but clearly isn’t convinced.
~ * ~
3
Billy shifts in his seat as he looks across the bullpen.
The police station is all but empty. Everyone’s either working at the Formula One race or attending it. There are a few uniformed cops around but that’s about it. At the very rear of the room a small television is on with the sound down. Billy doesn’t need audio to see Nico Rosberg in a Mercedes leads the Melbourne Grand Prix by what looks like twenty seconds.
The German is only three years older than Billy, a true contemporary, and yet here Billy is during the first Formula One race of the season, waiting in a run-down cop shop in Melbourne while Rosberg commences his ninth year in the main game.
Billy shifts in his seat again. It hurts like hell, ‘it’ being his whole body. Chasing that truck yesterday had not worked out the way he had hoped. Sure he saved the security guard, but it had nearly killed him and put undue stress on a body that was already showing the kind of wear and tear a forty-year-old football player experiences, not a twenty-five-year-old who hadn’t played contact sport since primary school.
The door opposite Billy creaks open and an overweight man with a reddened drinker’s face and a pink shirt one size too small steps out and looks at him. Billy can see by the man’s
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