Declan Membrey took off his Ray-Bans and picked up the binoculars, watching as she reversed up the driveway in her clapped-out Commodore wagon and headed up the street. He was getting sick of watching, waiting, sick of the shitbox cabin at the caravan park, sick of the local radio station with the mind-numbing complaints about the shortage of council bins and the one-sided raving about the port. Oh, and the turtle. A fucking turtle that breaths out its arse. Unbelievable.

He’d have to find an opportunity soon, he couldn’t take the waiting anymore. But he’d always been careful and picking the right moment had served him well. Like when he withheld telling old Sinbin about the raid. A masterstroke, as it turned out. The promotion had allowed him more influence, greater knowledge from his position further up the tree—and the ability to command a higher fee. Sinbin never saw it that way, of course, but there were bigger fish seeking his services after that, in the city where the real networks are. Sinbin’s shitty little operation could go fuck itself.

As for Matthew Torrens, well, Membrey had seen him in action; knew what he was capable of. He wouldn’t even have considered this caper if it weren’t for something as significant as Sinbin’s stash. Over a million, so they said. He’d believe it when he saw it. But even half that was worth it. He needed that money these days.

And about a minute after the Commodore had cleared out up the road there he was, the big fella himself, closing the front door behind him like he finally learned some manners, the oaf.

Something odd about how he moved across the verandah though. Hold the phone! Hold the fucking phone—his arm’s in a sling. And, as he took the steps down—limping…Bingo!

Taking on a fully fit Matthew Torrens was dangerous. Injured, he might still be a handful but the odds got a lot better. And with the girl out of the way, there would be less complications.

He watched as the big man stood at the mailbox, looked inside, took out a piece of junk mail—why do they even bother out here?—and limped back up the path to the house. Hadn’t even looked up the street, the dumb prick. Sharp as a bloody bowling ball.

Okay. This is it. Opportunities like this don’t come twice.

Membrey waited until Torrens had shut the front door, then got out of the car and walked briskly across the road. He made his way down through the bush block, sand creeping over the top of his deck shoes and working its way down to his toes. When he got to the beach he turned left towards the house, stopping before the trees thinned out about ten metres from the backyard. The tide was right up to the grass and still coming in, highest tide he’d seen since he’d arrived in this hole.

The house was quiet, no movement on the back verandah. Both the back door and the sliding door to the main bedroom were open, just the flyscreens closed. The dogs were stretched out under the shade of the sheoak in the corner of the yard closest to him, over by the lemon tree. He’d fed them on and off the last few days, whenever the house was empty. The big dopey one was surprisingly placid but Membrey went carefully with him, not attempting to pat him over the fence until they’d become well and truly acquainted. The little mongrel blue heeler had been a bit nervy at first. Probably mistreated as a pup.

He waited a few seconds longer. Still no movement. He squeezed his left arm in towards his chest, felt the bulk of the Beretta, walked the few steps over to the yard, whistling softly, and threw a Schmacko at the heeler’s head. The clever little thing snapped his head round, caught it before it fell to the ground. The mastiff raised his enormous lump of a head, looking over to see what all the activity was about. Membrey threw another treat his way. The dog levered himself up, lumbered over to it. Both of them chewing, Membrey slipped through the gate, stopping briefly to give them his usual pat. Routine and treats. It never failed—dogs or women.

He made his way towards the house, hugging the lemon tree and the shrubs near the fence line. As he stepped up onto the verandah he waited, listening. The sound of a television from deep inside. Had to be the lounge room. The wind had picked up. Too quiet. Something missing? He strained his ears, looked up the verandah—couldn’t put his finger on it.

Beyond the kitchen through the passageway that led to the lounge he could see two legs stretched out, big boots. The big fella was on the couch. Even better. He drew his weapon, pushed open the flyscreen door.

Movement from the Chrysler in Parks Avenue. Jackson flicked off the stereo, picked up the binoculars and watched as Membrey disappeared into the bush block next door to the house. He turned the key in the ignition, drove the BMW to the end of the street, cautious in case Membrey came back to his car. He stopped, looked right down the hill, checked with the binoculars again. He could see her yellow shack from here. No movement and he couldn’t see the Commodore. Fuck, had she left? He’d missed it.

He turned right, drove slowly down the hill past the Chrysler parked near the fig trees, kept going to the end of Parks Avenue, slowing at the T-intersection with The Esplanade. He checked the bush block straight ahead of him. No sign of Membrey, turned left up the street, eyes trained on the little yellow shack as he passed. A little bit further along and he was passing the other bush block on the far side and moving up the rise at the end of the street. As he came over the crest he saw the Commodore. Just sitting there, parked, only two hundred metres from the shack. What the fuck? He drove closer. No one inside.

He pulled up in front of it, took something from the glove box and got out.

She heard the creak of the chair. Torrens standing up in the lounge room. Every nerve in her body was on high alert, she felt her sweaty grip slipping on the green plastic. From her position in the bedroom she imagined him there, facing the passageway that entered into the kitchen, just one thin wall between him and Membrey. As soon as Membrey moved towards the lounge Torrens would have a clear shot from three metres. She recalled Torrens’ ferocity as he’d laid out the plan: ‘The fucker won’t even know what hit him.’

She tried to put the thought out of her head. Maybe it wouldn’t work out like that. Maybe Membrey would surrender. She looked down the back verandah at Pocket, standing near the sheoak licking his lips and looking up expectantly while Sarge chewed on something. She began counting to ten, as they’d planned.

She got to three and a sudden thought turned her blood cold. They’d guessed Membrey might have been cultivating the dogs by giving them treats, but what if these ones were poisoned?

Shit, the count. She began again at five, trying to focus, staring at her little Pocket with his pirate-patch eyes. He’d already swallowed whatever it was, the little guts-ache. Oh God, Pocket.

On seven Sarge turned his great mass in a semicircle and started walking across the lawn towards the back verandah, up the steps towards the back door where Membrey had just entered. Fuck. They hadn’t thought of that either.

Membrey surveyed the tiny kitchen. Washing-up stacked in the dishrack, chairs snug around the red Formica table, the faintest smell of toast in the air and the unmistakeable voice of Kerri-Anne Kennerley from the lounge room. The boots and legs on the couch hadn’t moved. He crept towards the passageway and froze. There, in the reflection on the glass door of the cabinet facing into the lounge, the giant form of Matthew Torrens standing in the middle of the room. No sling, gun poised.

A set-up. An ambush.

Had Torrens seen his reflection too? Either way, he’d lost the element of surprise. No advantage now.

He began to back away, keeping his gun on the passageway. A floorboard creaked and in the glass he saw Torrens take off, lunging towards the passageway. In the same instant there was a guttural growl from behind. From the corner of his eye, standing there at the door, eyes wide with menace, lips flared, wet black gums, enormous fangs—the fucking mastiff!

Torrens emerged. Membrey adjusted his aim, an almighty volcano of noise erupting from the screen door behind him. He got a shot away, the big man flung backwards a split second before Membrey felt a huge weight barrelling into the back of his legs. A piercing crush on his thigh, high up, the force sending him falling to the ground face down.

He tried to swivel, couldn’t get his gun around, trying to push it away with his other hand, its choppers fixed like giant hooks into his flesh. The woman running into the kitchen, something green in her hands, spraying his face. An instant of cold, then burning in his eyes, and his own voice screaming in his ears.

As Clem rushed into the kitchen she aimed the water pistol over the top of Sarge’s shoulder and fired. A jet of methylated spirits speared into Membrey’s face, into his eyes, splashing across his cheeks. Torrens was in the passageway getting to his knees, gripping his shoulder. Sarge, huge slobbering lips, his fangs lodged deep in Membrey’s thigh and buttock. She watched in horror as the dog heaved upward, neck and shoulder muscles straining, began shaking Membrey, left and right, the shrieks louder with each swing.

‘Sarge! No!’ she yelled, grabbing at his collar. ‘Sarge!’

Torrens was there now, grabbing Membrey’s gun, standing over him, yelling something. Pocket had come in through the dog door, barking frantically.

She heaved against Sarge’s collar. He allowed her to pull him back, a growling thunder emerging from his belly, morphing into an outraged, full-throated bark.

‘Good boy, Sarge, good boy,’ she said as she hauled him, skidding on the lino, into the laundry and shut the door. Pocket was skirting the edges of the room, still barking. She grabbed him, opened the laundry door a crack and shoved him in.

There was a bloody mess on Torrens’ bare shoulder, spreading out across his singlet and under his arm.

‘Oh my God, Torrens.’

‘Flesh wound,’ he grunted, not taking his eyes off Membrey. ‘Lucky shot, Snout. Last bit of luck you’ll have in your lifetime,’ he said. ‘By the way, did ya notice you’re missing a piece of your bum?’

Membrey was groaning on the floor, blood streaming from his backside and thigh, a patch of his shorts torn away. His eyes were screwed shut, his face contorted.

‘Water…please…my eyes. Oh fuck…I’m blind. Please. Water.’

Jackson was crouched beside the Commodore when he heard the gunshot. He withdrew his hand from under the front grille and ducked behind the car. Waited.

What the hell was going on?

Checking all around first, he darted across the street to the vacant bush block, hiding behind trees, slowly working his way forward until he had a view of the shack. No movement. He scanned the area. So isolated out here at the arse end of town. No one would have heard the shot.

He went back to his car and grabbed the silencer, just to be sure. Moved back to his position, waited again, maybe five minutes more, weighing up the situation. He’d heard only one shot between the three of them—the target, the big guy and the ex-cop. More than likely one of them injured or dead. Probably the ex-cop—there’d have been two shots if he was in control. So, the big guy and the target were in there. Neither of them expecting company, both of them distracted dealing with the clown in the Chrysler.

It was an advantage. A moment. A good time to get the job done and get out of this hole.

He ran across through the bush, zig-zagging from tree to tree towards the house. Paused again. Looked for the dogs. Must be out the back.

He ran to the fence, vaulted over and into the front yard, then the five metres to the shack, pressing his back against the fibro wall. Dogs barking—the smaller one frenetic, the big one booming—from the back of the house, maybe inside somewhere? He checked the silencer was screwed on tight and crept along the front of the house in a half-crouch, gun pointing down, then took the three steps up onto the front verandah and peered through the window. Nothing. He tried the front flyscreen door. It was open. He pushed on it gently, arms out front, two-handed grip on the gun, stepping inside. He could hear the dogs’ claws scratching. Good—locked in a room somewhere.

He’d taken two steps into the lounge when he heard the sound of an outboard engine from the beach behind the house and then something else—a long groan from the next room. He crept towards the passageway, a smear of blood on the floor ahead. A glass cabinet with a pair of deck shoes, legs, reflected in the door—someone laid out in the kitchen. He swung out of the line of the reflection, back pressed to the wall separating the lounge from the kitchen, then flung himself around through the passageway, gun raised. On the floor, back propped against the wall, gagged, hands and legs bound, the ex-cop, Membrey. Face as white as a sheet, blood everywhere, eyes red-rimmed and weeping.

Jackson kept the gun trained on his chest. Membrey was staring at him, wide-eyed. There was a note taped to the wall near his head. Jackson approached and bent down closer to read it.

Hello Warwick Jackson, I’m Declan Membrey. I’m a squealer and I know everything about you and I know who you work for. I’ve been paid to tell all.

Jackson stood for a moment, the dogs throwing themselves at the laundry door, howling their protest. In the distance, the sound of the outboard engine was getting fainter. He shrugged and raised his gun. What a shit show. Membrey tried to say something through the gag, his face twisted in fear, bound hands up in front of his face, pleading.

Jackson took a step closer and fired. A single shot, straight between the eyes, Membrey’s head slumped on his chest. Another straight down through the top of his head just to be sure. Then Jackson bent down, ripped the blood-spattered note off the wall and stuck it into his pocket.