THE CAR ROARS ALONG suburban streets with the police in tow. Amy finds herself curled up in the rear seat—compacted by fear—while the two masked men remain quiet, seemingly unbothered by the chorus of sirens.
‘Helicopter,’ says the one in the back.
‘Yeah,’ says the driver.
They come out onto the highway and the speed ramps up, pinning Amy in her seat as they cross the canals before darting into the suburban sprawl. In the tighter streets, there’s a minor collision of some sort, a dread-inducing shudder spinning the car momentarily. The driver curses, turns in his seat as he reverses up.
‘Oh fuck,’ yells one of them as the rear windscreen shatters.
The rear seat is awash with glass.
‘Those fucking—’
The driver is out, running.
Amy pushes down on the door release and falls onto the road in one fluid movement. Heart racing, rippling through her whole body, erasing the present. Glass grinds into her palms as she connects with the bitumen.
A hand grips her ankle.
Kicking loose, scrambling free. Crawling across the street now. She gets to her feet and runs a few steps before a solid mass crashes into her back. Someone is on her, dragging her. Amy screams and a rough hand covers her face. ‘Look! Look!’ Her head is locked, and she’s forced to watch the driver in the distance. The man walks around the front of a stationary police car in the street. There’s a dead cop behind the wheel. In the passenger seat, another cop is fumbling with his seatbelt, struggling and hollering until the driver puts the shotgun in against the man’s body and pulls the trigger. Blood sprays the interior of the windscreen.
‘He’ll kill you,’ says the man holding Amy. ‘He will. He’ll kill anyone.’ And then he’s pulling her back to the car.
They careen along at high speed through the backstreets of Broadbeach. The driver pulls a handbrake turn into a quiet road and slows, somehow loose of the chase.
‘There,’ says the man beside Amy.
‘I see it.’
The car hooks around into the open garage of a house.
As soon as they’re parked, the man beside Amy jumps out and lowers the garage door. ‘House,’ he says.
The driver gets out and disappears through a connecting door into the dwelling. A couple of seconds later, there’s a loud shriek, followed by the crashing of furniture.
‘I’m okay,’ yells the driver from inside.
‘Out,’ says the other one. He marches Amy into the house where a terrified teenaged girl and her little brother are on the living room floor. They’re huddled together—the girl’s arms around her brother as he trembles—while the masked driver stands over them with a shotgun.
‘You two, follow me,’ says the one with Amy. He takes the children into the other room.
Amy stands in silence with the driver.
There’s a low murmuring through the wall. A TV comes on.
The other man reappears. His balaclava is rolled up, revealing his face.
It’s Bill Webber.
‘What are you doing?’ hisses the driver.
‘It’s hard to calm children down when you’re dressed like a fucking rapist,’ says Bill.
‘What are we going to do with them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But, they’ve fucking—’
‘We’re past that.’
The other man shakes his head. ‘Fuck. My face feels like it’s on fire.’ He pulls his mask up, revealing a young white guy in his early twenties, blond hair and blue eyes. He looks like the last guy on earth you’d expect to be under there, if not for the violent intensity radiating off him. Amy knows him, recognises him at least. He’s the man who met Allan Watts in the workman’s pub down in Miami.
The man notices Amy watching. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he says.
Amy shifts her gaze.
Bill says, ‘I better call the boss and let him know.’ He walks into the hallway, leaving the two of them alone again.
Amy takes a few steps towards the kitchen and stops. ‘Can I get a drink of water?’
The blond man nods, and follows her to the kitchen counter, watching.
‘Do you want one?’ she says.
‘Yeah.’ He knocks his drink back. ‘Go sit down.’
When she’s on the couch—presumably away from the knives and heavy objects—the man carefully lays his gun on the counter and takes a bag of powder from his shirt pocket. He chops out a quick line and snorts it back, rolling his head around as the drug hits.
Amy lowers her voice to a near-whisper. ‘Who are you?’
‘Keep talking to me, bitch, and you’ll find out,’ he says.