Better with You: Outback Skies, Book 4 (8 page)

Died in it.

A lifetime later, as his spent shaft slipped free of her sex, she chuckled, the sound soft and shaky.

“Well—” she stroked the tips of her fingers over his temple, lingered there a moment, “—that’s one way of doing it.”

“Doing what?” he asked, lifting his head to meet her heavy lidded gaze.

She smiled, an unreadable shadow in her eyes. “This,” she whispered, as her legs circled his waist and she spun him around with unexpected savagery, one arm hooking around his throat, the other locking it there before he could react.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as she tightened her arm around his throat, cutting the flow of blood in his carotid artery.

Charlie’s world began to grow fuzzy, black.

He bucked, but Dani’s legs pinned him to the kitchen counter, one heel driving to the expanse of skin directly above his groin as she pulled her arm tighter still around his knee.

The world swam. Darkened. Sound muffled.

Charlie struggled. Against a carotid-artery choke. Against Dani.

Against the deprivation of oxygen to his brain.

“I’m sorry,” the faint words caressed the heavy blackness, the numbness. A distant part of his brain told him warm lips were against his temple. The rest of his brain cried out for blood, for oxygen…

“But I won’t let the director find you.”

Charlie struggled against her.

Struggled.

Struggled.

“I love you, Charlie Baynard,” she whispered. “Remember that…”

The arm around his throat turned to a vice. And then there wasn’t anything at all. Nothing. Until there was. Something bright. Bright and red. Light. Sunlight. Hot. On his face. Charlie fought to open his eyes. Why couldn’t he open his eyes? Why did they feel…

He reached for his eyes, for his face, his head roaring with a pain at once familiar and almost long forgotten. Something cold jerked the movement of his hand to a halt behind his back.

Cold and metal.

He winced, trying to open his eyes as the pain in his head bloomed in his throat, his knees, his face.

Where was he? What—

Dani. Carotid-artery choke.

Cold realization flooded through him. He jerked his hand again. Once again, it didn’t move. However, this time, his brain—obviously reactivating—recognised what prevented its journey to his face.

Handcuffs.

Dani had cuffed his hands together behind his back.

He was, he recognized by the air moving over his skin, still naked

Drawing a slow breath, shutting off the pain in his body—the sharp ache in his face must be from the fall to the floor after she’d rendered him unconscious—he took stock of his situation.

He was cuffed, hands behind his back, on… He wriggled his butt. Soft. A little squishy. Scratchy. Carpet. She’d moved him to a room with carpet. Living room? Bedroom? Moving his back against whatever she’d leant him against, he tried to decipher the texture and solidity of the surface. Wood. Could be the wall. Could be the end of the entertainment unit.

He lifted his blindfolded face to the heat. Considered it. Sunlight. Definitely sunlight. Coming through the living room window. The bedroom window faced north. No direct sunlight regardless of the hour. So he was in the living room, and it was mid-morning…ish. Which meant he hadn’t been out that long. A couple of hours, maybe? Possibly not even that.

He shifted, planting his feet on the carpet and pushing his shoulders into whatever the thing was behind him, testing its stability.

The wooden thing moved. Inched forward under the pressure of his shoulders, taking his wrists—and due to the cuffs—his arms with it.

Entertainment unit.

She’d cuffed him to the entertainment unit via its steel leg.

He couldn’t help but chuckle.

Dani always had a way of making his life fucking difficult.

He’d have to push the unit across the living room while handcuffed to it, incapable of lifting his butt any more than an inch off the floor as he did so, until it lodged against something immovable enough to angle it upward on its other set of legs, thus allowing him to slip the cuffs’ chain free of the metal.

Once that was done…

Well, getting out of cuffs, especially officially supplied cop cuffs, was a breeze.

Planting his feet flat on the floor, ignoring the ache in his knees at being bent at such an extreme angle, he pushed backwards. The entertainment unit moved. A fraction.

Charlie let out another chuckle. He was going to make her pay for this.

Big time.

When he caught up with her, he was going to show her just how unimpressed he was.

The next twenty minutes—by his approximation, it was tricky, given he was blindfolded and couldn’t hear the clock in the kitchen ticking—he focused solely on moving the heavy piece of furniture.

If he didn’t, if he allowed himself to ponder Dani’s actions, to dwell on the fact she’d deceived him, run away from him in an attempt to protect him from the director, he’d become furious.

Charlie worked best when he wasn’t furious.

When he was calm.

Disconnected.

When he found her, when she was safe the way he wanted her to be safe, when the director was taken care of and the threat to Dani’s life was done, that’s when he’d allow the man he’d become in his years out here to resurface.

Heart steady, breath the same, he pushed his shoulders against the entertainment unit. Pictured it moving.

His glutes, calves and quads screamed at him.

It wasn’t the most energy-efficient, nor comfortable position for furniture relocation.

It helped the carpet of his living room was close to threadbare.

Mid-shove, the unit came to an abrupt halt with a dull thud, and Charlie couldn’t help but grin.

Bingo.

Game on.

Wriggling his feet and butt into place, he wrapped his fingers as best as he could around the steel leg, braced his legs and pressed his shoulders as hard as he could to the side of the unit, and heaved upward.

It took him two goes.

A slither of anger shot through him.

When this was over, he needed to up his work-out regime.

The sound of crunching plasterboard and splintering wood told him the wall and the unit were not holding up well, a second before the television and everything else that had been sitting on the unit slid along its angled surface and slammed into the wall.

Charlie had a brief moment to think,
shit, that telly cost me a bloody fortune
, and then he slid the cuffs’ chain free of the leg and staggered away from the angled piece of furniture.

It crashed to the floor.

Charlie didn’t pay it any attention.

With a quick jump, he looped his cuffed wrists beneath his airborne feet, and whipped his blindfold from his face. He blinked at the light suddenly attacking his eyes.

“Right,” he muttered, getting his bearings with a sweeping scan of the room, “let’s get—”

His stare stopped at the bright yellow piece of paper held to the refrigerator door by a Wallaby Ridge fridge magnet.

A piece of paper that hadn’t been there before.

Wrists still cuffed, Charlie crossed to the kitchen. Past the counter.

His mind wanted to remind him only a few hours ago, he’d been buried up to the balls in Dani on that counter. He wouldn’t let it.

Stopping at the fridge, he read the note.

Charlie.

Sorry. Really, I’m sorry. I would have roofied you, but I couldn’t find any in your house before you came home. Had to go for the next less-painful option, and I didn’t think you’d appreciate me smashing the blender I saw on the counter against your head. It looked expensive.

Don’t come after me,
hatiku
. I’ve contacted the director. He won’t be coming after you. Promise.

Love you, Senior Constable Charlie Baynard

Sweet cheeks.

Charlie swallowed, his stare lingering on the words
I’ve contacted the director
.

Damn it. He was going to have to go after her now.

“Hope the bloody chopper’s tanks are full,” he muttered, pivoting on his heel and striding from the kitchen.

Yeah, he was going to make her pay for this.

Big time.

Chapter Eight

If it were anyone but Dani, Charlie would be confused.

An hour of searching the empty, arid area of the Outback that surrounded Wallaby Ridge from the air, of sweeping the landscape in the police chopper, and there wasn’t a hint of her.

In the four years Charlie had been the Ridge’s senior constable, he’d needed to rescue more than one tourist foolish—nay, idiotic enough—to think they could traverse the vast expanse of nothingness between the Ridge and its closest town without preparation.

Travelling through the Outback wasn’t like going on a leisure country drive. With no water, no fuel and no protection from the elements for hundreds of kilometres in any direction, one miscalculation of petrol levels or one overheated radiator could end in death.

Dying in the Outback because you left a town ill-prepared was not only easy to do, but horrific.

Charlie had finding such people—normally tourists, but sometimes the occasional local with too much grog under their belt for their brain to be working correctly—down to a fine art.

It didn’t take long radiating out from the town in widening circles in the chopper before whoever was lost/broken down/stupid was spotted. Once spotted, Charlie would radio Matt back in the Ridge, let him know the condition and fly them directly to the Ridge’s small hospital. Unless they were unconscious or near death, he’d given them a bloody good lecture the whole way back.

If someone was leaving the Ridge in any state Charlie found dubious, it was a given they’d need to be rescued or found before the day was finished.

Dani De Vries however…

There was no way she could have driven as far away from the Ridge as he’d now flown, but be buggered if he could find her.

Which meant she hadn’t driven out of town.

That left three options.

One—he’d flown, an option already cancelled out by the Ridge’s tiny airport flight-control tower. No craft of any kind had taken off—or touched down, for that matter—in the last twenty-four hours. Of course, there was always the probability if she
had
flown in she hadn’t landed or taken off at the airport. A high probability.

Two—she was on foot. Dani was tough, but she wasn’t dumb. Only dumb people attempted to walk across the Outback in the middle of summer. Hell, only dumb people attempted to walk across the Outback period. Walking through the Outback was dangerous. If the snakes didn’t kill you, the extreme weather would. Even
he
wouldn’t attempt it. So that wasn’t really an option at all.

And three—she was still in the Ridge.

Still in town.

Charlie gritted his teeth.

That seemed like the likely option.

Fuck.

Checking the horizon and then the chopper’s flight readouts, he bit back a growl. If she was still in town, where—

“
You there, Senior Constable
?”

Charlie flinched at the voice of his deputy scratching his ear through his headphones.

“No, I’m in the pub on my forth beer, Timothy,” he said, keeping his frustration in check. He’d told his team he was checking on the progress of a tourist bus full of senior citizens that had left town earlier that morning.

He’d found the bus forty minutes ago. Had even brought the helicopter down on the road ahead of it, brought it to a halt and—under the guise of the Ridge’s friendly senior constable making sure everything was okay with its passengers—checked if Dani was on board.

She hadn’t been.

“There’s a guy in town,” his deputy went on, either ignoring Charlie’s sarcasm or unaware of it. Distance and radio static crackled the line. “Asking around about someone called Rudy Wellam.”

Charlie gripped the cyclic stick. His throat grew thick. His heart thumped hard.
Rudy Wellam
was the agreed name his contact would use if anyone from Charlie’s past was asking about him. A code to Charlie that someone was trying to find him.

The only person apart from Charlie who knew of that name was his contact. A man killed by the director.

“Describe him to me.”

“I haven’t seen him, but the way this guy describes him, he looked like you.”

“Not Rudy Wellam, Tim.” Charlie fought to keep his voice steady. “The bloke doing the asking.”

“Oh, that guy. Five eight, bald. Bulgy eyes. Could be fat, could be beefy muscle. It’s hard to tell in the suit he’s wearing. Looks like he’s carrying.”

Of course he’s carrying. When was the director ever not carrying?

The thought played with Charlie’s sanity. As did an image of Bruce Fisher strolling down the main drag of the Ridge, smug smirk firmly in place, his dead-eyed gaze tracking everyone in town.

Charlie’s town.

Fucking bastard was in Charlie’s town.

Something cold and hard and absolute pressed at Charlie—the need to kill. The need to terminate a problem, a life.

Savagely. Painfully.

Slowly.

“Where did you see him last?” he asked, increasing the chopper’s speed. How long would it take him to get back to the Ridge? Fifty-five minutes?

Fuck a bloody duck, what could the director do in that time?

What
would
he do?

And where the hell was Dani?

“He was talking to the Flying Doctor’s doc.”

“Matt?” The cold pressure engulfed Charlie completely. An image of the director pressing the end of his gun to the back of the doc’s head accompanied it.

“Yeah, Matt Corvin. He was talking to Doctor Corvin.” Timothy paused. “You sound stressed, Senior Constable. Is there a problem? Do you want me to go bring this guy in? You know him?”

The image of the director pressing his gun to the back of Matt’s head changed. Turned bloody. Horrific.

Deadly.

“No,” he said with a laugh into his headphone’s mic. “He’s an old friend. The Rudy Wellam thing’s a private joke. Leave him be.”

“Okay.” His deputy didn’t sound convinced. Fuck, could he get back to town before Timothy decided to go talk to the director?

“Do me a favour though,” he said, forcing every bit of jovial calm he could into his voice. “Can you give the doc a call on his mobile? Ask him to come in and check on the Dutch tourist in lock up 2? I’m beginning to suspect those
oliebollen
Ross made him yesterday may have had something funny in them.”

“You think Ross is going for payback via pastries?” His deputy chuckled. “Sly old bugger. Sure, I’ll call the doc in.”

“Thanks, Tim.” Charlie pushed the chopper faster. “I’ll be back soon.”

He ended the com.

It took him longer to get back to the Ridge than he wanted. A hot wind from the west blasted constantly at the chopper, like an invisible hand shoving against him. On the far, distant horizon, hundreds of kilometres past where Wallaby Ridge lay in the arid, flat desert, a rust-colour bruise filled the sky.

Charlie didn’t like the look of it.

A dust storm. Way out whoop whoop. A big one. Hopefully, it didn’t head toward the Ridge. When a dust storm blew in from the west, the town took a pounding. The last thing Charlie needed was to deal with the savage force of nature assaulting his town and its people at the same time as dealing with a corrupt master spy hell-bent on murder.

By the time he touched down on the police chopper’s helipad, he accepted that was exactly what was about to happen.

The distant red bruise in the sky had grown bigger as he’d flown back. Closer.

It had been enough to distract him from worrying about Dani. Instead, he’d spent the flight in Senior Constable mode—radioing those that needed to know a dust storm was heading the Ridge’s way, making sure those that couldn’t batten down by themselves had help on the way. He’d protected his town the best he could, given he was in the air kilometres away.

He’d tried to get in contact with Matt—last seen talking to a man who could kill him with a paperclip without blinking—to no avail. The hospital didn’t know where he was, nor did the Flying Doctors base, and he wasn’t answering his page.

“But he’s off duty this weekend, Charlie,” the head dispatcher at the medical base informed him during his last call. “Him and Natacha were talking about going camping at the Swaggie Watering Hole. He’s probably already there.”

Nor could he reach Evan or Ryan.

Evan was on the job, providing air monitoring for a burn-off at the Mutawintji National Park, and Ryan—according to his phone message—was getting in touch with his political side, which was Ryan’s way of saying the deputy prime minister had flown into town for the weekend. No one was going to be seeing Ryan for at least forty-eight hours. When Jeremy Craig flew into town unexpectedly, the world could cease to exist and those two wouldn’t know it.

Slamming the door shut on his chopper, Charlie shot the distant horizon another glance.

The town was about an hour, maybe less, away from being enveloped in a wild blanket of red dirt particles that would blast anything in its path.

Shit.

He needed to find the director before it hit. Find the bastard before he found Dani—or Dani found him. Then he could concentrate on looking after his town during the storm, rather than worrying about a corrupt prick.

And Dani.

The image in Charlie’s mind of the director pressing his gun to the back of Matt’s head morphed into one of the man ramming his gun to Dani’s forehead.

Gut churning, a cold sweat beading on his forehead, he ran for the back door of the station.

A rush of relief flowed over him when, bursting into the building, he found his small squad preparing for the storm.

“You find that coach full of old folk, Senior Constable?” Timothy asked, flicking up a look as he withdrew the station’s supply of dust goggles from a cupboard.

“I did,” Charlie answered. “Any word from the doc? Did you get him in to see the Dutch tourist?”

“I left a message on his phone and at the hospital.” Timothy closed the cupboard door and frowned at Charlie. “You okay, sir?”

Giving himself a mental slap, Charlie arched an eyebrow. “This’ll be your first dust storm since moving here, Tim. I should be asking you if you’re okay. You look scared.”

Timothy laughed. “Hell, no. This is exciting.”

If Charlie wasn’t so on edge about the MIA Matt and the possibility he was still with the director, he would have taken his deputy to task.

An Outback dust storm was not exciting. It was dangerous.

Almost as dangerous as what lay lurking out there somewhere for Charlie.

“Just keep on your toes, okay?” he instructed Timothy. “And let me know if Matt checks in.”

“Can do, Senior Constable.”

Charlie headed for his office. He had two more guns in there—guns with their serial numbers removed and no official history. It wasn’t the clandestine arsenal he had in underground storage at his house, but he didn’t have time to head there.

“Sir?”

At Timothy’s call, he shot a look over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“That guy? The one you said was an old friend? The one looking for Rudy Wellam?”

Charlie’s feet stopped. He grew still. Kept his expression neutral, almost bored. “Yeah?”

“He’s in the pub. At least, he was thirty minutes ago. Lacky called with a message for you. Said some wanker was in there making a lot of noise about a guy called Rudy. Wanting to know where he was. It confused Lacky ’cause the guy described you. Want me to fill Lacky in on the situation?”

“No!”

Tim frowned at Charlie’s outburst. “Sure about that, Senior Constable?” he finally asked with a nervous laugh.

Pulse pounding, Charlie let out his own chuckle and rubbed at his solar plexuses. “Sorry. Think I’ve got indigestion. Lacky give any reason why he thinks the bloke is a wanker?”

Timothy snorted. “Said he could tell the guy thought his shit didn’t stink. And apparently he ordered German beer.”

“Yeah, that’d make him a wanker in Lacky’s eyes. Thanks. I’ll go track this friend of mine down. Give him a word or two about freaking out the locals.”

“Want me to come along? He sounds like he might give you some grief.”

“Nah, I’m good. You keep getting ready for the storm. In fact, can you head out to the gallery? If I remember correctly, there’s a weekend kids’ art school taking place. Let’s get the ankle-biters taken care of first, okay?”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Turning, Charlie continued to his office. A cold numb pressure wrapped him. Twisted in his gut. Heavy and familiar.

So familiar.

A prickling heat crawled over his head as he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew the scrubbed guns. Checked their magazines. Tucked them into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

He also withdrew a switchblade confiscated from a Hell’s Angel who’d tried to intimidate him with it outside the Outback Skies in the wee hours of the morning a month ago. Slid it between his sock and ankle.

No one in the station knew about the blade.

The only person in town that had knowledge of it being in Charlie’s possession was Ryan, who’d been the target of the Hell’s Angel’s homophobic abuse when the knife had been drawn. Charlie had stepped in. Disarmed the bikie. Rendered him unconscious. Dropped a wink at Ryan and then slipped the blade into the space between his waistband and belt at the small of his back.

When the bikie had regained consciousness the next morning in lock-up 4, he hadn’t asked for his knife.

Three guns, one knife. Is that enough?

Charlie flicked his gaze to the open bottom drawer. Stared at the last item in there.

A brass knuckle buster.

Truth be known, if he’d been on his game, he wouldn’t have needed any of them to deal with the director, but it had been four years…

Sliding the drawer shut with the toe of his boot, he ground his teeth. If it came down to a fistfight with Bruce, his life here in the Ridge—the life he now considered his
real
life—was done.

He didn’t want it done.

He wanted to be Charlie Baynard, Senior Constable of Wallaby Ridge for the rest of his life. A long life if he had it his way.

And he wanted Dani in that life.