by Teagan Kade
The skinny guy comes forward, gun trained, and collects my rifle, tossing it into the corner.
The big one shoves Razor towards me. I push him behind me. “What now?”
I’m worried about the skinny guy with the sawn-off. He looks twitchy, like he’s on something. All he’d have to do is pull that trigger and we’d both be halved.
I put my hands up. “Easy now.”
The big guy takes a step forward. “You know, I don’t usually volunteer for mop-up duty like this, but you,” he wags his finger, “you fucking pig. You deserve special treatment”.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Our brothers in the States said you might be a little feisty, but this isn’t the States. We know all about handling pests here in Australia.”
“I don’t have the fucking money,” I shout.
The big one nods. “Yes. Our Yankee brothers told us as much, said your deputy friend gave up all the goss before they fucked him up, said you took fucking pictures, fucking laughed while the money burned. Is that right, Damien, Deacon, whatever the fuck your name is, or maybe, just maybe, you didn’t burn it at all.”
I point. “You mean the pictures over on the windowsill there?”
The big one looks sideways, sees the Polaroids sitting on the window ledge. He motions for the third guy to go get them.
I honestly can’t believe I’ve kept them all this time, but I knew one day I might need a record of what went down, proof that dirty cash went up in smoke. It’s all there—close-ups of the serial numbers, shots of the entire cube of money in fucking flames.
The big guy flicks through them, pockets each as he does so. “Motherfucker, and here I was hoping you’d been smart, that we could send you out easy, but I guess that ship’s sailed. Now you and your brothers are in for a whole world of hurt.” He lifts his gun, lines it up.
There’s a gunshot outside.
A hole opens up in the side of the skinny guy’s head. He gurgles and blubbers blood, the shotgun wavering. I turn and grab Razor, diving us sideways as it fires, the pellets hammering the wall behind us, dust raining over my head.
I look up and see Lux fly past the window outside. She stands in the doorway to the bunker behind the two bikers left, gun raised. “Drop them.”
They both turn, but the big guy’s still got his gun. He keeps it trained on us, the other guy with his rifle pointed at Lux.
The big one kicks the skinny guy on the floor, but he’s gone. “Joey? Joey?!”
I hate to tell him, but Joey ain’t coming back from a gunshot to the head.
I can see Lux breathing hard, but she’s keeping her cool. “I said fucking drop your weapons now.”
The two bikers stand back to back.
“We ain’t doing shit, love,” laughs the big guy. “It’s two on one. I bet a fine piece of ass like you knows all about that, don’t you?”
“Three on two,” I correct, even though I know Razor’s not going to be much help tied up.
“Ah,” the big guy laughs, “but we’ve got all the guns. You think your little girlfriend here is fast enough to get off two rounds before she’s cut down? I don’t fucking think so.”
My fists are clenched tight. I look to Lux. She’s ready, braced to fire, but it would mean suicide for one of us, maybe her. I’m not about to let that happen.
“Why don’t you just go?” I offer. “There doesn’t have to be any more bloodshed.”
The big one squeezes his revolver tighter. “Bullshit, Sherriff. If I don’t box up your head and airmail it over, it’ll be mine they come looking for next.”
This has gone on long enough. I put up my hands. “Fine. Take me and leave the others out of it.”
The two goons exchange a look.
It’s all the distraction Lux needs. ‘Down’, she mouths to me, firing once, the guy with the rifle’s head snapping back.
A second later another shot goes off, ricocheting off the roof. I see the muzzle of Lux’s firearm flash again, the big guy kicking forward to his knees, shot in the back, but he’s not going down easy.
He turns, squeezes off a round that comes torturously close to Lux’s head. She fires, gets him in the gut, fires again, the shoulder, but the guy just won’t fucking go down.
Lux goes to fire again, but she’s empty, only the ‘click, click’ of an empty mag echoing out.
The big guy laughs, lining his gun with her head. “Should have stayed home, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t get to fire. I wrestle the gun sideways, let him fire into the ground before pulling the revolver free and shooting him in the back of the head.
He slumps forward onto his face.
It’s done.
I drop the gun and run forward to Lux. I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and keep her safe.
I’m conscious of Razor getting to his feet, his hands still cable-tied together, but the duct tape starts to peel off his mouth.
“Deacon!” he screams.
That’s when I see it—another goon outside approaching Lux from behind with rifle raised.
I line up the shot, but he’s right behind her. I can’t take it. “Lux!” I scream. “Behind you!”
She turns, gun held high, but it’s too late. She’s out of bullets, options. There’s nothing I can do but watch her be blown away before my eyes.
“Lux!” I scream again at the same moment I hear the gunshot.
No.
I expect to see her fall, but it’s the goon outside who drops, rifle tumbling from his hands, a crater where his ear used to be.
What the hell?
Lux turns and I rush forward, sweeping her up and pushing her behind me as I look past the bunker door.
From the hill, Sergeant Wilson is standing up, a wisp of smoke coming from the end of his rifle.
He starts to approach us. “Fucking lucky I was here to save the day.”
I’ve never been happier to see him.
Lux is shaking in my arms.
“Thank you,” she calls to the sergeant. He stops to kick over the goon he shot and prods him with his rifle. “Check the others. I don’t want any Walking Dead reruns now.”
Clearly, I haven’t given the sergeant enough credit. He just killed a man and yet he’s walking around like it’s a church luncheon. He places the rifle on his shoulder, stands in front of us. “Big fucking mess, boys. Paperwork for days. Fucking weeks, most likely.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer.
Razor joins us. I pull the tape from his mouth.
The sergeant kneels down, looks over the skinny guy. “I know a scumbag when I see one. Fuck knows what they’re doing all the way over here, but I can guran-bloody-tee it wasn’t for tea and biscuits, am I right?”
I nod.
The sheriff stands, wiping his brow.
“I don’t know why they’re here, why they wanted to hurt you and your boy here, and, truthfully, I don’t really fucking care, but it’s done now. Everyone okay?”
We all nod in turn.
The sergeant shakes his head. “Fuck a duck, why is this such a problem?” He points at Razor and I. “I should haul you knobs in right now. I’ve been wanting to do it since the day you arrived.”
I approach him, place my hand on his shoulder just as I did with Sarah. “You’ve developed a soft spot for us, Bill. Admit it.”
He flicks his eyes to Lux. “For her, maybe. Not you fuck-knuckles. I’d tell you to piss off, go on the run, but it wouldn’t be worth it. You wouldn’t make it ten miles. I’ll put in a good word for you, let the authorities know you were in danger, but fuck me you better start talking.”
“How long before backup arrives?” I query.
He laughs, tapping the receiver by his collar. “The big city boys? By the time they put on their lippy and make-up, an hour, maybe more, during which time I want to hear every lurid little detail of your life.” He smiles. “Bugger it, maybe I’ll ask for a transfer too. I’m sick of the weather around here, so cold it could
freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
“Come to California,” Lux offers, still shaking. “I know a few beach babes who’d go for an Aussie stud like you.”
“Maybe I will,” he nods. “Maybe I will. Now, talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LUX
I’m working a shift at the pub, partly for nostalgia’s sake and partly to help out Sarah with the influx of new arrivals. Still, the usual suspects are here up the back, all four of them, the races showing on the old CRT television in the corner. Crazy as it sounds, I’m going to miss this place.
The door opens and in walks Sergeant Wilson, stepping up to the bar and placing his hat down. “A cold one, thanks, Lux. It’s hard work cleaning up this town.”
I pull him a beer and pass it across. “So I hear. Guess it will be even quieter when the boys and I leave.”
He shakes his head, holding his beer. “I’m going to miss those pricks. I really am. They did bring a bit of life to this town, even though I’ll be doing paperwork until kingdom comes thanks to our little run-in down at the bunker.”
“I heard they put you up for some kind of award.”
He shrugs it off. “Some bullshit I have to travel up to Sydney for.”
“You deserve it.”
He shakes his head. “Just doing my job. Besides, I want to see you ride that wave everyone’s talking about.”
And there’s the problem. Since Bo’s shark attack and the press from the shootout, the tourist inflow into Finke has been slowly picking up. It started with a journalist from a surfing mag asking about the break, then a news crew, a couple of pro riders… Still, none of them have managed to ride it yet. They don’t know its intricacies like the boys and I do, even if I have yet to face it again.
The sergeant downs the last half of his beer in one go and readjusts his belt. “You know, if that boy ever does you wrong, pick up the phone and call me.” He pats his revolver. “Sure could do with some more target practice.”
“I don’t know. You seem like a pretty good shot.”
He tips his cap. “Well, you know where to find me if you need me.”
I can’t resist. “In the back room of the police station watching Days of Our Lives reruns.”
He nods. “That’s the one.” Then he’s walking out, the door flapping back open with a gust of wind.
Sarah slams it shut, locking the top and walking back to the bar. “Hell of a storm coming.”
“They’ve been saying that for weeks.”
Sarah leans against the bar on one elbow. “No, it’s coming this time for real. You live here long enough and you develop a sixth sense for these things, ain’t that right, Bilbo?”
One of the regulars pipes up from over near the slot machines. Poor guy must be in his nineties. He shakes his leg from the side of the machine. “Gonna be a big one. I can feel it in me lucky leg.”
“See?” says Sarah, smug.
I look out the windows where the clouds are gathering thick and grey. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the infamous once-in-a-century low is coming.
One last time. One last chance to surf the monster.
The aftermath from the shootout played out for days. When the US authorities found out who the Hunts were, they sent a representative over, a tough Texan by the name of Wilcox. He managed to smooth things over a little with the Australians, but it was inevitable they’d be deported, especially considering how they entered the country in the first place, not to mention the stockpile of weapons they’d managed to acquire.
Mercifully, they allowed the boys to remain week or two for Bo to heal up in the hospital for flying—more than enough time for us to settle everything and think towards the future.
The future. God, what does it even mean now?
The place has been swarming with cops and detectives ever since, some for protection, others looking into the shootout. When Deacon told me about the guy who’d been watching me, I almost threw up. They caught him an hour out of Hobart, connected him to another rape since he skipped parole. Funnily enough, he had nothing to do with the brothers.
Bo’s been in good spirits considering. There’s an extra guard on him as well. The US office didn’t want any chances being taken and assured all of the brothers proper witness protection. Not that Deacon trusts them or plans on going through with it. He doesn’t seem to trust anyone but his brothers and I these days.
*
“Nervous about flying out tomorrow?” I shout.
The super low has arrived. Massive, pounding surf has been smashing the coast line since yesterday and turning Shipstern Bluff on in full.
I stand with Deacon on the beach watching the maelstrom, the wind nothing compared to the cold.
I look up at the cliff line, the ridge above the scrub. People are gathered. Some with cameras and tripods, others rugged up against the wind that sweeps out from the land. “Guess it won’t be a secret spot for much longer, huh?”
A light rain whips across Deacon’s face. “It had to happen eventually. Everything beautiful has to come to an end.”
I take his hand and squeeze. “Not us. Not ever.”
He draws his board out of the sand. “You ready for this?”
I look out to the break. It’s big alright, massive waves building on the horizon against a charcoal sky. I think of Dad. “I am.”
Razor pulls up beside me. I’ve never seen him so excited.
“Fucking pity Bo couldn’t be here,” he says. He hoists up his board underarm. “It’s fucking big, boys and girls. First to wipe out’s buying beers.”
I punch him in the shoulder. “Guess you’ll be doing the buying then.”
I run towards the water, my legs scissoring below me. I’m nervous, yes, but I’ve trained for this. I’m ten times stronger now than when I arrived in Finke. It’s given me strength, but so much more. I have Deacon. I have a family. Okay, a very twisted, testosterone-slanted family, but it works and I sure don’t want to be anywhere else. I wouldn’t give it up for the world, danger or not.
I hit the water and paddle, Deacon right beside me smiling as the rain grows heavier, the ocean pockmarked around us and a strong offshore pushing the face of the incoming waves up into liquid walls. I duck-dive and push through, pressing on towards the reef.
I look up to the people on the cliff line. They want a show. They’re going to get one.
When we arrive out the back, the size of the swell becomes clear. This is life and death stuff. My core clenches, but I push it away. Fear is a choice.
I count the sets, wait, and there it is, growing and morphing.
Deacon reaches through the water and takes my hand. “It’s yours, baby. We’re right here.”
I breathe out. “Okay.”
I turn and start paddling. Waves this big you can barely paddle into, but I manage it, directing my board downwards right as the monster begins to crest over and the point of no return is lost. I either commit or I go down.
I press up, stand, and brace for the drop.
As soon as I’m on my feet, two things become apparent. One, this wave is fucking massive, and two, it’s not going to let me take it easily.
In true Shipstern form, the center of the wave buckles and shifts, splitting into liquid steps. There’s so much water being sucked up the face I can see the reef exposed below.
Holy shit.
There’s no time for thinking. I simply have to react. I brace my feet and take the first step. My feet leave the board completely before they crash into it and I head over, coming right to the bottom of the beast. With a curtain of water overhead, I tuck, grab the edge of my board and cut low. The tube expands and narrows until all that’s left is a tiny window of hope and daylight.
Come on.
Come on.
The wave starts to unravel, breaking up around me.
Come on.
It starts to distort and change, the water playing tricks, but this time I’m prepared. The backwash hits and catapults me from
the barrel with a phsst, the spray washing over my back as I’m ejected over the back of the wave. Water crashes onto my board and I paddle for the line with everything I’ve got before the next wave bears down on me.
Deacon’s shaking his head when I arrive.
I hear cheering, look up at the cliff line to see people hollering and shouting.
Razor turns his board to face me. “You sure you haven’t got a set of balls between your legs, Hollywood because fucking hell. That was some ride.”
Deacon draws me to him, presses his lips hard against mine, hand against the back of my neck and the ocean roaring around us, the solid mass of it shifting and calling as the rain whips and belts us.
We break away, foreheads together, the wet curtain of my hair allowing us privacy for now.
I cry, not from sadness or fear but from the realization I’ve done it, of how proud Dad would be. Would he approve of Deacon? I laugh inside. Not at first, but I have a feeling he’d grow on him.
I look out, see the next wave coming. I point. “So, you boys going to let a Californian girl like me steal all your thunder?”
Razor turns and starts to paddle. “Fuck no, princess.”
Deacon and I watch him vanish into the barrel.
I look up at the crowds. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Our secret spot soon to be the home of the next big-wave contest.”
Deacon’s smiling.
“What? What is it?”
“I’d tell you that nothing good lasts forever, but I’d be lying.”
I’m confused. “What do you mean?”
Razor goes kicking into the air, landing back onto his board and beginning to paddle back towards us amongst catcalls and whooping from the cliffs.
Deacon’s still smiling. “Maybe you should check that pocket on the side of your wetsuit there.”
I reach down to my hip. “This pocket? I don’t keep anything in it.”
His smile is growing. “You sure?”
What are you up to, Deacon Hunt? I sit up on my board and keep my eyes on him, unzipping the pocket and carefully fishing inside. My fingers close around something small and hard.
“Careful now,” he says.