They’re just pulling in off the freeway now.’ ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Laver creaked off his knees to his feet, took a step back for a little more room, crouched, did some squats to get his legs moving and flexed his grip on the gun.
Haven’t you been listening to the dogs tracking them here for the last five minutes? What were you, asleep?’
‘They’re here?’ Laver blinking and trying to get a look at Funnal, jammed between him and the door in the cramped space of the van. Which, of course, it had done plenty of times before. So it was a shock to hear the barked ‘Ready?’ from his partner that day, SOG member Nathan Funnal Laver’s eyes flew open, his heart rate ramming from asleep to close to capacity in less than a second. Laver had closed his eyes to rest, confident that when the call came he’d be sharp. There was the semi-regular rush of a plane in take-off. In the long-term car park of Tullamarine Airport, cars roamed aimlessly, looking for parks less than three suburbs from the terminals. Laver could sleep literally anywhere.Īs it was, he’d been either squatting or kneeling in the unmarked delivery van for the best part of two days, with no sign of the armed robbery the surveillance dogs kept assuring them the gang was doing nothing but talk about.
#Just roll with it book how to
Laver was Major Crime these days, right now part of a joint operation, but had spent enough time in the SOG to know what it was to wait, and how to switch on and off as required. It wasn’t unreasonable that he’d been dozing on the job, despite the fact that he was kneeling in all-blue Special Operations Group overalls, feet spread to balance the load of equipment and Kevlar protective padding strapped to his body, his arms holding a high-calibre, fast-action semi-automatic rifle. In fact, Laver was trying to come to terms with the fact that less than three minutes ago he’d been asleep – and now he’d killed somebody for the first time in a fourteen-year police career. Shot dead in a fucking car park.’īack on earth, Detective Tony ‘Rocket’ Laver had a different set of problems, the first of which was that he was unlikely to be awarded any medals, gold or otherwise, for dusting a lowlife career criminal like Coleman. His soul? Who can say? Maybe rising above his corpse to find his dead mother there, arms crossed and scowling at him, saying, ‘So, that’d be right. Needless to say, the victim, a known armed robber called Wesley Coleman, twenty-nine, of Thomastown (or the late ‘Wasted Wes’ as his motley crew of criminal friends would briefly mourn him) was dead long before his body made it to the tarmac of the airport car park. It then passed through his skull and nestled contentedly in the brain. It ricocheted precisely off the top of the hip and pinballed straight up, actually leaving the body on its upward trajectory just long enough for the victim, in the process of looking down to see if he’d been shot, to receive the bullet right between the eyes. But here’s where the shot became close to magical. The bullet had entered the body under the arm on the right-hand side and passed through both lungs, as well as the heart, before hitting a rib and deflecting almost exactly 90 degrees south, taking out several vital organs in the stomach region. People win gold medals in the Olympics for worse shooting. Under different conditions, it might have been considered the perfect shot.
Amanda, Rich G, Rich H, Katey and everybody else. Chips, Shonko, Annie, Ronnie P and Patricia Rivers. And to all of those who have been with me for the journey.
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