Page 55 of Outback Skies


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He shuffled backward a few steps. Lined up his target and sucked in a deep, calming breath. He could do this. He began to hop forward, bracing for impact. But the second before he crashed through the glass, he thought he heard the rear door open. It was too late to stop his forward momentum, and all he could do was tuck his head between his shoulders, and hope like hell he wasn’t too late to stop the bloodbath. And that this didn’t hurt too much.

Glass splintered around him. He landed with a sickening thud; the wind knocked out of his lungs. Spears of pain sliced through his shoulder, which took the brunt of his fall, and then his back and legs burned as he tumbled through the hedge below, glass raining down on top of him.

Even as he landed, he opened his mouth to yell a warning, but nothing came out. It took him precious seconds, as he lay on the ground, gasping like a landed fish.

“Run,” he croaked. “Get away.” But his voice was feeble and raspy. He hurt all over, like he’d been set on fire, like a million wasps were stinging his bare skin.

He tried shouting again, “The house is going to explode! Clear the area.” But again, it came out on a hoarse, wheezing breath.

He should probably follow his own advice and get as far away from the building as he could. Fighting through the knee-high bushes, he rolled until he felt the dirt beneath him. Then he kept rolling over and over, his skin alight with pain as tiny bits of glass shrapnel grated against his defenseless skin.

“Run,” he yelled each time he rolled. “It’s going to blow.”

And then it did.

The house erupted in a fireball, the heat so intense it singed his eyebrows, burned the hair from his legs. A blast wave hit him, the hot surge of air so strong it took his breath away, and pushed him so that he rolled a few more times in the dust.

Then everything went quiet. Apart from the roar and crackle of the flames as they devoured the house. But Finn could hardly hear, the blood pounding in his ears was so loud.

Shit. Shit. Double shit.

That was intense. A small part of him hadn’t quite believed this house would blow. Hadn’t quite believed that his brother would go that far. But this proved beyond a doubt that Garrett was evil, right through to the core. Somewhere inside he wantedto grieve, wanted to rant and shout at the world that it wasn’t fair. That he and his brother were supposed to be best mates. Supposed to grow up together, have a happy family each, and live in a house just down the street from each other, then grow old together. He was grieving the loss of that dream.

Finn didn’t want to move. Every single part of him hurt. He could feel blood trickling down his back, down his temple. But he had to get up. Had to get going. Needed to find Indy. That was top priority; all he could think about. The docks. That’s what Garrett had said. And so that was where he was headed.

With a groan, he got up on one elbow.

“Stop. Don’t move,” an authoritative voice demanded. “Stay right where you are.” Finn froze as the muzzle of a rifle appeared in his face. “Put your hands up,” the voice growled, and Finn tilted his head up and caught sight of a police uniform. Oh. Thank. God. For a moment, he thought it might’ve been Swampy, come to finish the job.

“My name is Detective Constable Griffin Carmody,” he said slowly and clearly. As clearly as his raspy throat would allow, at least. “I was being held captive in that house. I just escaped through the window. And I can’t put up my hands, because they’re tied together.”

The muzzle wavered, then flashed up and away as the police officer bent down to stare into Finn’s face.

“We’ve been looking for you, Detective Constable.”

“Yeah, well, better late than never,” Finn sighed, and lay his head on the ground, no longer having the strength to hold it up.

“Let me get those ties off you.” Finn heard the man shout something to a colleague standing in the road. “And an ambulance,” the officer added as an afterthought, trying to hide his grimace, and Finn wondered how bad he really looked.

The officer returned a moment later with a large pocketknife to cut away the ties, then helped Finn to sit up. “An ambulance ison the way, sir,” the young constable said, offering him a bottle of water, which Finn took gratefully. Until that exact second, he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. A blanket was draped around Finn’s shoulders as he downed half the bottle in one gulp. “My name is Constable Bradley Webster. I’ve let the sarge know you’re here.”

Finn listened to the officer talk excitedly. “We thought you might have been one of the criminals when you came crashing through the window like that. You were lucky we didn’t shoot you. And then when the house exploded, we lost sight of you for a while there. I can’t believe you survived that.” The young man glanced at him in awe.

“I don’t want an ambulance,” Finn said, slowly pulling himself to his feet.

“But, sir…” the officer gave him a horrified glance.

“I need some clothes, and I need to borrow a car.”

“Have you seen yourself?” Constable Webster gestured to Finn’s chest and then his legs. Finn glanced down for the first time. Oh, wow. He did look a mess. Hundreds of tiny cuts covered him from head to toe, a couple of deeper lacerations, but most of them were flesh wounds from where he’d rolled on the tiny bits of glass after he crashed through the window.

“I’m fine,” Finn said, even though he could feel his shoulders and back, which’d taken the brunt of the fall, stinging like he’d been lit on fire.

“No, you’re not, Griff,” a familiar voice said from behind. “You’re not going anywhere except to the hospital.” The sarge stepped in front of him.

Then a mini tornado barreled into Finn, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“Indy?”

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