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“Stay there,” he commanded. As if she was going anywhere near that…mess. It looked like they’d found Wombat. But he was certainly dead. With all that blood, there was no doubt. Indy recoiled and covered her mouth. She might be sick. “Don’t look,” Finn called back over his shoulder. “It’s…nasty.”
Finn picked his way carefully down the ravine and crouched over the body, reaching in and checking for a pulse, even though he knew it would be useless. Who would do something like this?Indy finally averted her eyes as Finn had told her to do, not wanting to look at the mound of clothes and flesh that’d once been a man. Someone had used a knife, or something sharp to cut Wombat up like he was a piece of steak.
“Call this in, will you?” Finn commanded. And Indy pulled her radio from her shoulder holster before she thought to wonder at how Finn had suddenly taken charge. And why wasn’t he repulsed by the body, like she was?
Indy thought back to Finn’s arched eyebrow and skeptical look an hour earlier. It was almost like he’d known what they were going to find.
CHAPTER THREE
FINN RAN A hand through his hair, watching Senior Constable Nash King survey the crime scene from his spot at the edge of the ravine. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He tipped his head back to glare at the branches of the enormous gum tree above. This was all he needed.
“You all right?” Indy was standing a few feet away, and she looked at him sharply.
He felt a twinge of guilt. He should be the one asking her that question. While he didn’t see this kind of thing on the job too often, and it wasn’t something anyone could really get used to, he was at least partly immune to the scene. Her face was still incredibly pale, but at least she’d stopped shaking. It wasn’t every day you found a mutilated body by the side of the road, and he knew she was probably suffering shock; although she was hiding it well, behind her resolute demeanor.
“Yeah, sorry. This is just a shitshow, that’s all. What about you?” He leaned in closer and touched her arm. A move meant to convey compassion, but her eyes widened at his touch and so he withdrew his hand. She studied him from beneath the brim of her hat.
“I’m not sure how I’m feeling,” she finally admitted. “I mean, I’ve seen some nasty things in my time as a jillaroo working on a station. Cows and their calves mauled by dingoes, cattle dying from disease and drought, hunters shooting so many roos in a single night just for fun that it makes you sick. Death is a constant when you live on a station. But this is…” She bit herlip and her chin wobbled slightly. “This is like nothing I could’ve imagined.” Indy looked so lost and alone in that moment that Finn had to resist the urge to place his arm around her shoulders. She hadn’t appreciated it when he’d touched her arm and so he presumed she would take to him embracing her even less. Her beautiful, brown eyes shimmered with emotion. This was a different Indy he was seeing. Gone were all her sass and confidence, replaced by distress and apprehension. He hated seeing her like this and his heart went out to her, wishing he could wipe the sadness from her eyes.
“It is terrible,” he admitted. “And if you need to talk about it, I’m here. Talking is good. It stops you bottling things up inside.” He bent his knees slightly so he could look directly in her eyes. “Promise me you’ll talk to someone about this. Me, or Bindi, or Steve. There are professionals out there you can talk to, as well.” Finn knew he was pushing the point, but he also knew firsthand how easily these things could become a problem. Especially with country people, they often weren’t keen to talk about their feelings.
She nodded, her gaze warming slightly, and his stomach tightened as she continued to hold his stare.
There was a commotion behind them, and Finn turned on his heel to look at the growing crowd assembling on the roadside fifty meters away as the crew from the camp milled around beyond the police tape, watching from a distance, wanting answers. One of their own had been murdered in cold blood, and they were all understandably worried.
Finn was worried, too, but for a completely different reason. After his sarge’s intel last night, telling Finn he thought it was the cattle trucks moving the drugs, this was all-too-real evidence that Rogers had been right. The most annoying part was that after Indy had sprung him on his sat phone, he’d decided toleave checking out the trucks to another day, not wanting to arouse any more suspicion.
But if his boss’s intel was true, then this looked like a murder with one aim in mind. It was meant to send a message. Don’t fuck with the syndicate, or you’ll end up dead.
What had Wombat done to piss off the traffickers? Had he been skimming off the top? Selling drugs to his mates on the side? Or could it be as simple as he’d refused to take the bribes the drug gang was offering? Finn knew he shouldn’t judge, but he didn’t think the latter was true. Wombat had looked a tad seedy, not the kind of guy to take the moral high ground. Whatever it was, the drug traffickers were taking a huge risk, if they were willing to kill someone. It might mean things were escalating.
But these were all minor questions, compared to the one burning through Finn’s mind right now. If Wombat’s murder was related to his undercover investigation, should he reveal his true identity? At least to the Senior Constable? The information he had might be vital to helping them solve this murder. Without his input, they might never know what Wombat had really been up to. The problem was, this investigation was way bigger than just one murdered truckie.
His team had been working on this case for over a year now, had put in thousands of man-hours. They were trying to break up a methamphetamine trafficking racket. There were two other detectives deep undercover in other parts of Queensland, all trying to bring this international drug ring down. They had strong clues to link this group to an Italian-based group of businessmen. Very rich, very influential businessmen who jet-setted between Australia and Italy, as well as across half the globe. If they could find out how the drugs were being shipped, trace it back to the big player—or players—in the game, they might take this all the way to the top and put a stop to thisparticular crime cartel for good. Which would mean hundreds, maybe thousands of hits off the streets. Save countless lives. Finn had personal experience of how the scourge of addiction to this powerful drug could ruin lives and families; even whole communities.
Garrett’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. They must’ve only been around thirteen years old, and their mother had taken them to the beach. Garrett had challenged Finn to a hundred-meter sprint up the sand, and he’d been so ecstatic when he’d won—by a hairsbreadth, mind you—that he’d turned, punched Finn in the arm and let out a whoop of joy. His face had been so lit up. Innocent and happy. Things had changed soon after that, when their father, a firefighter, was killed in the line of duty, and Garrett had never been the same since. He’d lost that wild enthusiasm, turned in on himself, let dark thoughts claim him. That’s when Garrett had let drugs into his life and he and Finn had lost their bond. Their brotherly connection—the biggest thing in Finn’s life up until then—was broken beyond repair.
Finn looked down to find that he was twirling his wedding ring, an old habit that he couldn’t seem to break now he had the ring on again for his undercover persona. The ring reminded him of Chloe. And Kayleigh. Fleetingly, he wondered how they were doing, what Kayleigh might be up to at this very moment. Did she have a favorite new toy? Her preferred choice seemed to change from day to day, which made it so hard to decide what to send her as a present.
His introspection was severed when the senior constable spoke. “Whoever did this, didn’t even bother to try to hide the body.” The police officer spun around and beckoned to Finn and Indy to come closer.
“Did either of you touch the body?” King asked.
“No. Oh, God, no.” Indy recoiled from the mere idea of it. “Finn went down and checked he was really dead.” She tipped her head in Finn’s direction. “I stayed up here with the horses.”
“Right.” King wrote something in his notebook. King’s offsider, Constable Willow, stood guard in the ravine, around ten feet away from the body. Young and clean-cut, he had his back half-turned away, as if not wanting to see the gruesome image. Possibly the first murder he’d had to cover, Finn mused. But then the constable turned a hard gaze in his direction, and Finn reassessed the man. Young, but definitely not as green as he first looked.
“I wanted to cover the body,” Indy blurted, looking away from the terrible sight below. “But Finn wouldn’t let me. He said we needed to preserve the crime scene.” She shuddered slightly.
“Is that right?” King turned a probing gaze in Finn’s direction.
“Yes. I’ve heard you shouldn’t touch anything if you find a dead person.” Finn feigned naïveté. “You know, from watching all those cop shows on the telly,” he added with a half-grin. “I hope I did the right thing, Senior Constable.”
“Hmm. Yes,” the cop mused, his searching gaze still fixed on Finn’s face. “Call me Nash,” he added. “Everyone else does.” Finn had noticed that most of the Stormcloud crew were on a first-name basis with both of the local police officers. There was obviously some connection there, but he was yet to figure it out.
Finn shifted his feet, then stopped himself. No point in showing his agitation. He needed to talk to Mike before he made any rash decisions. His supervisor had always said that it was ultimately up to him if he ever needed to reveal his true persona. If he ever felt like his life was in danger, or anyone else’s life, for that matter, then he should just get out. But Finn didn’t want to jeopardize all the work he and the rest of the team had put into this investigation.
“Homicide are on their way. And I’m sure they’ll be bringing a forensics team out for this one, as well. Once they get here, I’d like to talk to everyone back at camp. Take your statements. Who was the last to speak to this man?” Nash asked.
