The Black Mist by Geoff Davis

Author:Geoff Davis [Davis, Geoff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780645751307
Published: 2023-02-22T22:00:00+00:00

Mitta Mitta Trail, Victoria, Australia.

Running.

The Mitta Mitta trail was slick and wet, cut to ribbons by years of deer invasion and the chaotic wheel prints of two very recent motorbikes. At ground level, I could see muddy and broken shapes of bike trails fractured from one side of the track to the other.

The random profiles where the bike wheels had gripped and moved forward were joined by long, erratic smears of wet shining mud where the wheels had slid sideways and back. The bike riders had come to this part of their journey badly equipped. The road bikes were struggling, not meant for the slick bush trail.

The local deer weren’t helping the bikies. They had destroyed this trail, and it was now a soft, squelching, deer-ravaged nightmare.

I was probably faster on foot than the men ahead of me were on their bikes.

From the little I had seen, none of them were runners.

From their choice of vehicle and their erratic tracks, I could see they were not much as trail riders either.

The insane rage I felt when Barney told me about Georgie’s death had calmed for now. I was in action; I was moving, and I had seen enough to know these bikies were my enemy. An enemy, someone to target and destroy.

Running easily.

This particular enemy did not know it, but they were already three men down.

My blood rage had given way to process, I was in a battle, and I had been in plenty. I was adrenaline-fuelled, my backpack felt weightless, and my only concern was the ache in my gut that I would be too late to save my friend Ricky.

I blocked out the flash thought of Ricky Chalmers lying dead and alone in his weird mountain hideaway.

Visualise a victory. Visualise the fifth bikie in the store-bought leathers. Our very own Detective Constable Snow, Detective “Boofhead”.

Payback would be good.

I kept running. It was uphill but not so steep.

The ground was wet and muddy but manageable. I was surely gaining on them.

I hadn’t heard the sound of motorbikes since they left us behind on the Mitta Mitta Road. I hadn’t seen a bike since I left the bush car park.

Nothing. No sounds of engines, no shooting, Just the bush and me.

Fifty minutes into my rescue run, I stopped to check my position and take a drink.

The wheel tracks told me they had got this far on their bikes. That was either a remarkable testament to their biking skills, or else they just refused to walk.

The GPS told me I should leave the trail and cut west.

The Sarge and I had driven nearly 150 kilometres south, then southwest, from Jarrajarra. Then, after the gun battle in the car park, I ran a further nine kilometres north.

The GPS points that Georgie Golino had given me were now due west of my position, but if I headed west now, there was no trail to speak of. Nothing but thick, dense, hard Aussie bush.

If Ricky had made himself a permanent hideout here in the

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