If he was lucky.
Clint yanked hard on the door to his truck just as a word, high-pitched and desperate, screeched through the night.
‘Leighton!’
It hung impotently in the air as he sprinted back towards the house and the wailing woman within.
‘He’s gone! His bed’s empty.’
Romy burst out of the house and practically fell into his arms, her whole body trembling. Instinct forced him straight into field mode. He pushed her back and locked his eyes onto hers. ‘Gone how? We were sitting at the doorway.’
‘The window. He climbed down the outside of the house…’ She spun around to scan the thick, endless darkness behind them and then called his name, loudly and desperately into the silence of night. ‘Oh, God, what if he heard us fighting?’
‘Then he’s only a few minutes away.’ The calm logic was nothing like the clenched fist of fear deep in his belly. He marshalled it in.
‘I have to find him.’ She turned and bolted back into the house and Clint stayed close behind her. Young boys and the Australian bush at night were not a good fit. His thumping heart went straight into a familiar rhythm. The rhythm of combat, the rhythm his mind was trained to work with. Beats that directed his thoughts, helped stop him from losing it.
With Romy falling apart he couldn’t afford to.
But damn it, he was not going to stand by and do nothing while another child was in danger. His brother would have to wait.
He dogged her heels as Romy emptied the contents of her large rucksack onto the kitchen table. First-aid kit, water, torch, jellybeans for sugar, PDA. She hauled the GPS out, set it to track, tipped her head up to the ceiling and closed her eyes. It took a moment, but finally the unit returned a signal.
‘You track Leighton?’
Wide, terrified eyes turned in his direction. ‘I don’t have time for another lecture in obsessive parenting. I need to find my son.’
The unit started to ping, strong and relatively close. She turned the tracker towards the door and the pitch intensified.
‘What’s the source?’
‘His backpack.’
Clever. Obsessive parenting clearly had its advantages. Finding Leighton just got a whole heap easier. No less dangerous but hopefully faster. She scooped everything back into her rucksack, slung it over her shoulder and sprinted towards the door.
‘Romy, wait!’ He barely managed to grasp her arm as she darted past him.
She tried to shrug off his iron grip. ‘Go look for Justin, Clint. Leave me to find my son.’ Her chest heaved with poorly repressed anger.
‘It’s dangerous out there for you, too, Romy.’
Her eyes seemed to soften and her body shifted slightly, alert but no longer—
The thought wasn’t even finished and she broke free of his grip and ran. Man, the woman was fast when she needed to be. She was off the porch and halfway across the clearing towards the trees before he even got close to catching up to her. Did she even know where she was going? He kept his eye locked on the blue of her sweater. In seconds, it was swallowed up by the deep, dark green of the night forest.
He kicked into gear behind her.
Running full pelt through the darkened bush felt strangely familiar. It reminded him of any number of secret missions in conflict hot spots, as though no time at all had passed since he’d been in active combat. He called on his training to regulate his pounding heart and lighten his footfalls so he could hear the bush ahead of him, follow his ears. Track his prey.
Crack. Over to the right.
He set off again, springing lightly on well-trained feet, dodging bushes and trip hazards in an effort to catch up with Romy. A big part of him feared for her. She wasn’t used to moving through this bush and definitely not at speed. And her ankle was still not healed. There was every chance she’d hurt herself.
He kicked himself for caring. She’d turned his brother in without a moment’s hesitation…
The pursuit ran on. Then, out of nowhere, a flash of movement caught his eye. She’d stopped running and limped towards him over to his right, shaking and gasping.
‘This is not getting Leighton found, Clint!’ Forming the words between laboured breaths was obvious torture for her. She favoured her injured ankle.
Clint toughened his heart against her drawn features, the brightness of her eyes. ‘We should call for backup.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say words like emergency services or ambulance. A vision of another young boy he’d failed to save flashed in his mind. And another one, cold and blue from the water in a dam so close to here.
‘You’re my backup, McLeish. Help me or get out of my way.’
Choose. Justin or Leighton.
A grown man who’d made his own decisions in life or an eight-year-old boy who was desperately in need of guidance. Of a father. Of help.
Choose. Family or…
Clint’s heart started thumping hard.
Somewhere in the past few weeks he’d started to think of Leighton as family. Of Romy as being his. The idea of both mother and son stumbling through the bush in the pitch darkness risking injury or worse brought a bitter, acrid taste to Clint’s mouth. Romy knew a heap about surveillance but he was willing to bet she knew nothing about tracking.
His expression must have answered for him because a whimper of air pushed out of her. ‘Let me go,’ she begged. ‘Let me find Leighton.’
‘No.’
She stood impaled.
‘Not without help,’ he said. ‘I’m coming with you.’
THE GPS locator led them straight into trouble.
The signal came from dead ahead but a massive granite outcrop blocked their way, looming and treacherous in the moonlight. Romy knew her wild-eyed panic was not going to help matters but she struggled to contain the fear.
Clint scanned the trees around them. ‘This outcrop only goes for a few hundred metres but it marks a deep gully behind it. If we pick the wrong way we’ll have to backtrack. Lose a lot of time…’
She swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know we have that much time, Clint.’ She almost succeeded in keeping the quaver out of her voice.
‘We’ll split up. It’s the only way.’
His decisiveness was comforting but the thought of continuing alone terrified her. She felt so
