Manolis re-examined the road, Sparrow, the road, Sparrow. He saw his father, dying, blocked it out. He looked to the sky, to the boundless burning blue.

‘Gamoto, fuck!’ he cried in exasperation.

He needed to decide. He sucked in air, tried to clear the obstruction in his throat, coughed, spat, coughed again. He considered the expanse, the likelihood of the outlaws disappearing into the outback’s vast nothingness. He’d heard accounts of criminals found hiding in the bush after many years, even decades, having assumed new identities or with no identities at all. Others had never been found again. It was the rich convict beauty of the southern continent, the welcoming embrace of space in which to run and hide and disappear.

Sparrow’s head grew more leaden in Manolis’s palms.

‘Fuck!’ again.

The adrenaline hammered through his veins, his fight response in overdrive. How could he put the value of a good man’s life beneath the pursuit of two worthless criminals?

The senior detective knew he would likely live to regret what he was about to do. But he had to try, even if it ultimately proved pointless.

Dashing for his car, he flung the rear door open. Returning to Sparrow’s body, he manipulated it into position, took the weight and carefully lifted the young constable in a textbook fireman’s carry. Ensuring even distribution across both shoulders, Manolis commenced a slow walk to his car, puffing like a powerlifter awaiting three white lights. He nearly collapsed for the pain in his ribs. Squatting, knees popping, he bent forward and eased Sparrow into the back seat. Only then did he hear the low rumble in the distance.

It was an engine, another car, driving at speed. They were coming back. They wanted to finish poor Sparrow off. And any witnesses.

Manolis hurried to buckle Sparrow in, lie him flat, make him safe. Then, removing his revolver, cocking the hammer, he crouched behind the rear of his vehicle, ready to spring an ambush.

The wind picked up, a hair dryer out of the west. Hot and harsh and unnatural, it blew coarse outback dust into Manolis’s face, stinging his already-burning eyes. He closed them, which also helped to sharpen his hearing and allowed him to better discern the vehicle’s final approach.

The sound of the car’s fast-revving engine, unwavering, suggested it was not going to stop. Manolis’s ears pricked, and his muscles tensed. He was just about to step out when he heard the brakes squeal, the tyres skid. He waited for the sound of opening doors, voices, footsteps, more voices, questions, doubts, ‘what the fuck’s going on here’, ‘where the fuck is he’.