Serpent Sting. Toni Grant

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      The vehicle lurched into action, edging closer to the stranded vehicle.

      “Cover me,” he commanded Gunner Mason. “Now,” he yelled to no one in particular and dashed to the open door of the stranded vehicle and leapt inside.

      “I’m moving you to the other vehicle. One at a time,” Sinclair said before turning to the journalist he’d met earlier in the café. “You stand here and ready the next person. Be ready to move on my command. Got it?”

      The girl nodded and quickly took her position near the door. Nervously she pushed the hair from her eyes.

      “No room for extras. Leave your things in the van. Understood?”

      Fearful faces nodded in unison.

      “Sir, what about the driver? He’s injured,” the journalist said, turning to the driver who was fading in and out of consciousness.

      “Let me worry about that,” Sinclair replied. “Ready?”

      The girl pushed the first person towards the soldier.

      “Good.”

      Sinclair signalled Sergeant Fergus who immediately engaged. One by one, the soldier escorted the passengers to the waiting vehicle under heavy return fire. They crammed into the small space. At last he reached the driver. The foot was badly mangled. The injury gouged in above the ankle.

      Searching the vehicle for some kind of lever, he remembered a length of metal pipe had been packed in with the supplies. It was meant to replace a leaking water pipe in the hospital sterilization area. Sinclair scrambled to the rear of the vehicle to see the pipe lying isolated and open in the dust.

      Quickly lunging for the tool, he reeled at the stinging burn as a stray bullet grazed his thigh. “Bastard,” he swore under his breath, stumbling back into the PMV. He stopped momentarily to check the wound. Ignoring the pain, he spoke to the kid, “Are you still with me Private?”

      The weakened response spurred him into action.

      “Reckon you can lift your leg with your arms, from below the thigh, when I say?”

      The kid nodded listlessly.

      Sinclair reached down and levered the metal casing surrounding the injured limb, groaning in effort. The boy screamed in pain. In his earpiece, he heard the field commander’s urgent command: “Evacuate. Stand by for air support.”

      “Now, Private. Do it,” Sinclair’s gruff instructions pierced though the noise reverberating around the PMV’s interior.

      With a fearsome cry, his leg was wrenched free. The young soldier promptly lost consciousness. Dragging the body from under the shoulders, Sinclair backed his way through the truck. A trail of blood weaved along the centre as the bloodied stump dangled from the torn ankle. Sinclair glanced at the young soldier’s boot eerily resting against the accelerator and ignored it.

      Stopping momentarily in the doorway, he signalled a Specialist Service Officer positioned nearby. The soldier opened protective fire. Throwing the body over his shoulder, Sinclair stumbled under the dead weight and his burning leg to the waiting ambulance.

      From an open doorway, two sets of arms grabbed at the boy pulling him roughly into the van. Stumbling as the weight transfer momentarily threw his balance, Sinclair fell heavily against the vehicle. It began to move forward.

      Aircraft support screamed overhead. With the noise of battle still ringing in their ears, a terrified silence filled the vehicle interior.

      CHAPTER 3

      26 January – Australia Day

      Viti Levu, Fiji Islands

      Warm rain sprinkled. Liquid sunshine, the Islanders called it. An apt description of the precipitation as it gently touched the skin in a warm caress. The two young boys didn’t notice. Waiting impatiently, heads bent in conspirator rapture, they hid, concealed by the low hedge surrounding a spacious pool deck. Behind them, the vast South Pacific Ocean glistened.

      “Here she comes,” Archie whispered loudly, at the approach of his mother.

      Francesca clutched at her back. Her heavily pregnant body extended directly out the front, as it had with Archie. She sighed. Braxton Hicks. The wise decision would’ve been to fly home for the birth. She’d borne the brunt of discontent from family and friends at her decision to stay on the island.

      Perhaps foolishness had again hindered her decision-making as the lure of their Fijian life outweighed all practical thoughts. Time would tell. But for now, as long as she remained in Fiji, Archie was safe within the haven of village life and the walled compound of their idyllic home.

      With the trial against the little boy’s grandfather progressing little, there were certain risks she was not prepared to take. Besides, waiting out the birth of a second child in the confines of a Sydney apartment with an energetic five-year-old was seriously pushing the realms of a great time.

      Thank goodness Sinclair would be home soon. Stupidly, she fretted during these last days of lost communication. Any time now, the first of many texts would start to arrive. Her heart flipped in anticipation of his return. Breathing deeply, she imagined the familiar smell of him and the warmth in his embrace.

      Francesca dipped a toe into the pool, throwing her cotton wrap onto the nearby sun lounge. She longed for the weightlessness the water would give her aching body.

      “Stand and deliver me hearties!” the child instructed in his best pirate voice, mixing bushranger words with pirate slang. He and Tuicakau scambled from behind the hedge. Two shirtless, golden bodies in swim shorts burst towards Francesca. Brandished plastic swords swayed in an exaggerated cutting motion. Black eye patches were skewed sideways upon temples. Archie puffed his chest at his mother; a fearsome expression splashed across his face.

      “Give us all ya gold or y’all have to walk the plank,” Tuicakau added importantly, his features set in the same serious expression. His legs were set astride, bare feet planted firmly on the pavers lining the pool deck. He puffed out his chest, mimicking Archie’s stance.

      “Please don’t hurt me!” Francesca cried, masking the laughter bubbling in the back of her throat. She placed a dramatic hand over her heart. “Please, have mercy. I will tell the secret. My gold is hidden in the pockets of my robe.” Francesca indicated the wrap on the lounge.

      “Wait there and don’t move or I’ll split ya from ‘ere to ‘ere,” Archie commanded, not sure what it even meant, but it was what pirates said. “Tui, you watch her and I’ll get the treasure.” He strode confidently to the lounge.

      “We struck it big this time, Tui,” Archie called excitedly, emptying the pockets and forgetting his role-play. “Come and look!”

      Tuicakau dropped his sword and raced over to his friend. They divided the loot.

      “Does that mean I’m free to go?” Francesca enquired, hopefully.

      Archie looked up at his mother. “What do you reckon, Tui? Should we let her go?”

      “I reckon, Archie,” came the muffled reply, hindered by a mouth full of chocolate СКАЧАТЬ