Mike Dixon

The man was a professional killer.
David could scarcely believe he was keeping the company
of such a person and was being complimented by him. His
thoughts turned to Charlie and he wondered if he had been
sucked into a world of violence in much the same way. The
thought was sobering.
They changed into new clothes. David‟s denims were a
perfect fit, which was surprising because he usually had
trouble finding a pair that matched his build. And the boots
were a good fit too. Whoever had launched the rescue mission
had paid a lot of attention to detail and knew a lot about
him.
He was tempted to ask questions but knew there was no
point. They wouldn‟t be answered and anyone who asked
them would be showing his ignorance. Professionals didn‟t
provide information unless they had to.
He slipped the dive watch into the pocket of his new
jeans. Apart from his contact lenses, it was the sole thing
that remained from his past. All the rest was memories.
„Gimme a hand, mate.‟
They pushed the van into a hollow, set it alight and
watched it burn. Then they got into the Landcruiser and
headed west.
Forty hours later they reached a stretch of half-decent
road on the Gulf of Carpentaria. Neither had slept for more
than an hour at a stretch. For much of the way the journey
had been a succession of creek crossings on little-used dirt
roads. They‟d developed a routine. One would wade across
with a cable and the other would stay in the vehicle then
they‟d winch the Landcruiser across. They‟d kept it up relent-
lessly, speeding on the better sections, grinding through
mud most of the time, filling the tank with petrol from con-
tainers stacked at the rear.
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