Read Online Pulling the Moves by Margaret Clark - Free Book Online Page B

There’re paddocks as far as the eye can see. I look at my watch. Nearly nine. I should be home in bed.
    Then we hear this rumbling noise. Some sort of vehicle’s coming and it sure doesn’t sound like the cops. It pulls up alongside. I peer out through the mud-spattered rear window.
    ‘Hey. You lot all right?’
    It’s this farmer, driving an old red ute. He gets out and walks over to us. Big mistake.
    Macca grabs the steering lock off Cola and leaps out. He’s spotted the petrol drum in the back of the ute. The heeler riding shotgun snarls at him, but heelers are bright. This one knows when to back off or it’ll end up splattered crow fodder.
    ‘Get that drum out,’ he says to the farmer. ‘Now.’
    ‘Eh? But—’
    ‘Do it, Grandpa.’
    The farmer shambles back to the ute, drops the tray, and rolls out the drum. He’s an old dude, brown overalls over a checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no coat, battered hat, the kind who usually drives at 40 k down the highway in the middle of the road. Probably fought in World War I. Tough as nails, but not tough enough for this crew. He’s outnumbered. I feel kinda sorry for him, meeting up with us. He sets the drum down and the dog growls but stays in the truck.
    ‘Young larrikins,’ says the farmer. ‘Good-for-nothings, I should …’
    Macca gives the steering lock to Cola.
    ‘No,’ she goes. ‘I’m not hitting an old man.’
    ‘Cola. DO IT.’
    She’s out of the van, legs braced, a scared look on her face.
    ‘Here. You. Sam. Make yourself useful. Pour it in.’
    I roll over the front seat and out the passenger door. Zac’s still holding the wheel, looking dazed. That’s all I need, a feral driver with concussion. Macca and I lift the drum. The petrol gurgles into the van, some spilling onto the ground as we heave the drum higher. The last drops run into the tank. Macca tosses the drum on the ground.
    ‘Right. Now let’s see if this shit box’ll go.’
    The engine’s stalled of course. Zac fiddles about and the engine coughs into life. He gives the accelerator a couple of pumps and revs the engine a few times as I climb back in, with Cola and Macca following.
    ‘Watch out, he’s got a gun,’ yells Zac.
    The old guy’s got a .22 pointing at us. I was going to split out the rear door, but when I see him taking aim I change my mind. Who wants their kneecaps shot to bits? Or their head ventilated? He’s going to shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll be dead while I’m halfway through explaining that I’m a hostage. Forget it.
    We bounce backwards off the tree and belt in reverse down the road.
    A bullet screams through the rear window, just missing Zac’s head. Glass shatters all over us like hailstones. Cola screams. I shut my eyes then open them again. I’ve got little cuts all over my hands from the glass.
    The farmer stands beside his truck with the .22 smoking, looking disgusted. Even the dog looks disgusted. How could he have missed at such close range? Just as well it’s an old rabbit-shooting .22 and not a machine gun or we’d have more holes in us than a crumpet.
    Zac spins the wheel. We do a donut then head back, engine roaring, towards the ute. The farmer’s frantically trying to reload.
    ‘Don’t kill him,’ I scream, as we whiz by with centimetres to spare.
    Another bullet shrieks past. Just as well he’s a lousy shot. Potting rabbits is probably easier than potting speeding vans.
    We roar on down the road. But over the howl of the V8 I hear something else, a sort of humming noise. It’s coming from—
    ‘Copter. Up there. It’s onto us,’ snaps Macca, pointing.
    A copter?
    Cola sticks her head out the window.
    ‘It’s got “POLICE” written on it,’ she goes as she pulls her head back in.
    They must’ve been cruising along up there going on a mission and noticed the fun with the farmer.
    The copter dives and swoops in tightening circles above us. About time something happened, I’m thinking, as we