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face.”
    “Didn’t have to, says he knew your voice. Kamal Attaturk. You arrested him for trafficking nearly three years ago. Right when you started trying to break into the Red Pariahs. So you’d already started growing your hair, given up your razor.”
    “Last time I chat about the weather with a pizza delivery dude.” He wiped his hand over his face, forgetting the abrasion and scoring it sharply. “Ah, fuck! It was a two minute exchange in the dark through a half open door. He’s punting?”
    “We’re trying to convince him of that. But the damage might be done. That’s how we picked him up. He’s been mouthing off around the Cross and Darlinghurst that Blacks have a cop in their house. We got a tip-off.”
    “Fucking slimy worm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to slot this new piece of information into his thinking. “Wacker was odd with me last night. I got a free kick on yesterday’s screw up. That shouldn’t have happened. That’s why I was worried.”
    Stud shook his head. “Okay. That’s it then, two plus two, you’re out.”
    “But what if I’m not made? Fetch as a cop, who’s going to believe that? It’s more than two years work. We can ride this out.”
    “That’s what they all say, mate, when it goes like this. You’re not Operation Colour Wheel all by yourself. We can make a mass of arrests on your information. When you’re out, you’re out.”
    “But we don’t have what we need on the identity theft. It has to be a contact outside the club and I’ve got nothing. And there’s an important meeting coming up. In Perth. End of the month. All the colours: Black, Red, Blue, Green. It’s supposed to be about turf and distribution efficiencies. It’s the first face to face of all the chapter leaders for over two years. There’s so much tension between Wack and Leonard, now he’s Red VP. I’m guessing it’s more. We need this. We need me in.”
    It took Stud half a nanosecond to say, “You’re still out.”
    There was no arguing with it. He nodded. Disappointment, regret, what was that feeling like a stone sitting in his gut? He’d been thinking about normal and normal was about to come and bite him. Normal was going to mean months of paperwork, riding a desk. Normal was going to bore the shit out of him, then send him home at night with a desire to punch out walls and pull down star systems.
    “Normal.”
    Stud clapped him across the shoulders. “What’d you say, mate?”
    “I think I’ve just worked out how you feel about the cruise ship idea.”
    Stud laughed. “Welcome back to the real world.”
    They spent a few more minutes working out the logistics of extracting him. There’d be a knock at the door late tonight. Federal police. Fetch would be arrested for a crime he’d committed in Tasmania. There’d be records made up and he’d disappear safely into the system.
    It was a decent plan as these things went. It meant he had to keep up Fetch’s appearances though until then. Which meant he was very fucking late for the last three pick-ups. Since he was being officially disappeared in less than eight hours, it was reasonable to keep using Driver and her car. The risk was well mitigated by the fact he wouldn’t be around anymore.
    She had an alternative route for the next pick-ups mapped out. Yeah, kissing her might not be enough. She gave him a homemade ham and pickle sandwich, an apple and a bottle of chilled water. God, he might be in love.
    Pick-up three went without incident and they were only ten minutes late. No auditor. Pick-up four was in Walton Street. An address Fetch knew well; a contact he disliked immensely. Milo Newberry was a fat, lazy, bigoted loudmouth. The kind of man whose own mother gave up on loving him before he hit puberty. The kind of man who wouldn’t last long in prison. That last thought was the one Fetch held on to whenever he had to be at Walton Street. It made the five minute visit bearable.
    Last time he’d been here,