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furtively, while they were lost in their bliss of hot water. A plan formed in seconds. No one except Bill must know of the disgrace but the beasts will, when they meet their deaths. And on their last gasp they will pray for mercy. None will come.
    I was shuffled onto a block with white-collar criminals yet the beasts never left my focus. I salivated on what torture they would undergo until they died and what measure of pain they would undergo until my pain was assuaged.
    â€˜Smithy.’
    I looked round and saw Bill. ‘Yes, mate.’
    â€˜The bikies are fearful of you– they know who you are now.’
    I did not reply yet I was pleased. Let them feel fear, I thought.
    I did my time and was released after signing the bond.
    I was still a member of the armed forces and no decision had been made about my future. I accepted a trip away on a houseboat to the Glenelg River at Nelson with a group of vets who had closed ranks around me while I was in gaol. The time was enjoyable, although we caught no fish. There were many nights and days when I tumbled in my bunk in a booze-filled zone and slept like a baby.
    I strolled along the bank at dusk one night on my own withthe thoughts circulating again and heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson. I saw it approaching along the dirt road and it stopped at a shack. The fat man took off his helmet. I gasped. It was one of the beasts. ‘Thank you, God,’ I said. I looked in the nearby scrub and it was easy to follow the scent of a crop of hemp plants growing well. Soon to be cropped. I knew he would stay for a while.
    From then on I made notes of the comings and goings. Ten in the morning and home at six p.m. Paul Thomson had rented the shack, I heard in conversation.
    We drove back to our homes and I was not able to curtail my emotions, which were at a high pitch. There was no need to write out the operation order, because it was in my head.

8
    1998
    He watched through his old green sniper binoculars, making mental notes. The new year had come and gone and the plants were due for harvesting. His hide was constructed of local foliage and on high ground. He slept in a small dug-out and meagre rations were eaten cold in the twenty-four hours since he had been there. Alongside him was the old cylindrical tube given to him by some CIA friends. He opened it, wearing his rubber gloves, and pulled out the collapsible perfectly constructed crossbow and the steel bolt. He fitted the bolt into the frame, checking once again the operation of the bow.
    He stared through his binoculars, his balaclava now in place along with his dark tank suit. The old black Labrador sat near the door, occasionally groaning. The dog was frequently kicked by Thomson; it sat up before the sound of the Harley was heard.
    â€˜Smart dog,’ the sniper whispered as the bike loomed into view.
    The fat man fell off the bike and laid for a while in the dirt. He appeared to be drunk. He lurched to his feet and staggered towards the door. The dog whimpered. ‘Shut up,’ the man yelled while he fumbled with keys.
    The fat man was not aware of the dark shape behind but something made him turn round. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out and peered around in a drunken fashion.
    The bolt flew out four metres and struck the man in the middle of his chest, throwing him back and pinning him against the door. He slumped, touching the bolt with his fat hands and watching theblood pour from his chest. He tried to speak. The blood bubbled in his throat while he was held like a blinking fish dying in a boat.
    The sniper did not speak. He walked over to the dog and reached down, patting him on the head, and the dog wagged his tail. The sniper gave him a biscuit and the dog followed along with each morsel. They reached the car with the bald tyres and the dog jumped in. He had a new master who would care for him at last.
    They drove along stopping in little spots on the way. The dog, soon to