It took four days of relentless, mind-numbing grinding. Four days of cross-referencing auto parts invoices, shouting at uncooperative warehouse managers over the phone, and swimming through Joey's digital spreadsheets.

On a bleak Thursday morning, Mac finally struck gold.

She slammed a manila folder onto Trent's desk, spilling half his lukewarm coffee. "Got it."

Trent didn't care about the coffee. He ripped the folder open.

"Auto-Parts Direct out in Wetherill Park," Mac said, pulling up a chair and pointing at the highlighted invoice. "Ordered a 19-inch dark-finish FPV Pursuit alloy rim and a left front quarter panel in late April. Paid cash. The delivery address is a commercial garage in Greenacre. 'Ibrahim Motors'."

Trent scanned the paperwork. "Greenacre. That's Bankstown LAC. Tariq said they operated out of Marrickville, but they're using Western Suburbs chop shops for the heavy lifting."

Joey rolled his chair across the aisle, clutching his tablet. "I ran the garage. Registered owner is a bloke named Fadi Ibrahim. Two convictions for vehicle rebirthing. He runs a tight ship, mostly stripping stolen luxury cars and shipping the parts overseas. He's not Southern Vanguard. He's strictly cash-and-carry."

"He wouldn't care if Holden was a neo-Nazi as long as the money was good," Trent said. "Is the ute there?"

"I pulled the power grid data for the garage," Joey said, tapping the screen. "Heavy spikes in electricity usage between midnight and 4:00 AM over the last three nights. Arc welders, heavy machinery. Someone is working off the books."

Trent looked up at Mac. "They're chopping the ute. Scrubbing the DNA, stripping the GPS data, burning the evidence."

"Harris is already briefing Stokes," Mac said grimly. "We've got the paper trail. We've got the location. We're going in."

---

The Tactical Operations Unit briefing room smelled of gun oil, stale sweat, and adrenaline. Twenty heavily armoured officers sat in rows, their faces impassive beneath black Kevlar helmets.

Superintendent Stokes stood at the front of the room next to a digital projector displaying an overhead satellite map of Ibrahim Motors. The garage sat in the middle of a dense industrial block, flanked by a commercial laundry on the left and a halal wholesale butcher on the right.

Trent stood at the back of the room next to Harris. He was the only detective not wearing a tactical vest.

"Target is Brett Holden, thirty-two years old, primary suspect in three homicides," the TOU Commander briefed the room. "Known associate of the Southern Vanguard. Considered armed and extremely dangerous. Intelligence suggests he is currently inside the target location overseeing the destruction of a vehicle linked to the murders."

Stokes stepped forward, taking over the brief. "We hit them hard and we hit them fast. BearCat breaches the front roller door. Alpha Team floods the main floor. Bravo Team secures the rear alleyway to cut off the bolt holes. You bag Holden, you secure the vehicle, and you do not let anyone flush the hard drives."

Stokes looked over the rows of black-clad operators and locked eyes with Trent at the back of the room.

"Detective Williams," Stokes said, his voice carrying easily across the silent room.

"Sir," Trent replied.

"You are on the outer perimeter," Stokes commanded, his tone dripping with bureaucratic malice. "Two blocks away. You do not approach the target building. You do not draw your weapon. You sit in your vehicle and you listen to the radio. If you breach the perimeter, I will have you arrested for interfering with a tactical operation. Are we clear?"

Trent's jaw clenched. The urge to tell Stokes exactly where to shove his perimeter was overwhelming, but he felt Harris's heavy hand drop onto his shoulder, a silent warning.

"Crystal clear, Superintendent," Trent said evenly.

"Good. Mount up."

---

The rain had returned by the time the strike force rolled into Greenacre. It was a heavy, relentless downpour that turned the industrial estate into a miserable, grey blur.

Trent sat in the driver's seat of the unmarked Commodore, parked exactly two blocks north of Ibrahim Motors. The wipers thumped a monotonous rhythm. Mac sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. The encrypted police radio on the dash crackled with static and hushed tactical chatter.

"Alpha in position at the front. BearCat is lined up."

"Bravo holding the rear alley. No movement."

Trent gripped the steering wheel. The leather squeaked under the pressure of his hands. He hated this. He hated sitting in the dark while other men kicked the door down on his case. Liam Connor's face flashed in his mind. The zip ties. The dirt.

"Relax your hands, Trent," Mac said quietly without looking at him. "You're gonna snap the wheel off."

"I should be on the door," Trent muttered.

"You blew your chance at the door when you decided to play cowboy in Marrickville," Mac replied pragmatically. "Swallow your pride. Let the heavily armed meatheads do their job."

The radio flared.

"Control, this is Alpha Lead. Execute, execute, execute."

Even from two blocks away, Trent heard the heavy, metallic crunch of the BearCat ramming the industrial roller door. It sounded like a train derailment. A second later, the sharp, concussive CRACK of two flashbangs echoed over the rain, rolling through the wet streets like thunder.

"Alpha making entry! Moving, moving!"

"Main floor clear! Two suspects down, zip-tying now!"

"Where's Holden? Target is not on the main floor!"

"Check the back offices! Bravo, anything out back?"

"Bravo, negative. Alley is clear."

Trent frowned. The garage wasn't that big. If Holden was in there, they should have had him in handcuffs within thirty seconds.

"Alpha Lead, we have a breach! Internal wall into the adjoining property is blown open. Drywall is smashed. Suspect has rabbit-holed into the commercial laundry!"

Trent swore violently. Holden had prepped an escape route. He knew the TOU would hit the front and back of the garage, so he went sideways.

"He's in the laundry," Trent said, shifting the Commodore into gear.

"Trent, don't," Mac warned, grabbing his arm. "Stokes said perimeter."

"The perimeter just expanded," Trent snapped, shaking her off. He floored the accelerator. The Commodore surged forward, tyres slipping on the wet road before gripping hard.

He didn't drive toward the garage. He knew the layout of the block from the briefing map. If Holden was in the laundry, he would exit through their loading dock on the parallel street.

Trent drifted the car around the corner, hitting the parallel street just as a figure burst out of the laundry's loading dock.

It was Holden.

He was wearing dark tactical gear, carrying a heavy black duffel bag, sprinting through the rain with terrifying speed for a man his size. He was heading for a silver sedan parked illegally on the nature strip.

Trent slammed on the brakes, throwing the Commodore into a severe skid. The car angled across the wet road, blocking Holden's path to the sedan.

Trent kicked his door open and drew his Glock, stepping out into the driving rain.

"Police! Drop the bag, Holden!" Trent roared.

Holden stopped dead. He looked at the Commodore, then at Trent. Rain plastered the heavy tribal tattoo to his neck. He wasn't scared. He looked utterly furious.

Holden didn't drop the bag. He reached into his jacket.

Trent didn't wait to see what he was pulling. He squeezed the trigger.

Crack.

The 9mm round hit the asphalt a foot in front of Holden's boots, sending a spray of sharp gravel and water into his legs.

Holden flinched, stepping back. He looked at the gun, realizing Trent wasn't playing by the academy manual.

"Drop it, or the next one is in your knee," Trent yelled, keeping the front sight locked on Holden's centre mass.

Holden hesitated. Behind him, the sound of shouting erupted from the laundry loading dock. The TOU operators were catching up.

Holden made a calculated choice. He dropped the heavy duffel bag into the gutter. He turned, abandoning the silver sedan, and sprinted back the way he came, vaulting a low brick wall and disappearing into a maze of residential backyards before Trent could get a clean shot.

"Runner! Heading East through the residential blocks!" Trent screamed into his lapel mic.

He moved forward, keeping his weapon raised, clearing the silver sedan. It was empty. He looked over the brick wall. Holden was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the rain.

Two TOU operators burst out of the loading dock, rifles raised, sweeping the street. They saw Trent and lowered their weapons, jogging over.

"Where did he go?" one of the operators shouted over the rain.

"Over the wall," Trent said, his chest heaving. "He's in the residential yards."

"Perimeter's busted," the operator swore. He tapped his radio. "Alpha to Control. Target has breached the outer cordon. He's in the wind."

Trent slowly lowered his Glock. He looked down at the gutter.

The heavy black duffel bag was sitting in the rushing water.

Trent knelt down. He didn't have gloves on, so he used the tip of his pen to hook the zipper and pull it back.

Inside the bag were three hard drives, a stack of ledgers, and a heavy, industrial coil of black zip ties.

He had the evidence. But the monster was gone.

---

The atmosphere in the Ibrahim Motors garage an hour later was toxic.

The heavy roller door was mangled, hanging off its tracks. Inside, the space was lit by harsh halogen work lights the TOU had set up. The smell of burnt drywall, angle-grinder sparks, and stale oil hung thick in the air.

In the centre of the garage sat the FPV Pursuit ute. It was half-stripped. The tray had been removed, and the front quarter panel—the one with the dent from the CCTV footage—was lying on the floor, half-sanded down. They had hit the chop shop just in time to stop the physical destruction of the vehicle.

Trent stood near the front of the ute, staring at the exposed engine bay. He was soaked to the bone, shivering slightly in the cold air.

Superintendent Stokes marched through the mangled front door. His face was a mask of pure, contained fury. Harris was right behind him, looking grim.

Stokes walked straight up to Trent. He didn't yell. He didn't have to.

"I gave you a direct order to stay on the perimeter," Stokes said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Holden breached your cordon, Superintendent," Trent replied, refusing to back down. "Your tactical team missed the adjoining wall. If I hadn't moved to the parallel street, he would have driven off in a clean car with all the evidence."

"You fired your weapon in a residential street," Stokes hissed. "You engaged a fleeing suspect without backup. You broke protocol, you broke your orders, and the primary target escaped."

"I secured the duffel bag," Trent said, pointing to the evidence table where the forensics team was already bagging the hard drives and the zip ties. "He was taking the digital logs and the murder weapons. We have the ute. We have the connection."

"We don't have the killer!" Stokes roared, finally losing his temper. The shout echoed off the concrete walls, silencing the forensics techs. "Holden is out there. He knows we have his garage, he knows we have his vehicle, and he knows exactly who you are, Williams. You've backed a psychopathic neo-Nazi into a corner."

"Then let's find him," Harris intervened, stepping between Trent and Stokes. "Stokes, your boys secured two of Holden's lieutenants on the main floor. Take them to the cells. Lean on them. Break them. Let's process the scene and figure out where Holden ran to."

Stokes glared at Harris, then turned a disgusted look on Trent. "You're done, Williams. You are officially suspended pending an internal affairs review of your weapon discharge. Hand over your badge and your piece."

Trent froze. He looked at Harris. Harris shook his head slowly. There was nothing he could do. Stokes had the authority, and Trent had broken a direct operational order.

Trent reached into his jacket. He unclipped his badge and pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster. He cleared the chamber, locked the slide back, and placed the weapon and the leather badge wallet on the bonnet of the half-stripped ute.

"Get off my crime scene," Stokes said.

Trent didn't say a word. He turned and walked out of the garage, stepping over the mangled roller door and back out into the freezing rain.

Mac followed him out. She caught up to him on the pavement.

"Trent," she called out.

He stopped, letting the rain wash over him. He felt completely hollow.

"Go back inside, Mac," Trent said quietly. "Process the ute. Get the GPS data."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.

"I'm suspended. I'm going home."

Trent walked away, heading down the dark, wet street toward the train station. He had no car, no badge, and no gun.

But Stokes was right about one thing. Holden was backed into a corner. And cornered animals didn't just hide.

They hunted.