Chapter 6

Early Friday afternoon, Roy’s cellphone sounded.

“Sonia – what’s up?”

“I’ve had a tip-off, Roy. One of the boy-racer hangers-on, who’s finally become fed up with their antics and wants out. He’s scared to just walk away, though, because of what they might do to him.”

“Good on him for at least doing this much. What’s he told you?”

“There’s going to be a rumble tonight in Avonhead — Strathean Avenue.”

“Strathean? I don’t know that one.”

“Runs between Avonhead and Withells Road. Pure suburbia, with a lot of well-to-do properties.”

“Right — I know the general area. Sounds like it’ll fit well with our plan. Have you been able to persuade the police to hold fire for a bit?”

“They’re a bit itsy. The best they can offer is to wait ten minutes after getting calls from the public, then they’ll have to move in.”

“Hopefully that’ll be enough. I gather these guys don’t usually start kicking up until after dark — say ten o’clock?”

“About then.”

“Good. Gives us time to set up. Are you okay with going and knocking on doors up and down the street, to give the residents a heads-up?”

“No problem. I’ll have a cameraman with me — he can help, but I’ll make sure he stays well out of sight until after the action begins.”

“Good one, Sonia. I’ll start moving my guys into place. See you at the bun fight.”

“Roy...” Sonia’s voice caught him mid-hang-up. “Please take care.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll work out. Cheers.”

Despite his assurances, Sonia wasn’t convinced. As she stared at her blank phone screen, a strange tightness lingered in her chest. For some reason, this was more important than she could put her finger on.

As soon as he’d rung off, Roy began making rapid calls to the crew he’d prepped over the past few days. To a man, they were thrilled to be finally on the move, hungry for the showdown.

As dusk settled just after nine, a convoy of heavy vehicles began converging on the streets surrounding Strathean Avenue. There were front-end loaders, tracked diggers, a couple of quarry rock haulers — and, at the rear, one particularly large forklift.

The avenue itself was kept clear. Residents had either tucked their cars into garages or moved them to neighbouring streets after Sonia’s door-knock campaign. The heavy machines were hidden in side streets or parked just off the feeder roads at either end of the avenue. From the second-storey window of a house with a perfect view of the street, Roy surveyed the scene, RT in hand, his team listening in.

Now came the wait.

He admitted to himself he was on tenterhooks. The die was cast — it was too late to pull back now — but for all their planning, the outcome was far from certain. What if the tip-off had been a setup? What if the racers never showed?

Ten o’clock came and went. The street remained quiet, apart from the occasional dog barking in the distance. At 10:15, still nothing. Roy paced. Then stopped. Then paced again.

What if they’d picked the wrong night? Or the wrong street? Or what if Sonia’s informant had fed them a decoy? Was he about to wind up with egg on his face — or worse, the whole plan splashed all over the evening news as a foolish stunt? He took a long breath and forced himself to check in with each of the convoy drivers — partly for their sakes, mostly to settle his nerves. The guys were calm. They trusted the plan. Their calm steadied him.

And then — a low rumble. Faint at first. Then unmistakable. Engines. Many. Fast.

Roy’s grip tightened on the RT. “This is it. Get ready.”

The noise exploded as a wave of cars burst into Strathean Avenue, roaring, spinning, engines howling. Headlights flicked on and off in chaotic bursts. The boy racers had arrived in full force, their usual circus of burnouts, wheelies, and roared defiance unleashed on the sleepy suburb.

“Go!” barked Roy.

A dozen heavy engines growled into life. With lights still off, the convoy rolled into motion — a slow, silent advance from four directions. They moved like great beasts stalking prey. There was just enough starlight to guide them. Then, at Roy’s next word, the street was filled with blinding white beams — high-powered searchlights on the big machines aimed squarely at driver height.

The effect was instant. Many of the boy racers swerved or braked wildly, struggling to keep control. Confused, dazzled, and suddenly boxed in, panic rippled through their ranks.

The heavy machines held their formation, moving inexorably inward. Like a slow-closing fist.

Some of the racers tried to escape — swerving up on kerbs, reversing into driveways — but the exits were sealed. Vehicles blocked every path. One young hoon tried to thread a gap — only for the forklift, silent until now, to roll forward and lift the car’s front wheels clean off the ground. It hung there helpless, wheels spinning.

From above, Roy watched as the racers’ formation collapsed. Dozens of cars were corralled into the centre of the street, horns blaring, drivers shouting, metal screeching. Doors jammed. Bumpers crunched. Tyres burned. The convoy pressed closer, herding them in.

Then, at the perfect moment — “Disengage!” came Roy’s call.

The heavy vehicles peeled away, reversing with well-rehearsed coordination. Within seconds, they’d melted back into the shadows, dispersing as quickly as they had arrived.

A beat. Then sirens. Loud. Multiplying. Six police cars screamed into Strathean Avenue, lights blazing — only to halt, stunned, at the sight before them: a twisted sculpture of metal, rubber and exhaust fumes. A pile-up with no clear explanation.

From his perch, Roy smiled.

“Well done, guys,” he called over the RT, laughter breaking out in his earpiece. “Mission accomplished. You were all magnificent.”

Ten minutes later, Roy walked slowly down the street, past dazed racers sitting on kerbs under police supervision, past angry officers barking into radios. He kept to the shadows, unnoticed.

And then — Sonia. She stepped out from a hedge near one of the houses, cameraman in tow, who was already capturing the aftermath. They looked at each other for a moment. Neither spoke.

Then Sonia gave a quiet shake of her head, half a laugh, half disbelief. “You actually did it.”

Roy gave a tired grin. “We did it.”

They stood for a moment longer, side by side, surveying the street.

Then she said, more softly, “It was risky, you know.”

“I know.”