They pulled into the airstrip and were directed to a plane on the runway. Sam parked and got out, coming around to hug him and slap his back. “Take care, mate. Keep me up to date.”
Brandon nodded. He grabbed his bag from the back and strode across the tarmac, greeting the airman at the base of the plane. Not long after, he was in the air on his way home for the first time in twelve years.
He stared at the floor in front of him. Home. Memories stampeded him; barrel racing at gymkhanas, playing pranks on his brothers, taking Georgie across to the bay so she could swim. Every moment revolved around the family he’d destroyed, the ones he’d failed. He’d only seen his niece, Lara once, but she had to be ten by now. He’d failed to be there for Darcy.
How would they react seeing him again?
The plane landed just after ten. “You got someone to pick you up?” the officer in charge of the flight asked.
“I’ll sort something out.” He wasn’t calling and waking his brother. The station ran on daylight hours which meant they were usually in bed early to be up with the sun. Besides, his family had already had a shit day and the station was a good hour’s drive away. He’d walk over to the public airport and hire a car. Then he’d have his own wheels and could leave whenever he wanted. They wouldn’t want him staying past the funeral anyway.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked with the other men across to the hangar. Several uniformed officers were inside but it was the man leaning against one of the walls, dressed in jeans and a blue checked shirt who caught Brandon’s attention. Despite the fact that the sun had long since gone to bed, a brown Akubra shaded his face. Shit.
Darcy had grown up. He was no longer the lanky teenager who had been by his side through all their adventures, always the one to add a little caution to their plans.
The man pushed himself off the wall and strode over, his forehead furrowed, eyes narrowed, and a glare so bright it would give away his position on a battle field. This reunion would be as bad as Brandon had expected.
“Darcy.” He nodded a greeting at his younger brother. Two years his junior, he stood a good two inches taller than Brandon.
Darcy’s blue-grey eyes darkened. “Couldn’t be bothered to return my call?”
“Figured I’d see you soon enough.” The whites of Darcy’s eyes were bloodshot, evidence of crying. Brandon’s heart pulled. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Your lieutenant colonel called me back, said you were hopping an air force plane.”
What could he say to the man who used to be his best friend, but who he hadn’t seen in the twelve years since he’d joined the military? How could he convey the devastation hammering away in the part of his brain where he’d locked it? “You got a car?”
Incredulity swept across Darcy’s face. He shut it down. “This way.”
Brandon waved to the officer and followed his brother out of the hangar into the warm night air. This far north and this close to the coast, it never got too cold. Such a contrast with the city.
As they exited the air force base Darcy drove away from town, the darkness of the night swallowing them immediately. Only the high beam spotlights illuminated the road, giving them early warning of kangaroos, emus or feral goats.
Brandon swallowed the lump in his throat. “Where’d it happen?”
Darcy glanced at him. “Hangman’s Bend.”
The only real bend in an otherwise straight road. Legend had it that sailors on the Retribution had mutinied when their ship was wrecked in the bay and the mutineers had eventually been hung from a tree in the area.
So not on the station. “What happened?”
Darcy sniffed and cleared his throat. Brandon didn’t dare look at him. If he saw tears in his brother’s eyes, he’d be a goner. “They were taking the day off. Georgie had arranged for them to go out on her boat, do a whale shark tour, so it was pretty early in the morning. When they didn’t show at eight, she called to make sure they hadn’t forgotten.”
His mother never forgot a thing.
“They’d left plenty early enough. You know mum never likes… liked to be late to anything.”
Brandon bit his cheek at the past tense and tapped his finger on his leg.
“I jumped in the ute and found the car on its roof. They were already dead.”
Fuck. “Jesus, Darce, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.” The word was a bullet. “You don’t get to say sorry. You haven’t given a fuck about this family for years.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? When was the last time you visited? When did you last talk Georgie down from one of her crazy ideas? When did you last chat to Dad about the station and how it was doing? When did you sit and have a cuppa with Mum?”
