Sergeant Smith had originally planned to jot down a brief report and place a routine call to the local office in the neighbouring town about the tip he'd just received from a man named James. But something about the guy's voice—tight with fear and frustration—had settled wrong in the Sergeant's gut. Maybe it was just instinct, or maybe it was that subtle edge of desperation when James mentioned a woman named Lily.

He rubbed his chin and stared at the blinking cursor on his monitor. No harm in digging a little deeper.

First, he ran a quick query through the internal database for the area around the address James had given. The results caught him off guard.

There were a lot more incident reports than he expected for a quiet rural zone. Minor complaints, sure, but they piled up oddly. One flagged note stood out: Two individuals spotted wearing ghillie suits, creeping around town, startling visitors and causing a few minor car accidents.

No arrest. No citation. Not even a resolution in the report. Just: Ongoing. No further action taken.

"Huh," Smith muttered under his breath.

He leaned forward and opened up a name search. Tarni Walker, the bloke James had mentioned. More hits. Minor offences, public nuisance charges, one assault that had been downgraded to "accidental contact," and a strange comment about him being "banned indefinitely" from the local pub—without any accompanying documentation.

"What the bloody hell is going on out there?"

He turned his attention to the property itself. A quick look through logistics and infrastructure reports pulled up an unusual delivery: a large excavator. Delivered only a couple of days ago.

Sergeant Smith's brows furrowed. A machine like that wasn't cheap to hire—and even less so to deliver out that far. And what would a small private property need with that sort of equipment?

His trained instincts kicked in. A large machine like that? It'd be perfect for digging deep. Or burying something. Or someone.

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He reined himself in, pushing the more morbid thoughts aside. It was all circumstantial. Still, his gut hadn't steered him wrong in over fifteen years on the job.

He found the number for the local machinery hire company and left a message with the front desk to speak with the delivery driver. It took longer than he liked to get a response, but just as he was starting to think about calling again, the phone on his desk rang.

Smith snatched it up. "Sergeant Smith speaking."

The voice on the other end came fast and nervous. "Hi, this is Dave? The boss told me to call this number to speak to Sergeant Smith?"

"Speaking," Smith said calmly, professional tone back in place. "Thanks for calling, Dave. I just have a few questions about a recent delivery you made—to a Mr. Rider."

A long pause. Then: "Yes... I remember that delivery."

There was something in Dave's voice that made the Sergeant sit up straighter. He wasn't just nervous. He was conflicted.

"Was there anything unusual about the property? Anything that stood out?" Smith asked evenly.

Dave hesitated again. "Uh… not really. Just… um… they had some fencing down and… uh… you know, rural stuff."

The Sergeant narrowed his eyes. "Dave," he said, voice firmer, "I want to be very clear here. I've received a report of potential criminal activity at that property. Including violence and suspicious behaviour. If there's something you saw—anything—you need to tell me. This could be serious."

There was a long silence. Then a slow exhale from the other end of the line.

"…Alright. Look. They gave me a tip—big one—for dropping off the excavator fast. Even though they had already paid extra for fast delivery," after taking a deep breath, he spilled everything.

The fact that they broke their own gate with a smile and a laugh. The fact they'd cut the stairs off the house and replaced them with a metal ladder bolted to the side. Some kind of barricade made out of tin and oil drums, angled like traps. He saw one of them with a machete strapped to their waist. And then there was Mr. Rider—hauling fifty-kilo bags of cement around like they were pillows.

Dave's voice trembled slightly as he recounted it all.

"It didn't feel right, mate. I've done deliveries out there for years—rural blokes, some quirky, some rough—but this? This was something else. Like they were getting ready for a siege."

Sergeant Smith let out a slow breath. "Thank you, Dave. That's very helpful."

He jotted everything down, feeling the shape of something larger beginning to take form. Something far more complex than a squatter's drug farm or a paranoid survivalist.

And with every word Dave said, the Riders and this Tarni fellow were looking less like odd locals—and more like people preparing to defend themselves.

Smith leaned back in his chair, staring at the growing list of details on his screen.

He wasn't sure what he was looking at yet. But he knew one thing for sure. It was time to pay that property a visit.

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