“I hope you like gooey stuff with your chicken,” Paul declared as he approached Fenny, who was looking decidedly pale. “What?”

“I talked to Brad,” she swallowed, hugging Troy closer to her.

“Fantastic,” Paul grinned. “You guys kiss and make up?”

She shook her head. “I think he might have gotten shot.”

“Oh,” Paul said, then realised that was hardly an appropriate thing to say to someone whose soul mate might now contain as many bullet holes as a lonely country ‘stop’ sign. “So, what makes you think he got shot?”

“They were being shot at by heavies and then, then it just went dead.”

“Oh,” he said, and again realised how lame a response it was. “Well, that’s happened with me and Genie a couple of times and she was fine,” he soothed. “Apart from the pistol whipping and nearly being killed by a large truck.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked, taking her sandwich from him, even though she wasn’t feeling particularly hungry anymore.

“I’m trying, okay,” he groused. “Would you rather I made a gag about how his little nurse should’ve been there?”

“Paul!” she gasped. “That’s so callous.”

“Well I’m not very good at situations that involve people maybe being shot through the head,” he huffed.

“Paul!” she gagged as she tried not to burst into tears at the mere thought of Brad being fatally wounded.

“Paul,” he mocked, opening up the bag that contained a rather unattractive sandwich. “Don’t worry about something that mightn’t even have happened.”

“I should have known your good mood wouldn’t last long,” Fenny hissed. “Especially when things aren’t about you any more.”

“Yeah Fen, that’s it,” he sneered. “At least, y’know, we’re rushing to the aid of the one you love.”

“Oh, and you wouldn’t be doing that with Gina, I suppose?”

“You have no idea,” Paul declared, and for once Fenny thought his voice was tinged with sadness. “Even without this shit, life isn’t all fucking roses and pixie dust.” He looked away at the window of a duty free shop and then mumbled. “Let’s just get on the fucking plane.”

“Proops, Proops,” Danny whispered as he shook Greg’s arm. Greg blearily opened his eyes and looked at Danny, who was crouching in the aisle.

“What?” he croaked, pulling his glasses from the pouch on the back of the seat in front of him.

“I’ve looked all over this plane, mate,” Danny breathed. “I can’t find Gina anywhere.”

“Maybe she’s in the bathroom?”

“Nope, one is being used by a couple of mile high regulars, another by a very ill passenger, and the others have fast moving queues. She’s not on the plane, mate!”

“Well where the hell is she then?”

“I’d go out on a limb and say she didn’t make it out of the airport. Well, not on her own, anyway,” Danny sneered, looking angrily at Greg.

“Fuck,” he breathed, closing his eyes and bouncing his head off the head rest in an attempt to hurt himself but failing miserably. “What do we do?”

“Hope we don’t run into her husband in the near future, I imagine,” Danny groused. “How am I supposed to tell the man I lost his wife?”

“Oh, I have no doubt we’re in for one large McDermott style tirade,” Greg agreed, looking past Danny for a flight attendant. He had the sudden need for the most alcoholic drink on the plane.

“You know what the most disturbing thing about all this is?” Danny sighed as Greg whistled to catch the attention of one of the attendants, who in return glared at him and continued toward first class.

“Bitch,” Greg muttered. “Sorry dude, what?”

“The most disturbing thing about this,” Danny reiterated, “is that we’re more concerned about what Paul will say than how Gina will cope with Amy?”

“Well knowing Amy like I do,” Greg jeered, “I think she’s met her match. I mean Gina’s already beaten her once.”

“Really? When?”

“In Amsterdam,” Greg declared. “When I was being held captive in that windmill.”

“Oh, where was I?” Danny grumbled, and roamed his memories for a moment. “Oh I was with Ritza and Fen.”

“Was that a bit of attitude leaking into the word ‘Fen’?” Greg teased, his mood brightening instantly.

“Maybe,” Danny groused, and stopped when he felt a tap on his bottom. He turned to see a middle aged woman in a purple tracksuit smiling at him.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing,” the woman perked. “Are you two film stars? It’s just that sounds such an inventive script. I’d love to know the name of the movie.”

“No, we’re not film stars,” Danny huffed looking at the woman like she was demented.

“Well actually…” Greg perked but stopped when Danny threw him a serious look. “It’s all true, we’re running from hit women as we speak.”

“Oh,” the woman smiled and tapped her index finger to her nose. “Never mind, your secret is safe with me.”

“Batty, totally batty,” Danny breathed and looked back at Greg. “I’m going to go back to my seat and try and think of some excuses.”

“Good idea,” Greg nodded as Danny headed back down the aisle. “Dan, buddy, couldn’t get me a drink from that kind steward, could you?” Danny shook his head and headed toward first class.

“Christ, tastes like something just crapped in my mouth,” Gina mumbled as she blearily opened her eyes. The last thing she remembered was being pounced upon and having a cloth shoved in her face. Whatever had been used to knock her out was now leaving one hell of an aftertaste. She rubbed her eyes and used it as an opportunity to glance at the two large men either side of her, crammed into the back of a black Pajero. It appeared that Amy wanted some serious back up for her capture of Gina, which was hardly surprising really, since Gina had pistol whipped her when they last met. “Hey, I need a piss.”

“So, what do you want me to do about it?” Amy sneered, looking at Gina in the rear vision mirror.

“Hold my bladder for me?” Gina sarced. “Gee, I was thinking a quick stop at a road house or a shrub would be nice.”

“I don’t do nice,” Amy hissed and put her foot down a little more on the accelerator.

“‘I don’t do nice’,” Gina mocked. “Do you get all your tough lines out of movies?”

“Why don’t you just shut your pretty little mouth, huh?” Amy groused and pulled out her pistol. “Because I sure as hell ain’t afraid to shut it for you.”

“I’m quaking, no really, I am,” Gina sighed and glanced out at the scenery. She wasn’t entirely sure how long she’d been out or where they were, but she knew exactly where they were going and she just hoped the others were competent enough to work it out. Although, she concluded that her rescue party might take a little longer to arrive than usual since they were all in fucking England.

“Can you hear that?” Amy piped up and looked at one of the men. He shook his head and she fell quiet again. “Are you sure?”

The Pajero gave a few chokes, bounced a couple of metres and then stopped dead on the dusty, dirt road in the middle of whoop whoop.

“You’re outta fuel,” Gina mused, and Amy glared at her. “Or a rabbit has been sucked into the fanbelt.” Amy unclipped her seatbelt and climbed down from the driver’s seat. The two heavies followed her, and Gina found herself abandoned in the back of the car. “You know, I think she failed kidnapping 101,” she sighed, unclipped her own belt and crept toward the door. As quietly as she could, she opened it and slid out onto the ground in a crouch. She steadied her nervous breathing and tested her ankle. It killed, but as much as it was going to leave her regretting it, and as unfit as she was, Gina was going to have to run. She stood up and surveyed the area. Her best bet was some thick scrub, and she had a fleeting thought about finding missing English tourist Peter Falconio before she took a deep breath and bolted.

“We can’t fucking shake them,” Ritza snarled as she let off another round of bullets. She was less annoyed at being shot at and more annoyed that she was out of practise and couldn’t shoot out their damn tires.

“I’m gonna have to do something drastic,” Beven hissed as a bullet narrowly missed his foot.

“How drastic?” Ritza asked, holding onto the large man tightly. “I’d like to keep all my limbs if that’s possible.”

“You don’t wanna know,” Beven breathed as he turned at a sign that read ‘Skegness’ and began weaving through the tiny, narrow streets.

“Are we dead yet?” Brad yelled from somewhere deep in the sidecar.

“No, sweet stuff, but listen up, both of you,” Beven ordered. “Do everything I say, okay?”

“Of course,” Ritza nodded and quickly fired off another round.

“Oh yeah, because that’s always worked for me in the past!” Brad spat. “I’ll get ready for the life altering trauma and injuries now, shall I?”

“Don’t be such a fucking girl,” Beven growled rather frighteningly as the town gave way to a cobblestone beach and brisk sea air. He continued pushing the bike as fast as he could, turning swiftly to an abandoned pier.

“Beven, what the hell are you playing at?” Brad shrieked sitting up.

“Grab the bags, sweet stuff,” Beven ordered and ripped off his helmet. He lobbed it into the water and Ritza quickly did the same. “Get ready, beautiful,” he added, glancing quickly at Ritza. She felt herself blush and realised that driving full speed off a pier was no time to get all girlie.

“Oh my god, I’m going to die,” Brad swallowed, pulling off his helmet and throwing both Ritza and Beven’s backpacks over his shoulders.

“Get ready,” Beven ordered as the end of the pier raced toward them. Brad’s heart leapt into his throat and time seemed to slow as the front wheel of the bike left the wooden surface below it. “JUMP!” came the yell and all three leapt from the bike into the freezing water. Before Brad had a chance to even catch his breath and shake the water from his ears, Beven dragged him under the pier and they watched the car that’d been following them plummet into the water.

“Jesus,” Brad breathed, wrapping himself around a pylon.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Ritza gasped, wrapping her arms around Beven’s neck to stop herself floating away.

“Saw it in a movie once,” Beven mused, looking mildly chuffed.

“YOU SAW IT IN A MOVIE!” Brad screamed. “WE COULD HAVE BEEN FUCKING KILLED!”

“Chill, man,” Beven smiled and Ritza felt her heart flutter and then cursed herself again for ill-timed girliness. “Come on, let’s get outta here before they learn how to swim.”

“I hate you,” Brad huffed and swam uncomfortably after Beven with the bags and the nasty feeling his tights were going to make him chafe.

“Are you okay?” Fenny asked, looking at Paul who hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten on the plane.

“No,” Paul replied bluntly.

“Do you want to talk about it.”

“Not really.”

“Right,” Fenny nodded, feeling slightly narked that Paul had decided to have mood swings when she was stuck with him. “Well can we talk about something?”

“Like?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and toying with his empty beer can.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “How was the Festival?”

“What festival?”

“The comedy festival you just performed in?”

“It was all right,” he shrugged. “Got loads of praise, The Age gave us an award, did some charity shit, the usual.”

“I guess Gina not being there kinda dampened your enthusiasm, huh?”

“It didn’t help.”

“There’s something else?”

“How’s life been without Brad?” he asked, not wanting to go any further into that conversation with Fenny.

“That was subtle,” she jeered and then sighed. “Generally lonely, depressing and heart-breaking. Especially when you see him snogging the face off his new woman in the Wal-Mart parking lot.”

“She’s just a rebound chick,” he soothed, but still looked miserable.

“Pauly,” she breathed, and squeezed his hand. He looked at her slightly bemused. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head or what’s making you a miserable bastard, but if we’re going to be running from psychos together, you’re going to have to put on a happy face.”

His face instantly broke out into a smile. “Okay, no more moods,” he agreed. “I’ll be happy Paul just for you.”

“I’d rather have Paul the comedian because this flight is already tedious,” she smiled back, still holding his hand.

“On one condition.” He grinned mischievously, and Fenny felt herself relax. The look meant Paul was back to normal &emdash; for the time being &emdash; as they were in serious trouble if she had to keep being the strong one.

“What condition?” she asked hesitantly.

He sniggered. “You have to pash that steward over there.” He pointed to a blonde steward who was looking in their direction. He and Fenny briefly made eye contact, and he blushed and looked away.

“What the hell for?”

“Because he’s been checking you out since we boarded.”

“I’m a married…” Fenny caught the look on innocence on Paul’s face and sighed. “Oh, okay,” she sighed, and got to her feet.

“I want to see tongues,” Paul ordered and got himself comfortable, a grin plastered across his face.

Fenny shook her head at him and then marched up the aisle to where the steward was pretending to be busy neatening the curtain that separated first and economy class. He looked slightly shocked as Fenny approached. She stopped and smiled sweetly.

“Can I help you, miss?” asked the steward, who was ironically named Stuart if his badge was to be believed.

‘Here goes,’ Fenny thought. “Actually, I think you can,” she announced. She stepped forward, pushed him up against the emergency door, and pressed her lips against his. Stuart didn’t hesitate; he didn’t get many offers on long haul flights because everyone assumed he was gay. So, he kissed her back, and Fenny was pleased to find he tasted minty fresh and was actually a rather nice kisser. If the faint sounds of ‘oh god’ hadn’t been coming from the nearest toilet cubicle, she might have taken him in there herself. She pulled away, breathless and looked at Stuart who was flushed. “Thanks, that was very helpful.” She mumbled as she headed back to her seat to a rather large round of applause from the bored passengers.

“Yeah,” Paul yelped like a rock star “You little vixen.”

“Actually he was a very good kisser,” Fenny mused. “If you don’t entertain me, I might go find him again.”

“That might be a while, he’s got one serious hard on to get rid of first.”

“Oh!” Fenny gasped blushing bright red, her hand shooting to her mouth as Paul mimed the tent in poor Stuart’s Qantas-issue, navy steward slacks.

ina was breathing heavily, a stitch ached in her side, and her ankle throbbed as she ran blindly into the thickening scrub. She’d heard a yell of ‘she’s getting away,’ but hadn’t stopped to look until now. She glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but scrub. Then the world went black and she fell to the solid, arid ground and felt pain shoot through her ankle.

“Fuck me, you okay?” said a rather startled voice, and Gina looked up from rubbing her ankle to see a grinning Aboriginal man. He was sporting a pair of jeans that’d been cut roughly into shorts and a grotty singlet, and he was carrying a rifle. He was very, very dark, and Gina suddenly felt very intimidated.

“Not really, no,” she swallowed. “I’m kinda being stalked by mad people.”

“Mad people?”

“Americans.”

“Ah,” nodded the man as if that explained everything. “What you doing all the way out here?”

“I was kidnapped,” she explained, realising how lame that sounded. She tried to get to her feet, but let out a yelp and the man stepped forward to help her.

“Here, I recognise you.” He smiled again, his dark skin making his teeth look freakishly white. “You’re that newsreader lady, Gina Coleman.”

“Oh, I haven’t been that for a while,” she smiled, thanking God for regional television.

“I was pissed when they replaced you,” the man continued. “That new woman is terrible, and what’s with that bloody weather girl? That’s who they should sack, she wouldn’t know a thunderstorm if it flew up her undies.”

Gina smiled giddily at the man. If she never met Paul again and was forced to start a new life in the bush she was going to marry this mysterious stranger and have his children. “I couldn’t agree more.”

A cry of ‘she can’t be far’ resonated from somewhere in the scrub and Gina visibly stiffened. She had no desire to run any further.

“Come on,” the man breathed, looking angrily in the direction of the voices. “Can you walk?”

“Not without wanting to saw off my foot,” Gina winced and found herself quickly swept into the man’s arms. She felt the sudden desire to inform him that although he was carrying her to safety, she no way thought it should be deemed a form of slavery. It took seconds for them to enter a clearing where the man’s dusty old Ute was parked. He hadn’t bothered to lock it, and dumped Gina on the passenger seat before he clambered into the driver’s side and kicked the engine into gear. As they took off down a non-existent road, Gina let out a sigh of relief and then remembered she was in the middle of nowhere in the car of a strange man and that’s how a lot of people ended up in shallow graves.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Sorry, you never told me your name.”

“It’s Wazza,” smiled the man. “And I’m glad to be of service.”

“Nice to meet you Waz, and since we’ve established why I was out there, care to tell me why you were stalking about the place with a gun?”

“Shooting feral cats,” Wazza declared. “Mum’s planning a roast.”

“Y’what?” she gasped, looking mortified and imagining Lewis on a spit.

“Kidding,” Wazza laughed. “You white fellas are so gullible.”

“I dunno, we managed to turn your lot into a minority, which is quite a skill,” she countered and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Well we did.”

“This is not turning out to be a very fun experience,” Brad groused as he followed Ritza and Beven up the stairs at the back of a small pub they’d rented rooms in.

“Yeah, kidnapping isn’t usually something that’s filled with happy memories, man,” Beven mused. “Am I the only one that got a rush from that?”

“Yes,” Brad pouted and Ritza shook her head.

“You’ve got the spine of a jellyfish, Sherwood,” she sighed, stopping at the first room and unlocking the door. “So, who’s sleeping where?”

“I figured me and sweet stuff would share,” Beven shrugged, looking nonplussed.

“You don’t have to, I mean if you share with me then we can plan more for tomorrow.”

Brad looked at Ritza like she’d gone mad, and she looked back at him with an almost pleading look. He glanced from Beven, who looked slightly nervous, to Ritza, who appeared to be on the verge of throwing herself at his feet and begging a couple of times, and then the penny dropped. Dear god, they fancied each other, and it was almost cringe worthy. Big, blokey Beven and the lost Charlie’s Angel Ritza: it was a match made in criminal heaven.

“I think someone should probably stay with sweet stuff,” Beven announced somewhat lamely. Ritza looked at Brad.

“Well, he’s got a…” She stamped heavily on Brad’s foot. “Jesus, no, shit, I’ll be fine, you two share.” He snatched the other set of keys from Beven’s hand and unlocked the room behind him. Beven and Ritza watched him limp in the door. “You have fun now, kids,” he mumbled and slammed the door.

“Well, looks like it’s just you and me then,” Ritza smiled and led the way into the room.

“Right,” Beven agreed somewhat hesitantly and followed her into the room. He closed the door behind himself and joined her in standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room. “We should probably get out wet things off,” he suggested.

“Of course,” Ritza nodded. “I’ll see if there’s towels in the ensuite,” she added and scurried out of the room. There were two white towels hanging on a rusty looking towel rack. She grabbed them and sauntered back out of the room, pausing to watch as Beven removed his shirt, smelt it and then draped it over a chair. She padded across the room quietly as he stood checking out a scrape on his stomach he’d received when jumping from the bike. She dropped the towels on the bed, her eyes transfixed on the muscles rippling across his back. She gingerly stepped forward and lifted her hand to touch a tattoo on his shoulder.

“Jesus,” he gasped, turning at the same time and getting the fright of his life. “What you doing sneaking up on me?”

“Sorry,” she swallowed. “I was looking at one of your tatts.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Do me a favour. Can you pass me one of those towels?”

“Sure,” she nodded and reached over the bed. He cocked his head to the side and quite blatantly ogled her bottom. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring the fine material of your pants,” Beven said coyly as she passed him a towel.

“Liar,” Ritza countered and slowly removed her shirt, which she hung over the same chair as his.

“You’re right, I am,” he agreed and stepped forward. “But this is neither the time nor place to prove otherwise,” he added and Ritza felt herself melt inside. She wanted desperately to be wrapped in his large muscular arms and be engulfed in what sure to be an amazing kiss, even if he had just turned her down.

“You’re a crazy man, Duggan,” she cooed, moving forward to press herself against him. She wanted him then and there, and she wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“And you’re a sexy woman, Crispin, but I ain’t doing anything more than talking tactics with you,” Beven smiled and pressed his lips softly against her forehead. “Now get dry.”

Ritza let out a little frustrated scream as she watched him saunter off to the ensuite. He was doing things to her hormones that she didn’t think single mothers were allowed to experience, but he was also a gentlemen and a professional, and she knew it would be wrong to push it further. She sighed and reluctantly started to remove the rest of her wet things.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Danny chided as he sauntered to the end of the queue for the toilets behind Greg.

“I’m just hoping the guy in there now hasn’t been eating Mexican,” Greg sighed, sounding as bored and Danny was.

“Why can’t bodily functions have nice smells,” Danny mused and then winced. “Sorry, don’t know why I said that.”

“I’m just going to move away from you now,” Greg sneered and moved a little to the side.

“Where do you think Amy will take Gina?” Danny asked, needing to talk about his dear friend whom he’d managed to lose, and having nothing better to do.

“Are there windmills in Australia?” Greg queried. “Oh wait, you have big things, right? Maybe the Big Pineapple or something.”

“You’re a fuckwit,” Danny groused as the cubicle door opened a man gingerly stepped out. He shuffled off and Greg made his move. Before he could shut the door, Danny pushed him in and locked the door behind them both. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what, you sick fuck?” Greg shrieked, having no desire to pee in front of Danny.

“Where Amy is gonna take Gina.”

“Where?”

“Gina.”

“No, that’s who.”

“No, that’s where!”

“What?”

“You, Paul and Brad were all taken to places that related to your names right? So, Gina has got to be take to a place called Gina.”

“And where might that be, Einstein?”

“I have no idea,” Danny said proudly. “Oh wait, yes I do. When we were looking for you guys we looked up our own names just in case.”

“And?”

“It’s in South Australia.”

“Oh that helps,” Greg sarced. “Then why the hell are we going to ENGLAND?”

“Minor technicality,” Danny shrugged. “We were already on our way when we worked that one out.”

“I knew we should have waited for her, I just knew it.”

“Yeah well, we fucked up,” Danny shrugged. “It happens.”

“I think you’ll find you fucked up.”

“Why, because you had a premonition that between peeing and boarding she was gonna get kidnapped?”

“It’s not so ridiculous,” Greg pouted, starting to feel claustrophobic in the tiny cubicle.

“The thing is, now we’ve got to get back to bloody Australia ASAP,” Danny huffed. “Another fucking 24 hour flight.”

Greg and Danny both shared a despondent look as someone knocked loudly at the door. “CAN YOU TWO PLEASE STOP CAVORTING IN THE LAVATORY!”

Danny opened the door and looked at the skinny steward who was so painfully homosexual. “Listen sweetie, me and pookums don’t get a lot of time together, we’re just having a few seconds of us time, okay,” he announced in a voice so camp Greg was made speechless, and then shut the door again. “Anyway I think we should…” Danny paused as there was a knock on the door again, he unlocked it and poked his head out.

The steward was smiling inanely. “Honey, if you ever get tired of grandad in there, call me.” Danny let out a squeak and closed the door again.

“I’d be upset if you cheated on me,” Greg jeered. “Want me to go out there and bitch slap him?”

“Oh get stuffed,” Danny huffed and crossed his arms sulkily.