The whole thing was a case of bad luck. In Brisbane, no one crossed the Agrioli family. They were a protected species and Harris knew it. But the Agriolis had a new recruit, a cousin fresh out of the clink, and Harris didn’t know him. He should have. The fat prick looked just like the rest of them.

If only he’d had his head together.

It didn’t turn out that way.

The new Agrioli guy, Roberto, decided to lay a hand to one of the working girls. They were all in the Roxy and Harris caught a glimpse of it. He knew the girl, some kid from Dalby, barely out of her teens. Harris didn’t see how it started but it ended with Roberto screaming in her face. He had her backed over a pool table, his huge hand wrapped around her throat. It was a bad scene. Tears poured out of the girl while all the dumb fucks watched on, drinks in hand.

Harris moved fast. His first blow caught Roberto in the side, opening him up. He took a handful of the man’s scalp and hit him hard in the center. That’s all it took. Roberto went over, splitting his head on the way down. The last clear thing Harris remembered was the spray of blood hitting his shirt, then something heavy slammed in from behind.

He came to in a squad car.

“Where are we?”

The beat cop in the passenger seat didn’t even turn around.

“Thisdickhead has nine lives,” he said.

The driver laughed.

“Eight now.”