All Chapters of S.A.S.: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Warehouse District — 23:42The gunfire tapered off by degrees—first the wild, panicked volleys, then the disciplined bursts, until the only sounds left were the crackle of a burning pallet, a forklift’s dying beep, and the soft, stunned breath of men who had not yet realized they were still alive.Jack signaled a halt with two fingers and a closed fist. The squad compressed instinctively, boots whispering in ash. He did a slow three-sixty: catwalks skeletal against the blown-out skylights, gantry ladders dangling from twisted bolts, a snow of fiberglass drifting like dirty confetti through the fluorescent strobe.“Status,” he said, voice low.“East catwalk clear,” Ty reported from above, breath hitching as he crawled to the rail. “Two down, one gone to ground.”“Loading bay secure,” Lisa replied, already moving, weapon high, a cheap cigarette tucked behind her ear like a talisman she hadn’t earned yet tonight. “Three in flex cuffs. Four in chalk outlines.”“Ambulance staging two block

It was a cool summer night when Jack reached the steps of the Powerhouse. The river breeze followed him up the concrete incline, carrying the distant thrum of bass and laughter.The moment he stepped inside, the music hit him—a wall of rhythm and energy that pulsed through the red-brick shell like a living heartbeat.The Powerhouse—once a rusted-out industrial relic, now Brisbane’s crown jewel of riverside nightlife—throbbed with life. Floodlights bathed the walls in deep purples and electric blues. Inside, the old turbine hall had been transformed into something wild and elegant.Spotlights wheeled overhead. Laughter ricocheted off concrete pillars. Tactical uniforms mixed with cocktail dresses and half-undone ties. It was chaos, sharpened by class—and just a hint of desperation.Jack paused just inside the entrance, taking it all in. No rifles. No briefings. No whispered intel. It felt foreign. Disorienting.He moved through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces—some drunk, others ri

Cemetery — DuskThe afternoon sun filtered through a grey veil of cloud as mourners stood in solemn rows among the graves of the fallen. The crack of the twenty-gun salute still echoed in the silence—sharp and final, like the last breath of the men they honoured.Police officers stood at attention, their uniforms crisp, their eyes glassy with unspoken grief.Jack stood among them, beside his daughter, Alicia, and his ex-wife, Heidi. His face was still, but every muscle in his body ached with sorrow. He shook hands with each of the weeping families, the grief in their eyes mirrored in his own. Mothers, fathers, children—lives torn apart.He said the right words to people for whom no words existed. He took blame they did not ask him to take. He remembered birthdays, in-jokes, and the tiny, stupid things that made each of the fallen distinct from a line of black bags and a set of case files. When the last hand left his, he stood looking at the six fresh rectangles of turned earth and fel

Dust swirled around the tires of Jack’s silver Porsche as it rolled into the open bay of a country garage. The midday sun beat down on corrugated iron and grease-stained concrete. A battered sign above the roller door read: BRUNO’S AUTO & REPAIR.Jack killed the engine and stepped out, giving the place a once-over—an organized chaos of tools, oil drums, and half-rebuilt engines. The air smelled of petrol, rust, and the kind of sweat that came from honest work.Inside, a teenage boy with thick black hair lounged behind the counter, earbuds dangling from his collar. He was nose-deep in a battered copy of Playboy, completely oblivious to the world.Jack cleared his throat.“Excuse me.”The kid jolted upright, the magazine slipping from his fingers like it was on fire.“Oh—uh—hi! What can I do for you?” he stammered, cheeks flushed.“I’m looking for Bruno.”The boy—his name tag read ALEX—nodded hurriedly and scurried toward the open workshop, his voice cracking as he shouted:“Hey, Bruno!

Gale Thorne sat at her desk in ASIO headquarters, flipping through the next file with a tired frown. PAUL RUBENS. Age: 36. Specialty: Technology.The photo showed a mop of messy brown hair, thick glasses, and a grin that looked equal parts genius and basement-dwelling geek. Gale sipped her tea and muttered, “Typical.”Jack’s Porsche pulled into a quiet suburban cul-de-sac, the silver hood gleaming in the afternoon sun. The weatherboard house in front of them looked picture-perfect—neat hedges, a picket fence, and a garden so precisely trimmed it felt like an exhibit. A ceramic kookaburra watched from a post like a judge in a robe.Bruno let out a low whistle. “Damn. Nice digs.”Wolfgang checked the address on his phone. “This is the place.”Jack raised an eyebrow. “Pauly lives here?”Wolfgang grinned. “Don’t sound so surprised.”They stepped out and headed up the tidy garden path. A hose snaked across the lawn in perfect loops. A wind chime tinkled—a cheerful, slightly deranged sou