Behind a thigh-high bush, squatting on one knee, Bourke had held the detective in his sights from the moment he had left the vehicle. The cop’s words were inaudible in the wind, so powerful it was impossible to hold the bow steady. Water was pouring into his eyes off his slicker, forcing him to blink constantly. He was aiming for the thigh but as he released the arrow the target suddenly moved left. The policeman took cover. The angle was tight in normal conditions let alone this tempest. The man yelled out again. Bourke thought he heard his name, Peter, but couldn’t be sure. He could guess the man was urging him to give up.
Peter was desperate to get away and live the life of which he had the briefest taste, yet how could he? The storm was backing off but even had he found a small dinghy it could not survive the ocean. They would be looking for him at every airport. He had no money, no false papers.
The policeman suddenly broke cover and ran towards him. This was not how it should be. He loosed an arrow and, though it could not actually be possible in the bedlam, he fancied he heard the thud as it struck its target. The policeman half-ran, half-staggered to a thicket before sprawling into ankle-deep water, where he lay still.