41.

Another thud. Plaster dust billowing. Move. Get Tilda. He ran across the hall to the closed door, pulling at the bolt. Large bedroom, blinds drawn, a camping lantern glowing on the floor. Tilda was curled on the bed, somehow still asleep despite the blasts. He scooped her up, one arm under her shoulders, another under her legs.

She stirred and smiled sleepily at him, eyes opaque. A warm hand patted his cheek. ‘Caleb.’

‘Hey, Turnip. You OK?’

She nodded, but her face slowly crumpled and she began to sob.

He lifted her against his shoulder as he ran to the door. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK, I’ve got you now.’

Her face pressed against his neck, wetting his skin with tears. Halfway across the room, a dull thump. Glass spraying, tiny shards pricking through his jacket. Fuck, the shooter must have seen his shadow. Another bang. A hole punched in the wall ahead of him.

He hurtled into the entrance hall. ‘Just a bit of noise. It’s OK. It’s all right.’

She was already settling, heavy in his arms.

Front or back? Could be people waiting outside either of them. A jolt, front door splitting. He raced down the hallway and through the laundry. A pounding rhythm – someone inside the house. He flung open the door.

Outside. No moon. Sprinting across a charcoaled landscape to the driveway, Tilda’s head on his shoulder, arms loose. He stumbled. Eyes not adjusted after the brightness. A vague shape ahead – chicken coop. Tilda lolled sideways. Had to be drugged. How fast could he run with a sleeping child? Pretty fucking fast.

Thump. Dirt sprayed in front of him.

Fuck. How had the shooter seen him in the dark? Faster. Get behind the coop then make a dash for the –

A bang.

Slicing pain.

Falling.

Twisted to land on his back. Stunned; white heat scorching his thigh. Tilda sprawled across him, unmoving. Hurt? Dead? Patting her thin back and limbs, her head. No wounds, just the steady rhythm of her breaths. He kept stroking her tangled hair, trying to slow his own breathing. Searing pain in his leg. Shot? No, front of his thigh, must be shrapnel from the chicken coop.

A light by the house. Hollywood was in the doorway, gazing at a phone, the light illuminating his sculpted cheeks. Was Imogen here? No, she’d be out shooting, too.

Hollywood fumbled with something one-handed. Loading a sawn-off shotgun.

Fear slithered through Caleb and coiled in his bowels. A weapon like that could shatter bone and shred flesh, blast right through him and into Tilda.

Get up.

Go.

Grasping Tilda, sitting upright. Raw, lancing pain. Something sharp in his thigh, length of his hand – metal. Not near an artery. Pull it out. Do it. He gripped the shard and tore it from his flesh. A fist in his mouth to stop the scream. Clammy hot cold, the night folding in on him. Jesus. Fuck. Long seconds waiting for the ground to steady itself.

Hollywood had clicked the barrel into place, was putting an earpiece in his phone.

Get behind the coop. One arm locked against Tilda, digging his good heel into the earth, pushing backwards. Faster. Dig, push, dig, push. Nerves screaming.

Hollywood flicked off the phone. Dark.

Last few pushes, Tilda heavy, slipping. Hoisting her up. And behind the shed. Solid metal and timber, a hole blasted on one side. He leaned against it, hugging Tilda to him. Had to get her to Fawkes’ car. Fifteen, twenty metres, too far with a butchered leg. Lure Hollywood away somehow. The man was just visible through the gap in the shed, white shirt pale against the shadows. Cutting across the yard towards them. Slow, cautious steps. Be still. Couldn’t see them, not with his night vision ruined by the phone.

But he kept coming. Straight line towards them. As if he knew where they were. He’d known where to shoot in the house, too. Known to come to the house.

Fawkes’ words in the pool. ‘Everything can be bugged.’

A tracker. In the alleyway outside the hospital, Hollywood must have planted one. Listening to it now, stalking him. Where? Different clothes then, different shoes.

Same hearing aids.

An image of the man standing over him, phone in his hand. Not texting – connecting to the bluetooth from his aids. Fuck, hadn’t occurred to him. Unsecured signal, open to anyone close.

He ripped them from his ears, went to throw them. No. A possible diversion, disconnect the batteries. Scrabbling at the plastic, trying to find the latch. Got it. Now the other one. Hand shaking, couldn’t feel the bump.

Hollywood only a few steps away. Coming to a stop.

Caleb threw the live aid across the yard.

The man whipped towards it. A burst of red as he fired.

A second flash and Hollywood took off, faster now, almost running. Quick, get down to the creek, chuck in the other aid. Should give them a minute or two before it shorted.

He laid Tilda gently on the grass, every instinct against it. She didn’t stir, face a pallid moon against the grass. Leave her. Go.

He hauled himself to his feet. Swooping dizziness, clutching the shed. No time – go. Stumbling down the slope towards the bank, checking behind every few steps. Jeans sodden with blood, leg giving way. Had to be halfway there, trees just ahead.

Another check over his shoulder. A flash of movement near the house – Hollywood. Moving towards the coop. Towards Tilda.

OhGodohGod. Too far to run back, too far to the creek. Yell, make a noise. He let out a strangled cry, cut it off like he’d fallen. Running, staggering. Down to the murky line of the blackberry bushes along the creek, twigs and leaves smacking his face. The smell of damp soil. Close now, close enough. Pulling the aid from his pocket, hands slick with sweat. Don’t look back, just run. The latch, where was it? There. Clicking it closed, lobbing the aid in a high arc.

Hollywood’s pale shape still running towards him.

Caleb dropped, bit back a cry as he knocked his leg. On his stomach, arm over his face, peering beneath it. Hollywood kept coming. The aid was cracked open, caught in bushes, dead.

Closer.

Almost on him.

It couldn’t end like this, not with Tilda lying alone.

Hollywood swung away. Darted through the trees, parallel to the creek.

Caleb let out a shuddering breath.

He got back to Tilda, somehow hauled her up. Across the yard and into the garage. Leg numb, dragging. The car was unlocked, key in the ignition. Could have wept. He laid Tilda in the rear footwell, eased himself into the driver’s seat.

A manual. Shit. Using a clutch with a fucked leg. He got his foot onto the pedal, pressed down. A knife in his thigh, whole body shaking. Into reverse, engine on. The car shot backwards out of the garage.

Lights on, looking over his shoulder, the driveway a thin ribbon between the towering gums. The back tyres slipped from the path. Slow it down. Nearly at the gate, tight gap between the posts.

The windscreen exploded. Crystals of glass, wind in his face. Skewing off the concrete into a tree. Head snapping back, blood in his mouth.

Hollywood was running down the middle of the driveway, raising the shotgun. Only used one barrel – another cartridge in there. Caleb threw himself behind the dashboard.

The car rocked, cloth and foam spraying from his headrest.

Go. Quick, before he could reload. Engine dead. Stalled. Jesus, fuck. Start it again. Foot numb, slipping from the pedal.

Hollywood coming closer, snapping the barrel into place. A car length away.

He stopped, shotgun raising.

Get the clutch in. Shoving from his hip, leg spasming. And in. Engine on, stomping on the accelerator. The car surged forward into Hollywood, slamming him onto the bonnet, gun flying. And down.

Car into reverse, skidding down the driveway, out the gate. A glimpse of Hollywood lying on the concrete. Dead? Injured? Didn't matter. He accelerated away. A narrow road, hills rising on both sides. Only one headlight pushing back the darkness: enough.