A giant hand thrust him back down again. ‘The sonics are loosening the already loose rock. Setting off rockfalls. Shit. They’re coming this way. Stay here.’

Anders began to edge away.

Matthew tried to see around him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To intercept them. Stay down. Back in a minute.’

‘Wait.’

Too late. Anders too had disappeared into the night. Matthew suddenly felt very much alone.

At least some of the illegals were armed with conventional weapons. Gunshots cracked in the night. With no one to tell him not to, Matthew wriggled around a rock for a better view and as he did so, two or three rag-clad figures emerged only yards away, scrabbling frantically for purchase among all the loose shale and heading in his direction.

He crouched even lower and fumbled for his liquid string – that little known and completely useless protection against armour-piercing bullets.

The leading figure reared up in front of him, climbing fast, dislodging rocks and shale as he came and panting hard in the dark. Not attacking, decided Matthew. Running away. He should do something. But what? Delay them. Delay them long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Taking a firm grip on his liquid string, he jumped out from behind his rock, pointed and squirted.

Thick yellow tendrils wrapped themselves around the figure’s legs, bringing him down with a crash that dislodged half the mountain. An avalanche of loose shale cascaded down with him, causing Matthew to stagger, and half-burying the illegal. His two companions, following closely behind, lost their own footing and fell over the top of him. Unexpectedly, all three of them were on the ground. Right in front of him. He had a chance to delay them. To prevent their escape.

Heart racing, he clambered to his feet and pointed and squirted for dear life. There wouldn’t be sufficient string to immobilise all three of them, but if he could just slow them down until Anders came back . . .

One of the illegals must somehow have got an arm free because Matthew suddenly found himself staring at a silver-grey handgun, glinting in the starlight and pointing directly at him. He froze.

The violence in his life had always been up close and personal. Fists. Boots. Sticks. This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to hurt him, but this was his first gun.