‘You’re fourteen,’ Kirsten said. She seemed about to add something like, you don’t know what you want, but instead she took the last step forward and wrapped her arms tightly round his back. ‘I just … Don’t get hurt.’

Harry was slightly taller than his aunt, and felt loved as he craned his head and caught the crisply laundered smell of her chef’s coat. But he kept thinking about the gun and the explosives. And saw a horrible mental image where they were still hugging, but he was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit …

‘I love you, Auntie,’ Harry said.

‘I’ve got the family heart defect,’ Kirsten reminded him. ‘Too many shocks might kill me off.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Harry said softly.

‘Love you too,’ Kirsten said, looking at the sweat-dripped tiles around Harry as she backed away. ‘I remember when you were little. You had that warm milky smell and when nobody was looking I’d pick you up and sniff because I loved it so much.’

‘Not now, eh?’ Harry said, raising one soggy armpit close to his aunt’s face.

‘Gross!’ Kirsten said, laughing as she backed off and grabbed sheets of kitchen towel out of a dispenser. Harry took his phone off the counter as Kirsten dabbed her eyes, then used the tissue as a foot rag to mop his trail of sweat. ‘Now go shower, and you’re grounded. Obviously.’

Harry wasn’t shocked. ‘How long?’

‘At least until Monday. Then we’ll see what your school says.’

Harry’s room was upstairs. He’d used his bathroom to clean the gun and he whacked the air-con up to clear a lingering bleach smell. After peeling off his sweaty shirt, he sat on the lid of his toilet and unlocked his phone.

‘You have one new message, received at nineteen thirty-six hours.’ Then after a beep, ‘Harry, this is me … Charlie, from earlier …?’

11 GOON SQUAD

Charlie chased sleep. She lay on the shiny green mat, hearing fragments of the things that went wrong on a Thursday night in Vegas: A cocky pickpocket chatting to the custody officer like some long-lost sister, a weeping college kid and drunks banging their doors and claiming they knew their rights. Charlie suspected they were all in less trouble than she was.

‘Croker, ya goin’ upstairs,’ someone yelled through the door.

Charlie got handcuffed this time. The clock over the custody sergeant’s desk said three-fifteen and the third floor was a dead zone. Empty desks, and the only light coming off exit signs.

She was marched down a hall, past a basketball-tall guy working a mop and into a big office. A Nevada state flag and a big stuffed fish hung on the back wall. The unbarred windows had a vista over a lot filled with cop cars.

‘Sit there.’

‘What’s happening?’ Charlie asked.