There was a man, a big one, on the path. The sun was right behind him from the angle Will lay at, and all he could see was a dark, bulky shape. He only had a second to look, then the man moved. Will jerked his head back, and the bullet ploughed into the earth a foot from his nose, spraying dry earth into his face.

Four shots gone. He was unarmed, and the enemy knew exactly where he was. If he came a few paces forward, he could reach over the trunk and fire the last two bullets, and there was pretty much fuck all Will could do about it.

You planned a future and look what happened.

He looked back toward Kim. He was sitting up against a tree, with the very straight posture of a man whose backbone was trying to crawl to safety, and he caught Will’s eye and raised three fingers. Will held up an irritable four—couldn’t he count?—even as Kim changed his to two, then one, and sprang up like a rocketing pheasant, hurtling towards the shoulder-high bracken, right in the enemy’s sight-line. There was another shot, and Will was up and diving for cover even as Kim stumbled, and crashed forward, and lay still.

A bullet zipped close to Will’s feet, and that made six.

My turn. You’re dead.

Will’s hand closed round a rock. He turned and threw a savage overarm, the cricketing boy he’d been meeting the murderous man he was, and it hit the revolver squarely as the enemy fumbled to reload. The spare clip sprang from his hand, and Will’s second rock caught him right on the temple. He reeled back. Will was already up and sprinting for him, a fallen branch in hand, and the big man broke and ran full tilt down the path, hurling the empty gun away as he fled.

Will’s overwhelming instinct was to chase after him, bring him down, and beat him to a bloody pulp on the pinewood floor. But the part of his brain that wasn’t hot with rage was cold with fear, and after a few frantic seconds, it swamped the heat with dread.

He turned back and ran, crashing through the bracken towards the prone body. “Kim? Kim!”

Kim was face down, unmoving. “Oh Jesus,” Will said, the words emerging high and strangled because his throat was closing. “Christ, no. Kim.” He dropped to his knees, reached for the still form, grabbed his face.

Kim jerked his head away. “Ow. What—?”

“God.” Will sat back on his heels. “Mother of God. Are you all right?”

“Fine. I think.” Kim pushed himself up, and sat heavily on the bracken. His face was smeared with earth and there was a nasty scrape on his temple and he was alive. Will tried to remember how breathing worked. “The gunman?”

“Gone.”

“You got him?”