Another round pinged against the refrigerator as he crouch-walked to the front of the house. He stood up to see above the front windowsill, and saw dust—shit—a car coming fast along the final straight, slewing slightly in the ruts and juddering on the corrugations, and he’d seen it before—he’d seen that car before. It skidded as it swung in, the back end whipping out and then coming straight, and now he had it: he’d seen it at Sly’s house, down in Santa Barbara. The Chrysler van, with the chair lift.

He opened the front door, about to shout at Erin to run, but she was out of the car already, door open and the Glock levelled across the sill as the van pulled up ahead of her.

‘Erin! Erin, no! No, no, no!’

The front doors of the van opened in unison, and he saw black-masked faces appear above the window glass. Then their weapons: the driver with an Ithaca shotgun, and the passenger with an MP5-K. He saw the Glock leap twice in Erin’s hand, and the van’s windshield whited out and fell, and the passenger turned, and in a relaxed manner hosed the Range Rover full-auto with the MP5.

Vincent bit down on a scream as he saw Erin fall. He ducked back behind the doorframe as the gun-rattle ceased, and in the quiet he heard the click of a fresh magazine being slotted home. He had time to slam the door, and then the shooting resumed: bullets cutting through the front of the house, a toothy hail of glass and woodchips, and below the cacophony, Forsyth’s faint voice shouting, ‘Stop, wait, stop, please stop …’

Vincent grabbed him by the collar. ‘Wayne, move! Come on. You need to move.’

But Forsyth shoved him away. He stood and raised his arms and ran hunched to the door. ‘I’m coming out, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!’

No time—Vincent let him go.

He elbow-crawled along the hallway, the old man dead in his chair, leaking blood on the floor. He pulled himself through a door on the left—a bedroom—and got to his feet.

He heard Delroy Clemons say, ‘Man, these things have more kick than I thought. Are you Wayne, or someone else?’

‘I’m, I’m Wayne.’

‘And where’s the truck?’

‘It’s over in the barn there.’

‘Great. Shit, you’ve caused me some trouble. Stand here a minute. Put your hands down, you look pathetic.’

Footsteps in the living room now—two people—and Delroy said, ‘Where’s your little Vincent friend, huh?’ The voice nearer as he said, ‘You better check she’s actually dead. Might need another bullet.’

The voice of Sly Crow Junior said, ‘She’s not moving. She’s just lying there.’

‘Yeah. I figure you need a close-up view though, don’t you. Where you gone? Vinny, Vinny, Vinny. Here, boy.’