He could see Kurt’s legs as he came by. What if Kurt bent down and looked under the log? Should he wait for that moment, or should he do something to defend himself now? He could knock Kurt down and try to wrest the gun from him. But if he hit Kurt, he had to do it properly.

Leon’s mind had never been clearer. Now was the time.

Lashing out with his feet, he kicked Kurt hard and it was like hitting a tree. The man went down, and Leon scrambled out, looking for the rifle. It was on the ground beyond Kurt, who was facedown in the mud. Leon knew he couldn’t get there first, and then Kurt rolled over, snarling as he scrabbled for the gun.

Leon leaped up and took off again because he knew Kurt would quickly be after him. Like a startled wallaby, he ran, smashing through shrubs and wattles, somersaulting over a log. Somehow his knee was still working. His feet flew and he stayed upright, riding on adrenaline. Kurt would be running too; there was no point worrying about noise.

A shot bit a tree behind him and he thrashed through bushes, ducking, dodging, trying to stay out of sight. At the edge of another logged area, he paused. In the empty wasteland, three trees stood like soldiers, and the ground was bundles of bark and branches. He had no choice—he had to run across that raw open space. Committed, he sprinted, completely exposed, barrelling wildly over the terrain, stumbling and falling. If he made it to the forest he would gallop downhill, try to find the track back to his car.

Air sighed around him, and down came the rain. It sounded like a river pouring from the sky, water rushing over stones. He was drenched in seconds.

He saw the edge of the clearing and strained to reach it. He was sodden, clothes glued to his back. Leaping into the arms of the bush, he slithered and fell, catching on sticks and tangling in a snarl of grass. His right leg folded, caught in a web of bark, and his shoulder slammed into a log: the pain wrung a cry from him. Staggering, he forced himself up and thrust on downhill. He would make his body work and to hell with the agony.

Through the rain, he heard shouting. ‘You bastard, where are you?’

Then Leon broke from the bush onto the track and ran, pumping his arms despite the wrenched shoulder, rain streaming down his face. Thank God for the footy training. His legs were hard and his mind was strong. But once Kurt hit the track, he’d be fast too.

As Leon ran, he found a rhythm of sorts, puffing with each stride. Through the curtain of rain, he could hardly see where he was going. Any time now, Kurt would be out of the bush and shooting at him.