This whole convoluted investigation is making you paranoid.

Makedde took her heavy backpack off, popped it down and removed her mobile phone from her top pocket, placing it on the hall table.

Wait.

What was that noise? A creak?

The house is just settling.

She felt hot in her leathers now that she was standing still. Mak would have liked to unzip her jacket, but for now she didn't make a sound. She just stood at the entry hall, listening.

You are imagining things.

Luther Hand had seen Makedde pull up. He'd been waiting, and had watched through the first-floor window as the woman dismounted and shook her blonde hair out like a lion shakes off water.

It was the new mark.

Makedde Vanderwall.

So here she was, so many years later. It was funny how things in life came full circle. Five years ago he'd lost the tip of his ear in this woman's backyard. His attacker-a small, swift man, probably staked out to protect her-had taught Luther the value of skill with knives. In a roundabout way, this woman, Makedde, had not only caused him to lose part of his ear but had also helped lead to him regrouping, relearning and emerging with a new international career. If he hadn't been injured like that, he might not have fled to Queensland, and he might not have come to the attention of Madame Q.

Yes. Full circle.

So this familiar mark was arriving home. He'd been expecting her.

Luther had to make it look like Miss Vanderwall had happened across a burglary in progress. He would knife her, check that the house was staged right, take the few jewels he'd found, and maybe the television set and laptop, and go. The last time he'd seen her, he'd had thoughts...unprofessional thoughts. These thoughts occurred to him again as he set eyes on her once more, but he squashed them as soon as they came up. There had been a lot of lessons learned since he'd last seen this woman. Luther was a professional now. A total professional.

Follow the instructions.

Now he was flush against the wall of the kitchen on the ground floor, Makedde in the hallway. She had put something down on the floor. He'd heard the tinkle of keys. But now she was quiet.

He could just hear her breathe.

Makedde stood perfectly still in the hallway of the terrace, helmet in hand, her ears straining for a breath, a sigh, the creak of floorboards, anything.

Something...

She squinted into the dark spaces of the rooms beyond the lit hallway. She hesitated.

A glint of light caught her eye. She turned just as there was a whirl of movement close by, a large figure in dark clothes that she registered a second too late, its body weight hitting her dully on her head and shoulder, pushing down on her and nearly sending her sprawling backwards.

Oh God!

There was an intruder! She'd known. She'd sensed it.

Mak's motorcycle helmet was her only weapon, and she reacted quickly with it. Crouching, and taking the weight on her heels, she swung upwards, the straps curled into her tight fist. The helmet made contact with something. She'd been aiming for her attacker's head, but he moved and she slammed the hard helmet in his shoulder.

Her attacker was a man. A big man. When he stood upright he was easily half a foot taller than her.

Jesus, he's huge...

Mak couldn't see his face because he was wearing a black balaclava. He was all in black: black gloves, black long-sleeved top and pants. A burglar. Standing in the shadows, she might not have seen him. He'd been there watching her, she knew. There was another glint of light reflecting off metal-it was a blade, a sharp blade like the one in her nightmare...

The man stabbed at her, and Makedde screamed. But to her relief the knife did not penetrate her. Her leather jacket was still on, still zipped up. The knife merely glanced off the leather, too tough to penetrate. For a beat the man seemed confused by this. But she wasn't. It gave Mak time to react, and she kicked out with her heavy boots as hard as she could, striking his right kneecap to break it. He winced but did not fall, and she swung her helmet again with all her might, yelling angrily and as aggressively as she could, 'Get the fuck out of my house, motherfucker!'

This time her helmet made contact with the man's head with a loud crack, and she heard an exhalation of breath from under that mask. Blood poured out from the breathing hole. She had broken his nose.

That won't hold him for long...

Mak spun around and made for the front door, flinging it open, grabbing the keys in her hand as she ran past. She sprinted for her motorbike, shoving the helmet on her head as she crossed the grass, strands of hair falling across her eyes and the leathers cumbersome for her sprint. She reached the bike and practically threw herself on it, stealing a glance at the open front door, which so far stood empty.

The engine will still be warm. Please start! Please!

Mak turned the key and revved the engine. The bike started, and it sounded right, the engine strong. She flicked up the kickstand and pulled back on the accelerator. When she let out the clutch the bike peeled onto the pavement and flew off the kerb, nearly throwing her off.

Oh fuck! Steady!

The burglar was making chase, running after her, and falling only metres short as she sped off down the road. She would ride straight to the police station, where she would be safe. It was her best option.

Her adrenaline soaring, it took Mak a few blocks to realise that her pursuer had not let her be. He was still after her.

By car.

Mak heard him before she even saw him. A car sped quickly around the corner after her, tyres squealing, and Mak watched with horror in her side mirrors as a jet-black sedan rocketed along the road behind her, gaining ground. Mak felt sick at the sight.

Oh my God, he's not letting up!

Mak pulled on the throttle and watched as the speedometer topped eighty, riding dangerously fast for the dark and winding residential streets, hoping that no one pulled out of a driveway or opened a door of a parked car as she sped past at lightning speed.

Steady...steady...

The car kept in hot pursuit. She could see him behind the wheel, still wearing his mask.

Who are you?

She knew he was no burglar. A burglar did not pursue their victims like this.

Makedde knew the roads well, and she raced down them, taking tight corners and laying her knee right to the ground, her wheels gripping the tarmac. She hoped to lose him but, confident on his four wheels, he cornered hard and stayed right with her, tyres squealing, the bonnet of the car coming up dangerously close to her back wheel.

If that car bumped her wheel, she would be lost.

I need traffic. I can lose him in traffic.

Mak made for the main streets of Bondi Junction, where the trains and buses connected, and hordes of people would be driving to and from the city.

Come on...come on...

She emerged from the rows of houses onto a straight stretch of main road and pulled the throttle back. She geared up to third, to fourth, to fifth. She was doing 140 kilometres an hour, the wind pounding against her. The vibration of the bike was frightening at that speed, the heat of it. If she hit anything, any stone or bump, she would lose control and die on impact. But still she had the steadiness to go faster. And she had to. In the side mirrors she could see that he was right behind her. She sped up to 150. She'd never clocked 150 before on her bike. Never. She'd never wanted to get booked for speeding, but now she hoped for it. She wanted sirens. She wanted help. Anyone. Anything. Please.

The lights of Bondi Junction were rapidly approaching, the tall buildings and shopping centre coming into view. She was nearly there. Traffic is backed up at any time of day there, and he would get stuck. He had to get stuck, and she could weave through where he couldn't and speed past to safety. Surely this man wouldn't try anything too rash. She had to get him in public. Then he would have to back off.

He was wearing a goddamned mask for goodness' sake. He has to back off. Someone would surely see him and call the cops.

Please won't someone call the cops?

Mak raced through the intersection and into Bondi Junction, past the giant complex of department stores and into the traffic.

And then she saw it.

The truck.

The sick taste of metal rose in her throat as a giant eighteen-wheeler pulled out right in front of her. She braked hard, tyres slipping, losing speed-but not fast enough. She felt her back wheel wobble, wobble again, and she was skidding-still fast, far too fast-and she saw herself sailing straight towards her death as if in slow motion. She was going to die on impact.

Oh God, help me...

Mak lay the bike sideways and felt her body hit the pavement. There was terrible vibration, heat and noise...

And then nothing.

CHAPTER 53.

Makedde Vanderwall could not feel anything.

She could hear noise-voices-but she could not speak. She wanted so badly to get up and get off the road, away from the traffic, but her body was slow to respond. Her eyes flickered open, and she saw the tops of the streetlamps. She was face up, her body straight and arms folded as if she was ready for the luge. Strangely, she did not feel any pain. She could not feel anything except the heat of friction, and her body's odd, stubborn refusal to get up.

Get up!

Mak sat up and her head swam. How much time had passed? Where was the man who had broken into the house? The man with the knife?

She looked around, vision blurry.

Just get up!

With great effort she rose to her feet and took a step. Her body crumpled beneath her, and she went to her knees.

'Hey! Don't move! An ambulance is on its way!'

Mak had no idea where the voice was coming from. She saw that people were around her, people with shocked faces. Everyone was standing back, afraid to touch her. She could see the massive truck she had slid underneath. It sat inert in the roadway, the cab door open and traffic backed up behind it. The driver would have thought he'd killed her.

Get the police, Mak wanted to say. Her mouth still wouldn't work.

'Hey, just relax. Just relax. Take it easy. Don't move...'

Mak ignored the words and got to her feet again. She swayed but stayed upright, and looked frantically for signs of the black car that had chased her from the house. Where is he? She wanted to see more clearly.

She needed to get somewhere safe.

Mak moved herself forwards, the feeling coming back too slowly as adrenaline dissipated a bit. She was okay. She would get through this. She had already been through worse. She was strong. There was no siren yet. Not much time would have passed, then. He could be somewhere nearby. She should hide.

Mak made for the protection of the doorway to a massive bank building, everyone still staring but standing back, afraid to get near. She pushed her back into the corner, looking around for the car.

Oh.

Mak spotted her motorcycle and her heart sank. There was no way she would be riding it out of this mess. It was wrapped around a telephone pole on one side of the far intersection, still running, the engine screeching. Smoke rose up from the exhaust. She must have still been doing at least sixty when she went into the slide and her beloved BMW had continued on its course right into the pole.

Despite the fact that she clearly had more important issues to worry about, she couldn't help but feel pained at the sight of the mangled machine. She wanted to tell someone to get to the kill switch but it hardly mattered now. Her voice wouldn't come. The feeling in her body was too distant to be real. But she was okay. She was alive.

Bang.

Her motorbike shut itself off with a thump, going silent.

Stunned, Mak looked at herself and noticed the shredded surface of her clothing, examining her leathers with renewed admiration. Those leathers had saved her skin-literally. There were grey patches of worn suede left at the contact points from her slide, as if someone had gone at the dyed leather with a cheese grater. That could have been her flesh.

Yes!

Makedde could hear sirens. She was not even sure of the direction; the sound came up out of nowhere and filled her ears with its shrill but welcome cry, and she felt safe again. Her body sank back into the pavement in the doorway, still numb. Mak curled up on the ground.

She closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 54.

Detective Jimmy Cassimatis strode down the corridors, his heart in his throat.

Andy is going to shit himself...

When he reached the room, Makedde was sitting up in her hospital bed with a pen and a pad of paper, scribbling something. She looked up. 'Hey, Jimmy,' she said casually while he gaped at her. He felt a flood of relief. She looked like she might actually be all right. She was in one piece.

'Skata! Thank Christ!' he exclaimed. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine, Jimmy. I'm fine,' she assured him.

Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot, and there was a light, clammy sweat on her brow, but she appeared to have all her limbs. He'd expected much worse.