Mike's choking sounds grew frantic. He twisted his head against the concrete. He curled his trapped fingers around the edges of Chris's shoe, nails clawing at the Argentine leather.

Chris leaned harder. Tears sprang out in his eyes and streamed down his face. He lifted his foot and stamped down hard on Mike's hand. He heard the dry snap as one of the fingers broke. He leaned harder. His whole weight lifting on the braced shotgun, taking his body almost off the floor.

Something crunched. Mike stopped moving.

Afterwards, Chris could barely get himself upright. It was as if the shotgun had suddenly become indispensable, as if he'd been afflicted with a sudden muscular disease. He limped back from the corpse, trembling so violently his teeth chattered. He made less than a dozen steps. He bent suddenly double and, finally, threw up. A thin helping of vomit and bile - he'd barely eaten that morning, but what he had came up. He dropped to his knees in a puddle, retching.

The sound of boots through the wet.

He looked up, only vaguely interested, and saw the men. Big, blocky forms in the filtering light from outside, like knights in armour from some mediaeval fantasy.He blinked to clear his eyes.

There were nine of them, dressed in the cordoned zone gangwit ensemble. Cheap, grimed clothes, loose canvas trousers, bulky padded jackets, shaven heads and workboots. Hands held crowbars, wrenches, sawn-off pool cues and a variety of other items too jagged to identify.

Faces were scarred with streetfight souvenirs. Eyes watchful on the scene they'd just interrupted.

377lie got unsteacllly to his teet. Une of the men stepped torward, lie was near two metres tall, heavily muscled under a sleeveless T-shirt scrawled red with the legend I am the Minister for the Redistribution of Health. The lettering was splattered to make it look b.l.o.o.d.y. His face was scarred from the corner of the left eye and down the cheek. It gave him an oddly mournful look.

'Finished, have you? Is he dead?'

Chris blinked and coughed.

'Who are you?' he asked harshly.

'Who are we?' Laughter rasped out, first from one throat, then building to a rattling echo off the metal roof. It died out as abruptly.

The gangwit spokesman was swinging a short black-enamelled prybar softly and repeatedly into his left palm. His gaze seemed welded to Chris, playing up and down the clothes, the hair, the shotgun. He smiled and the scar tissue tugged at his face. 'Who are we? We're the f.u.c.king dispossessed, mate. That's who we are.'

There was no laughter to follow this time. The men had tautened, waiting for the leash to slip. Chris suppressed another cough and lifted the Remington as convincingly as he could manage.

'That's close enough. The police are on their way, and there's nothing to see here.'

'Yeah?' The spokesman for the group gestured at the BMW and Mike Bryant's corpse. 'From what we've seen so far, I beg to differ. This is prime time. Mr Fadkner.'

Chris pumped the action on the Remington.

'Alright, I said that's close enough.' Mistake.

The unspent sh.e.l.l leapt in the air, hit the concrete and rolled towards the other man. For a moment, they both looked down at it. Then the gangwit looked back up at Chris and shook his head.

'See, that's a perfectly good round, mate. And to judge by your manner of execution back there a moment ago, I'd say '

Chris flung the shotgun in his face and ran.

Back to the upturned BMW and Mike Bryant's corpse. He heard booted feet behind him, more than one pair. The gangwit's voice rang exasperated above the clatter.

'Well don't f.u.c.king stand there. Get him!'

He dived and landed on Mike in a kind of embrace. Scrabbled under the jacket, felt the b.u.t.t of the Nemex in his hand. Proximity sense toldhim the first of his pursuers was almost on him. Shadows blocked out the light. The smell of old leather and cheap aftershave swamped him. A hand grabbed at his jacket.

He rolled free and came up wi{h Mike's gun almost touching the 378gangwit's chest, fie saw the man's eyes widen. A pool cue smashed down on his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger.

The Nemex thundered. The shot kicked the man off his feet and back across the concrete. He crumpled and lay still.

'Toby/' It was a howl of anguish. The gangwit spokesman. 'f.u.c.king zek-tiv piece of s.h.i.t.t'

The second gangwit was two paces behind his fallen comrade, but the gun brought him to a dead halt. The others were converging, but now they stopped and began to back away, left and right. Chris got himself upright, grinning fiercely.

'That's right, back the f.u.c.k off.'

Something black whipped through the air and hit him a numbing blow across the elbow. The Nemex went off, firing wide into the concrete floor. Chris clutched at his arm and tried to bring the gun to bear as the spokesman, leaping in after the hurled prybar, hit him from the right. Below the elbow, his muscles were water. He snapped off a panic shot. It went wide. The gangwit snarled a grin and grabbed the arm, twisting. Chris felt his hand spasm open. The Nemex spun away, splashing into a puddle. He threw a punch left-handed and saw his opponent ride it with a streetfighter's impatient grunt. Desperate, he reached and grappled. The Minister for the Redistribution of Health punched him in the chest with shattering force. He collapsed backwards, fending weakly, tripping on Mike's corpse. The gangwit let him go, let him fall against the body of the upturned BMW and turned to scoop up his prybar. Stalked forward, still grinning. Chris saw the attack coming and rolled weakly left, along the BMW's flank. The crowbar arced down and clawed a long dint in the twilight-blue bodywork where he'd been. The metal screeched. Chris came off the car yelling, delivered a hooking left-handed punch to the Minister's temple. The gangwit threw up a block that didn't quite cover and staggered slightly with the impact. He grunted again, shook his head and whipped the crowbar round. Chris caught it across the side of the head.

Multi-coloured light rang in his skull. The ceiling waltzed by overhead.

He reeled and fell. Something snagged his arm, he looked muzzily and saw the Minister had him, was holding him up. Comfortably.

'f.u.c.king piece of s.h.i.t driver,' the man was yelling in his face. 'Come into the f.u.c.king zones with your suit, will you?'

The crowbar slammed into his ribs. He screamed like a baby and twisted. There were others around him, holding him up for the spokesman, cuffing him back and forth across the head.

'Come into the f.u.c.king zones, will you? Hold him.'Another blow, another rolling tide of numbness. He thought he felt a rib crack this time. He yelled, but weakly. The grip on his arm let go 379and he slumped into a ring of supporting grasps. He saw a fist coming, heavy with dull metal rings. It split his vision apart, sent shards of it spinning away against a roaring darkness. He felt part of his face tear, felt blood streaming down into his collar.

'Show you what we think of--' the Minister was telling him between blows, but the rest was carried away on the roar in an opening tunnel of darkness.

Oddly, in the bottom of it all, he heard Carla.

So.t You just want to fucle me and leave me. Is that it?

Her hands on him. She was smiling. For some reason he couldn't pin down, he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

I'm. Already sliding headlong into the dark. Not going anyzvbere. But he was.

And a sound like distant thunder.

380FORTY-EIGHT.

Driver Control helicopters held the sky over the vaulted highway where Chris Faulkner had slewed the Saab to its shrieking sideways halt.

Bright sunlight winked off underslung camera lenses and the cl.u.s.tered barrels of the gatlings. At a prudent distance beyond, news crew aircraft circled like sharks waiting for something to give up and die. There were police vehicles scattered up and down the stretch, equipment set up and armed figures hurrying about. Louise Hewitt stood talking to a ranking tactical-force officer and her mobile at the same time. She looked up and shielded her face as a new, twilight-blue helicopter drifted in through the black-and-green Driver Control machines and settled to the asphalt, twenty metres away. Jack Notley climbed down from the cabin, settled his suit a little more firmly on his shoulders in the gale of the rotors and strode towards her.

'I'll call you back,' she told the phone, and snapped it shut. 'And Captain, if you could just give me a moment.'

The officer saw who was coming and stepped back. Notley reached Hewitt and stared at her. 'Well?'

'I expect you've heard.'

'That's why I'm here.' Notley looked grim. 'What have you got?'

Hewitt shrugged and nodded towards the crane and winch system at the edge of the Gullet. 'We put in the tacs. Apparently they're bringing them both up now. Not a pretty sight, is what I was told.'

Notley looked away, up and down the stretch of highway. 'Four miles,' he said. 'Four miles from where Page went off. You realise that?'

'Four?' Hewitt frowned. 'Oh, miles, that's what, about six kilometres?

Yeah, probably about that. And not far from where Barnes learnt to fly, come to that.'

'Yes.'

'Exciting stretch of road.'

The winch whined into action. Both partners turned to watch as it brought up a sheet-covered stretcher. Tactical-force corporate police swarmed around the load, swinging it in and lowering it gently to the road. The covering was white and blood had soaked through in small patches. A medic crouched, turned back the sheet and winced visibly.

The winch swung back down. They watched the cable unwind.381'Going to be a lot of questions,' observed Hewitt when it stopped.

'Lot of precedent to be hammered out.'

Notley grunted. 'Good. Kind of thing that keeps us sharp.'

'Keeps the lawyers sharp, you mean. They're going to be arguing this one back and forth for months at our expense.'

'While we go ahead and get on with doing things anyway.'

'Ethics after the event.' Hewitt offered him a crooked smile. 'My favourite kind.'

Notley raised an eyebrow. 'Are there any other sort?'

The winch swung up again. More activity, another stretcher settling to the asphalt. More blood stains on white.

'Not in this world.'

'I'm glad--'

Amidst the weaving of the tactical-force uniforms, commotion. Uniforms milling. And Chris Faulkner, climbing off the stretcher like the living dead. Pushing his way clear. A ragged cheer floated over him like a banner.

Hewitt froze.

Notley blinked.

Then the senior partner was striding rapidly towards the new arrival, a grin broadening on his face. He only faltered as he got closer and saw the damage. Chris's face was a mask of blood and bruising. One eye swollen almost shut, ribbons of torn flesh around the mouth and both cheeks ripped, blood from a nose that looked broken. The way he moved under the abused and bloodied suit screamed cracked ribs.

'Chris! Jesus f.u.c.k, you're alive. I thought. You had me worried for a moment there. Congratulations!'

Chris stared at him. Stared past him, like the zombie he so closely resembled. Notley grabbed his shoulders.

'You've done it, Chris. You won. You're a partner at thirty-three years old. f.u.c.king unprecedented. Congratulations! You know what this means?'

Chris looked sideways at him. Focused.

'What does it mean?' he whispered.'What does it mean?' Notley was almost burbling. 'Chris, it means you're at the top. From here on up, there's nothing you can't do.

Nothing. Welcome aboard.'

He thrust out his hand. Chris looked down at it as if the gesture didn't make sense. He made a coughing noise that it took Notley a moment to realise was laughter. Then he stared up into the senior partner's face and off past it again. The Saab. Hewitt.

'Uh, Chris '

'Excuse me.'

382He pushed past Notley, pacing a steady line fir Hewitt. She saw him coming and tensed. A brief nod to the tactical captain, and the man was at her shoulder. Chris cane to a halt a metre away, swaying a little.

'Louise,' he husked.

She manufactured a small smile. 'h.e.l.lo, Chris. Well done.'

'This is for you, Louise.'

He held it out. The Shorn a.s.sociates card, Mike Bryant's nane engraved and streaked across with new blood.

'I don't think now is--'

'No, it's for you.' Chris took another, sudden step in and tucked the card into Hewitt's breast pocket. He nodded to himself, already turning away. 'For you. Because that's the way we do things around here, right?'

Hewitt's smile was frozen on. 'Right.'

'I'll see you on the road, Louise.'

He walked away, dipping in his pocket for keys. The door of the Saab was still wide open. Driver Control personnel busied themselves around it, measuring and photographing. When he tried to get in behind the wheel, one of them barred his way.

'Sorry sir, we're not finished here ye '

He backed up as Chris looked at him.

'Get. Out of my way.'

The man retreated. Chris eased himself into the seat, teeth clenching up as his hastily taped ribs grated with the move. The medics had shot him full of something warm, but the pain was still getting through in flinty little flashes. He sat for a while, breathing it under control. He thought it would probably be manageable.

He closed the door. Reached for the ignition.

The Saab fired up growling. Around him, up and down the Gullet, activity stopped at the sound. Heads turned. He saw people gesturing.

No one seemed interested in stopping him.

He moved his head, a little awkwardly. Coughed and tasted blood.

Checked the rearview and cut a smooth circle in reverse, so the car was pointing southward, towards Shorn. He shifted gear, let the vehicle start to glide forward.

'Sir, wait.' m.u.f.fled through the seal of the closed doors and windows.A uniformed tactical hurried across and rapped on his window. He cranked it down and waited, foot light on the clutch, barely holding the Saab back. The tac hesitated.

'Uhm, sir, it's just. The shooting down there. Well, we arrived sort of in the nick of time, sir, so it was a bit rushed. Just trying to get them off you, you know.'