Chapter 1

Reaching the highway, Joe paid little heed to the danger of traffic. His primary motivation was getting as far and as quickly away as possible. He careened into the road and heard the screech of brakes. He caught sight of the panicked face of a young woman as he leapt sideways to avoid being hit. She put her foot down as soon as he was out of the way, even though he was clearly battered, bruised and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

Joe saw another vehicle come towards him from the other direction – the angry shouting of his pursuers was now getting closer. He turned his back to the car to show his bound wrists to indicate that he was in trouble and to ultimately flag the car down. It slowed to a crawl and he saw a man peering at him, his face running through a multitude of expressions – curiosity, sympathy, wariness, realisation, horror and then decision. Foot to the floor, he circled around Joe and drove away, leaving him stranded. He'd spotted whom Joe was fleeing from.

Joe made a growling noise in his throat and took off again to the other side of the roadway. No other cars came and certainly not Frank's convertible, even though he wished so hard that it would come charging to the rescue over the breast of the hill. He plunged into the hedgerow and into the trees. A bullet thudded into a trunk next to his ear, the spray of bark blinding him and causing him to stumble and trip. He turned his body instinctively to take it into a roll, but his shoulder didn't hit the ground first, his back and arms did and then he realised he was tumbling, down and down, over and over. Disorientation, twigs and brambles, thorns tearing at his clothes, grunting every time he hit the ground hard, blind, his eyes streaming. Finally coming to a lurching stop on his side gasping and hurting.

He heard another shout from above, more distinct this time "Find him, he can't be allowed to get away – we need him!" Then the sound of bushes being searched and feet running in all directions, except downwards. From their reaction, Joe knew they hadn't registered that he had fallen down the embankment and had instead interpreted the sound of thrashing as him escaping on foot into the undergrowth. Although he would have preferred to carry on lying there, getting his sight back in his right eye and checking if he'd broken any bones, he rolled over onto his front and clumsily shuffled along the ground, keeping low and using the thick grass for coverage until he reached the densest bush that was closest to him. He entered the shadows; camouflaged and grateful for the dark clothes he'd opted to wear that morning.

Intermittent shooting started again, the pop-pop sound of a silencer. His assailants had become tired of their fruitless search and were trying to flush him out in the only way they knew how – through fear and force. Joe felt safe at first as they were some way off target, but then bullets started whizzing randomly about, too close for comfort. He was fighting his body's instinctive wish for 'flight' and instead went into a tight crouch. The next bullet was definitely too close to comfort, it pounded into the side of his body, knocking him flat, face first into the ground – a lucky hit, but a painful and life threatening one – but for his own determination not to give his location away, he would have screamed out, instead, he gritted his teeth and buried his face further into the soft earth. The bullets stopped. Continued frustrated shouting and arguing from his tormentors. Sounds once delivered with such clarity becoming fuzzy, followed by a feeling of sickness, dizziness, heaviness of limbs, and eventually silence and blackness.

How long he'd been lying under the evergreen he could not fathom. All Joe knew for the first few minutes was that he was soaking wet and it was dark and deathly quiet. He was shivering and bitterly cold, his hands were numb, and there was a burning pain in his side that couldn't be reached to give a soothing rub. However, his senses slowly returned until he could finally make meaning of what was happening.

Looking down at his injured side, although it was dark, he could see immediately why he was soaking wet, his clothes were sodden with his own blood, his sweater and the ground beneath covered in a shiny, black mass. He knew he was losing too much vital fluid and needed to stem the flow, but he didn't have a hope in hell of reaching the wound. He was fighting feelings of exhaustion and the need for sleep was ever more tantalising. He feared he wouldn't last much longer unless he could get himself out of the situation and summon help.

He wished he could read his watch, but even if he could have done, it appeared to be missing, probably lost, maybe during the tumble down the embankment, maybe during the struggle. He remembered that his cell-phone was taken from him during the confrontation with his assailants, so there was no option of summoning help the easy way. The only way to get the assistance he needed was to get back up the steep slope to the road and hope that the men didn't return to find him.

He rolled over onto his back, grunting through the pain and made a concerted effort to sit up, but he couldn't summon enough power to push up any further than one elbow. So he rolled over onto his belly again and began to haul his body forward. Every movement was an agony – but that was good as it interrupted his body's instinct for sleep – but with each pull, he barely covered an inch. With chagrin, he knew that with his hands cuffed, even reaching the foot of the hill was futile. The reality of the situation he was in hit him like a sledgehammer to the heart, "I'm going to die out here after all…"

He lay there to think and catch his breath, but as hard as he fought it, Joe's brain and body finally succumbed to the inevitable and he closed his eyes to rest. His thoughts began slowly drifting as he began travelling through a languid dream of being on a beach. He listened to the sounds of the sea and enjoyed the warm sand that pushed up between his toes as the salt water lapped over his feet. The sounds were joined shortly by a voice that came to him over the shrill seabird cries and the gentle waves from a great distance. He turned curiously to listen to it and as the sound grew closer, he realised it was someone calling his name, a voice that was so very familiar and warm, one he'd listened to and respected every day of his life. He gave a barely perceptible jerk and his eyes cracked open again. He wondered if it had all just been part of his dream and he had imagined it, but then it came again.

"Son…SON? Joe? Are you here?"

It was a wave of pure relief that washed over him this time, even more refreshing than the imagined saltwater. "Dad, I'm down here," he called.

There was the noise of a body sliding down the ravine, followed by the sight of two feet that began slowly circling the shrub, a flashlight beam arcing urgently around.

"I'm under here, Dad."

Fenton ducked down and pulled the branches aside so he could see where Joe was, his eyes widening at the sight of him. "Buddy, are you okay?" he asked, crawling under the foliage.

He panned his penlight down his son's body, processing what he was seeing. "Is that…blood?" Getting no response, he quickly looked into Joe's face, "Joe?" he asked, seeing his eyes rolling. "Don't you dare!" he shouted. He quickly turned Joe over, pulled him half onto his knees and administered a delivered slap to the cheek, "Don't you fall asleep on me, boy!" he warned sternly, "Sleep isn't what you need right now."

Joe's eyes focused again, "Yes sir, I'll try not to." He was weak, but lucid, "any chance you could get these cuffs off?"

"I'm going to take a look at where that blood's coming from first." Fenton carefully peeled back Joe's jacket, pullover and shirt and inspected the bullet wound, sucking air though his teeth when he saw the damage. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a compress and applied it hard to the area making his son wince in discomfort.

"Sorry son, I've got to move you." Fenton apologised. He abandoned his flashlight, and without taking away the pressure pad, gently manipulated himself and Joe until he had his son between his knees and leaning against his chest thus freeing his other arm up. He quickly dipped for his phone from his inside pocket.

"Is it bad – it feels bad and there's blood all over me, everywhere?" Joe asked

"Okay, you're going to be fine, I promise, but talk to me, Joe," Fenton flicked his mobile open, pulled up the aerial with his teeth and dialled 911. "Let me know you're still with me while I make a quick call. Tell me what you and Frank have got yourselves embroiled in, I thought it was a pretty straightforward case?"

"It is," Joe answered. "But I don't think what happened tonight was anything to do with our case. Those guys were asking me questions that I didn't know the answers to – and they weren't interested that didn't know anything, didn't believe me! I got away, but I got shot. I know it's hard to believe, but it wasn't even done on purpose. If it had been intentional, they would have seen me dead. They were good, I was sloppy," he stopped for a couple of seconds to catch his breath. "I'll tell you this for nothing: it wasn't a case of mistaken identity, they'll be back for me and definitely for Frank – this isn't over, Dad!"