Justin scrambled for the front door.

The front gates clanged and squealed as Roslyn crashed into them, tearing them apart. They were too late. She’d gotten out. The relief nearly staggered him.

With a snarl Pete pulled up the shotgun. Boom. Nick dived back through the bedroom door as the hallway erupted into smoke and noise. His ears rang. Boom. Again the shotgun discharged. The wide open bedroom door exploded into a mass of splinters, a big hole in its middle that continued into the wall behind it. Dust filled the air.

Nick rolled onto his back, pulling up his weapon, but too late. Screaming his heart out, Pete charged through the door and fell on top of him. The man straddled him and fists pounded into his ribs. Pete’s furious, bright-red face was beyond recognition. Nick blocked as many of the punches as possible, clawing at the f**ker's face, trying to push him back. A sledgehammer of a hit landed below his ribs. Pain cramped Nick’s guts as he fought to get the leverage to throw Pete off him. His legs flailed uselessly.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied the silver of Pete’s bowie knife flying at his face. He grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands, muscles straining. Pete snapped and growled, spraying his face with hot, wet spit.

Fuck, he could hear gunshots outside. Justin shooting at Ros. Please let her be gone by now.

Pete put his weight behind the blade. The wickedly sharp point of the knife pressed down, only an inch or two from Nick’s eye. He pushed back, moving the knife a bare hand’s length from his face. He couldn’t move him. Not enough to count. A lunatic’s grin curled Pete’s lips.

The house suddenly shuddered and there was an almighty smash. His ears rang. The noise was deafening. Towards the front of the place, beams of timber snapped and the whole structure groaned. Plaster flakes rained down. For just a moment it distracted Pete. His brows jumped as he looked to the ever-widening crack spreading across the ceiling. With the last of his strength, Nick surged up, rolling the man. He reversed the blade, pointing it at his middle. Pete broke his momentum by putting out an elbow, bringing the turnabout to a halt. But it was too late. The bowie knife sunk deep into the man’s side. Blood flowed onto the dirty carpet and Pete’s eyes went wide and white. A high wheezing noise escaped him.

Nick pulled out the blade, fingers slipping on the slick bloody bone handle. In and up. Beneath the ribs and high towards the heart. This time Pete’s skin felt like old leather, impossible to cut through. But Nick was plenty f**king motivated. Blood swelled to the surface, spreading out across Pete’s gray T-shirt and staining it dark red.

No more movement. No nothing. Everything was quiet apart from the occasional death rattle from the house.

Where was Ros? What the f**k had she done?

He wiped off his bloody hands and grabbed his gun. Looked out in the mess of what had been the lounge room. Sunlight streamed in, lighting the clouds of dust and debris floating through the air. Fucking amazing. Half the roof seemed to have caved in. He could just make out the front of the truck, buried in rubble.

“Shit.”

He raced to the bedroom window and pushed it open. Climbed out and ran toward the front. Bricks and roof tiles and f**k knew what else covered the crumpled hood of the truck. Blood covered the shattered outside of the windscreen and one of Justin’s hands was just visible, still clutching a pistol. The rest of his body lay buried beneath the rubble.

Oh, holy f**king hell. What she’d done.

At the first sight of her bushy red hair his heart nearly gave up. She was slumped in the driver’s seat, almost out of view.

“Ros.” He wrenched the door open. “Ros!”

Her eyelids opened and she blinked repetitively, giving him a stunned look. Slowly, she smiled. “Nick.”

Above her left breast, her shirt was covered in blood. Justin had hit her in the shoulder. More blood dribbled down from a small wound on her ear.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” he said, trying not to lose it. He tore off his shirt and held it against her, putting pressure on the gunshot wound. There was a med kit in the glovebox. He remembered it now. The compartment had popped open during the crash and its contents were spread across the floor.

“Hey,” she croaked, her eyes glazed. “You got your shirt off.”

“I know. Don’t move.” He grabbed up the bright red kit and tore into it. Gauze and pads. Tweezers and cream. A bottle of antiseptic. With his teeth and one hand he ripped open a packet of pads. Lifting the shirt for a second, he placed the pads over the bloody little hole in her shoulder. Fuck. So much damn blood.

“I drove a car into a building. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah, I noticed. Don’t. Move.”

“I’m fine,” she said with an awkward giggle. Pain suffused her face and she grimaced. “Though that hurt.”

“You’ve been shot, Ros.”

“Yeah, my ear.” She frowned and stared at her left arm lying uselessly beside her. “What? Why won’t my arm work?”

“It’s okay,” he lied, biting open a packet of gauze. There was a roll of tape too. Amongst all of it he should be able to put together a decent enough bandage to get her to Blackstone. He had to. “Stay still for me.”

“I couldn’t leave you.”

Everything in him squeezed tight. “I know. How do you feel?”

“Okay. Are you okay?” she asked, her voice slurred.

“I’m not the one who’s been shot. You’re going to need to sit forward for me.”