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counted himself lucky to be alive.
    The endless lines on the road were a tether, dragging him forward. His face was blank, but his mind was a cyclone of emotions – and the sneering voice was always with him. You’re a coward, a hobo, a dead man. You got nothing left, no purpose, no hope. As the voice sounded again, he screamed his fury and banged the steering wheel until it broke in his hands. He held the single remaining spoke and put his foot down, his fury matching the machine’s speed, until the engine popped and spluttered, then died.
    As the car rolled to a stop, he blinked, conscious that he didn’t know where he was. It was dark, and after midnight. He looked at the shopfronts – Omaha, Nebraska. Over 1200 miles from Boston. He’d been driving nonstop for two days, without sleep.
    He pushed open the door, grabbed his duffel bag, and started to walk, keeping his head down. He had to believe he’d done the right thing, that he’d saved Joshua. By fleeing he’d made him safe.
    What makes you think they’re not watching the kid now, waiting to scoop him up?
    Alex shook his head and kept moving.
    You certainly can’t help him now, huh, tough guy?
    He placed a fist to his forehead and pressed hard. ‘Leave me alone!’
    His voice echoed down the dark streets. He was on the outskirts of town, in an industrial area. He’d been walking as if in a trance. The place was rundown, with graffiti all around. There would be no cars worth stealing here.
    I just need to rest , he thought as his mind churned.
    He only heard the men as they hurried to catch up to him.
    ‘Hey, Jesus … creeping Jesus … what’s in the bag?’ one of them called.
    Alex kept his head down and kept moving, his fatigued mind trying to make plans where none existed.
    The three men jogged to come abreast of him and watched him for a while, eyes sharp and hungry. They exuded a sense of menace, like a pack of savage dogs preparing to circle their prey. To them Alex would have seemed a drifter, with his long hair and beard. The duffel bag over his shoulder and dirty longshoreman’s jacket completed the image of a traveler who’d been down on his luck.
    Alex allowed his eyes to flick over them: two solid, one whip-thin, all dressed in the uniform of the disaffected – dirty jeans and hooded tops. One of the tops lumped slightly at the belly – the unmistakable impression of a handgun. He had to assume they were all carrying something. But it didn’t matter.
    ‘Hey, asshole, I asked you a question. What’s in the fucking bag?’
    Alex kept staring straight ahead but he heard the footsteps quicken. They were close. A cigarette butt bounced off his shoulder.
    ‘Hey, creeping Jesus – give to the poor.’ The man laughed cruelly. ‘Give every fucking thing you’ve got to the poor.’
    The laugh came again, confident, and closer. They were fanning out behind him, moving into a simple attack position. Alex automatically assessed their assault pattern and picked up speed, quickly scanning the street. There was no one else around – good .
    More yelling, and an empty bottle exploded against his shoulder. His hands curled into fists, and he ground his teeth. Parasites – he hated them; these ticks on civilization that burrowed in and then corrupted it from the inside out. So many good and decent people had died – family, friends, comrades – so these … men could replace them. Life’s transaction was all wrong.
    They were nearly on him now, their footsteps rapid, almost dancing in anticipation. They hooted and catcalled with the exhilaration of the hunt. They didn’t really care about what was in his bag or pockets. They wanted to rain hell down on someone, and tonight he’d been chosen.
    ‘Stop, or we’ll fucking stop you!’
    So be it , Alex thought, and quickly shifted sideways into a small alley. It stank of urine and was almost pitch-black and tomb-quiet.
    The men sprinted after him, screaming their annoyance, thinking he was