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already taking a bead on me. Trouble’s always a good shot, and in my case it’s got a fucking laser sight. A run-in with an ex-wiseguy and a five thou contract hovering somewhere over my head. Great going, Jack.
    Time to get out of town before I slept with God’s wife.
    The door on the first floor of Mal’s building was open, allowing the music from within to really let itself be heard. Two guys were conducting a drug deal in the hall. They glanced quickly at me as I passed, but I shrugged to show I was harmless.
    I was wearily trudging up the second flight of stairs, grimly anticipating getting the spares moving again and wondering whether I could impose upon Mal to look after them a little longer while I went to buy a vehicle, when a shot sang through the air past my ear and smashed the shit out of a wall panel behind me.
    I dropped to my knees on the stairs, spilling the groceries, fumbling for my gun and trying to work out whether the shot had come from above or below. Another cracking sound and half a yard of banister disappeared, my question answered: The shots were coming from above. My gun finally out, I cranked a shell up into the breech. Footsteps clattered down the stairs and I stepped quickly and quietly back away from them, round the corner—trying to work out what to do, and hoping Mal would hear the shots and come out to help me.
    There was a moment of silence, the shooter listening for what I was doing. I poked a foot forward and deliberately pressed a loose board. There was a creak, and then another shot gouged a trail of soggy plaster out of the wall.
    I decided what the fuck, ran forward and turned spraying shots upward as I ran.
    Two went wild, another close enough to send the guy back up the stairs. I pressed the advantage, leaping the stairs three at a time, feeling a wavering sight on the back of my neck and brazening it out. I slipped on a wet stair and slid into the wall, saving my life—another shot spanged past and buried itself in the woodwork. I hauled myself up with one hand and turned to see a man leaning over the banister on the next floor, gun already raised, finger tightening. I realized I didn’t have time to move or much to lose and just unloaded the gun at him.
    The first shot caught his shoulder, sending his wide; the second parked in his lungs and sent him stumbling backward. I leapt up the stairs still shooting, piling shots into the darkness, the gun jumping and bucking in my hand.
    After the seventh shot he was no longer firing. I saved one and ran in a crouch up the remaining stairs, being careful when I turned the corner but opening out on seeing him twisted on the floor against the wall.
    When I reached him I kicked the gun out of hishand and yanked his head up. The face was unknown, one eyelid fluttering and his breathing ragged. The body below the face was a mess which wasn’t going to survive. I slapped the guy and leaned in close to him.
    “Who sent you?” He just stared at me, eyes glazing. I slapped his face again to keep him perky. “Give me a name.”
    “Fuck you,” he said eventually. “You’re dead.”
    “Not yet, I think you’ll find, and not nearly so close as you. Who sent you? Safety Net?”
    His lips managed a smile. He said nothing.
    “Last chance,” I said. He tried to form the words “Fuck you,” but it was too much of art effort. I looked in his eyes, and knew he wasn’t going to tell me. I respected that. So I dragged him by the throat to the banister and swung him into the slats as hard as I could. They broke; he went through and tumbled down the stairwell.
    His legs hit the banister going down, twisting his fall so his head caught it the next time round. When he landed far below he hit the earth like a bag of wet sticks landing in a shallow pool.
    Mal’s door looked shut, but when I got up close to it, I saw the panel of the door wasn’t quite snug with the jamb. I held my breath, listening, and slid another clip into the gun.
    I