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An overly-plump grey pigeon with white breast feathers in the shape

of a heart waddled through the flock. Rocking back and forth, as if

nursing two arthritic hips, he stopped just short of my feet, cocked

his head to one side and looked up at me with disdain. Up close, his

feathers bore the scars of time. Years spent living rough. Though,

his beady eyes were sharp and penetrating, the look of an alpha male

accustomed to getting his way. I decided to name him Frank, after

my father.

I tossed him a good measure of pita bread from the paper bag

at my side and hoped he was satiated. Frank shuffled off with the

tasty morsel clenched tightly in his beak. If only it were that simple

to appease my father.

My name is Matt Latham, the only child of Frank Latham.

Excuse me – Sir Frank Latham. My mother, Dawn, died giving birth

to yours truly thirty-four years earlier. And Father – bless his bleak,

dark heart – has never let me live it down. Don’t get me wrong, I’m

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no layabout deserving of his scorn. I’m a well-respected foreign

correspondent – okay, that may be a stretch. But I do manage to eke

out a meagre existence, and most importantly, half a world removed

from Frank and his condescending stare.

I closed my eyes, leaned back against the hard slats of the

wooden bench and allowed the warmth of the sun’s rays to wash

away the negative thoughts. The drive that morning from

Thessaloniki to Skopje, the Republic of Macedonia’s capital, took

three hours. I arrived in time for a late-lunch of burek and a couple

of Zlaten Dab beers. Dappled sunlight filtered through the limbs of

the plane tree overhead. The bench I’d chosen in the Parc de la

Francophile faced the Vardar River whose waters meandered by

with little enthusiasm under the late-summer sun. To my left, a

gaggle of young Mothers chatted while their flock ran amok in the

park’s playground. To my right, nestled amongst the trees, lay a

squat seven-building complex owned by the Macedonian

Government.

My contact had chosen this park for our meet. She’d mentioned

it in passing during an earlier conversation. Her harried call coming

yesterday and catching me by surprise in Thessaloniki.

- Can you meet me tomorrow? I’ll be in Skopje.

- Sure. Where? What time?

- One in the afternoon. By the river, in the park I told you

about.

Besijana Shala worked within the trade delegation for the

Republic of Kosovo. Her group arrived from Pristina that morning

and were heading back to the Kosovan capital tomorrow; their

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itinerary strictly controlled by the Macedonian government. On the

surface, the two countries enjoyed a friendly diplomatic relationship.

However, this is the Balkans, and the depth of trust between Nations

is as shallow as the graves that litter the mountainsides in this part of

the world.

The urgent request to meet momentarily made my heart skip a

beat until learning her needs didn’t exactly align with mine. But

what was the important information she wished to share? With

Kosovo involved, the possibilities were boundless and not usually

uplifting. Belgrade was rattling sabres again regarding the treatment

of Kosovan Serbs in the north. The central government, ruled by the

Kosovan Albanian majority, called the protestations, “baseless and a

smokescreen to incite unrest.” While the Kosovan jihadists, a law

unto themselves, went on their merry way inciting violence. Hence,

the skittishness of the Macedonian government.

The fluttering of wings awakened me from my early-afternoon

stupor. Besijana sat demurely at the far end of the bench. With her

back slightly turned to me she fed the pigeons from a small brown

bag. A light-blue silk scarf loosely covered her long black hair.

Imitation designer sunglasses hid dark-brown, almond-shaped eyes.

Her charcoal grey pantsuit, though made from a cheap synthetic

material, still managed to outline her curves to perfection. Low-

heeled black pumps completed the ensemble. I noticed the fire-

engine red lipstick accentuating soft lips the moment she turned ever

so slightly in my direction.

- I can only stay a few minutes. I had to beg to be allowed

outside for a moment after lunch to enjoy the sun.

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- Hello to you, too.

She stared straight ahead, her lips no longer looking so soft. My

innate ability to irritate on point.

- Sorry. What’s so important?

- A member of our delegation is working with the jihadists.

Not ideal, but not earth-shattering.

- And?

- They are planning a terrorist attack.

Cue sound of earth shattering.

- Where? When?

- Our delegation is scheduled to attend a conference in Croatia

at the end of the month. Representatives from Serbia will also

be present.

A terror attack on a Serbian delegation; wars had begun over less,

particularly in this corner of the world.

- How did you learn of this? Do you have proof? And what do

you propose I do with the information?

Besijana fixed me with a glare that hovered somewhere between

contempt and pity for my naiveté.

- I’m sleeping with him. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings.

And please, Matt, you’ve always asked too many questions to

merely be a reporter. I believe you can get in contact with

those who can stop this madness.

5

The first comment hurt more than I thought. Granted, we’d only

slept together the once, but even still, I retained a little pride.

And the second comment was just a little too pointed for my

liking.

I grew up in consuls and embassies around the globe. And it’s no

secret, though they pretend otherwise, that each nation’s security

services make up a good proportion of embassy staff. Australia is no

different. And although recruited by ASIS – the Australian Secret

Intelligence Service – after graduating from university, I’d opted not

to join. But I wasn’t averse to pushing a little information their way

when the opportunity arose. For these selfless patriotic acts – cue

national anthem – I received a small, discreet, monthly stipend.

Besijana stood, balled up the brown bag and dropped it in the

metal waste bin beside the bench. The massing flock of pigeons

collectively sighed, then turned away in disgust.

- You want proof? Retrieve the bag once I’m gone.

I watched her departure with rapt attention. The sway of her

hips transported me back to a night in Zagreb three months earlier.

I encountered a far more carefree Besijana on that occasion.

Contracted by a Web-based trade publication headquartered in

Brussels, I was to write a series of articles on the health of the various

Balkan state economies. Interminable interviews spread over two

days talking economics with policy wonks had me searching for a

short pier on which to take a long walk. Until I met Besijana. The

interview stretched on into dinner, which necessitated several

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bottles of wine, followed by shots of Rakia at the hotel bar. Needless

to say, I was truly able to make the fledgling Kosovan economy come

alive for the Belgian readers.

Fast forward back to Skopje, and Besijana had been intercepted

on the shaded path by two examples of what steroid abuse can do to

a body. They wore dark suits, white shirts and skinny black ties. The

latest fashion for goons dressing to impress. The gorilla on the right

took her by the arm and continued along the path. The other stared

in my direction. I blithely looked away and resumed feeding Frank

and his minions. From the corner of my eye, I watched gorilla

number two turn away then slowly glance back over his shoulder.

He gave his best impression of Lot’s wife staring back at Sodom –

frozen, like a statue – before breaking the spell and lumbering away.

I took that as my cue to leave. Dropping the bag into the bin that

kept me on Frank’s good side, I spotted Besijana’s balled-up brown

bag, quickly palmed it, then took the path leading to the river.

My hotel overlooked the 12th-century bazaar. I crossed the

pedestrian bridge over the Vardar, removed a thumb drive from the

paper sack, and slid it into the front pocket of my pants. The streets

were near empty and baking in the sweltering heat of the afternoon.

Folks, and time, moved at a different pace in this corner of the world.

Store hours more ‘best-case’ than an absolute. Closing for lunch

expected; returning afterwards – a coin flip.

Pulling my mobile from a back pocket, I scrolled through the

contact listing. The ringing of the phone on the desk of Ryan Purcell

at the Australian High Commission in London reverberated back

over the airwaves a moment later.

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I’d called London home for the past two years. The perfect city

to lose one’s self; where little was expected from a mid-thirties

transplant from the colonies. And half a world away from a Father

I’d given up on trying to please, an ex-wife whom I’d never been able

to please, and my five-year-old son, Trevor. A son whose memories

of his father, I feared, faded by the day. The day would eventually

come when I’d be able to talk to him about love and loss and betrayal

without the words becoming a jumbled mess falling from my mouth.

But it wouldn’t be any day soon.

- Ryan Purcell. How may I help you?

- Ryan, it’s Matt.

- Matt, ya’ old rake. What are you up to?

Ryan – in espionage parlance – was my handler. Though I

despised the term as I didn’t consider myself an agent. Daring-do

was never going to be a part of my calling card, at least, not if I could

help it. He was more of an old friend from our days together at

Melbourne University. And where I’d resisted, he’d been wooed by

the ASIS lifted skirt and perfumed thigh routine. Someone I trusted

to pass information to, and, most importantly, to maintain my cover.

It was one thing travelling the globe as a reporter and being treated

warily, but if known to be a spy – it could easily turn deadly.

I assumed all calls to the High Commission were recorded as a

matter of course, most likely by MI5 – British Intelligence – if not

others, so I kept the conversation short and cryptic.

- I’m in Skopje doing a little sightseeing and picked up a small

gift for your birthday.

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Luckily, it was his birthday next week, so the conversation would

pass muster if anyone decided to check.

- They tell me the Macedonian mail service is a little sketchy

and I want to make sure you receive it in time. Is there

someone here at the Consulate I can pass it to?

I felt confident he’d gotten the gist of my call; gift giving was not

one of my strong points.

- Sure. Let me make a call and … some … loc … pos …

Ryan’s voice kept cutting out. I checked my phone and noticed

the signal icon registering just one bar. Assuming the massive stone

walls surrounding the 10th-Century citadel I leant against had

something to do with it, I crossed the road hoping to improve the

reception. While glancing left and right checking traffic, I noticed

one of the Kosovan gorillas crossing the bridge with a phone to his

ear.

I turned, keeping him in my peripheral vision, and tried

reconnecting with Ryan.

- Ryan, you were cutting out. Say again.

- I said I’ll have someone local call you as soon as possible. Keep

your phone handy.

- Got it.

Ending the call, I picked up my pace and thought through my

dilemma. The knuckle-dragger on my tail may just be taking a stroll

around town. If so, then it was quite the coincidence. I stopped

believing in coincidence around the same time Frank burst the Santa

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bubble. Besijana’s minders had obviously seen her and I sitting on

the bench together. So, I assumed, they’d have this brute tail me

while asking her a few pointed questions.

The good news; they were just keeping me under observation,

meaning Besijana hadn’t yet given anything away. The bad news;

these bastards didn’t play games. I doubted she could hold out for

long.

As the implications of that scenario ran through my mind like a

gory Tarentino movie, I resisted the urge to break into a slow jog.

Any sign of panic would surely tip my hand. I could feel the thumb

drive beginning to burn a hole in my pocket.

I’d reached the flagstone-paved alleys of the old bazaar. Here,

the narrow lanes wound back and forth in no discernible direction.

The tangy scent of spices and roasting meat hung heavy in the air.

Umbrellas shaded tables out front of the many taverns forming a

canopy repelling all sunlight.

Hustling down one lane after the other, keeping to the shadows,

taking corners at random, I hoped to lose the well-dressed ape. After

each change of direction, I quickly sprinted ahead for ten metres to

widen the distance. I soon found myself in a large open plaza. Five

laneways fed into the square with a large dun-coloured mosque at its

centre. The open space was exactly what I didn’t need. I quickly

ducked inside the first store I found open.

An elderly lady seated behind the counter snapped awake and

smiled. Her mouth had more gaps than teeth and her leathery face,

hardened by the sun, crinkled with the effort. I smiled back and gave

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the universal sign for I’m just looking. At least that’s what I hoped

the waving of my arms indicated. The front window display was

crammed with every knickknack known to man, I could barely see

the glass let alone the plaza beyond.

I only had to wait a moment for the gorilla to burst, huffing and

puffing, into the plaza. My burly assailant scanned the open expanse

and the realization he’d lost me quickly dawned on his face. He

pulled a phone from his jacket pocket, punched a few buttons, then

held it to the side of his square head as he dragged a paw through his

thick black hair. The conversation was brief, his shoulders slumping

as he trudged back out of the plaza.

The lady behind the counter had fallen back asleep, or into a

coma – it was hard to tell; her body sinking into the cushions as if

she’d lost compression. I crept from the store and made my way in

the opposite direction to the gorilla, and towards my hotel. I’d feel a

whole lot better once the thumb drive was in safe hands; however,

the fate of Besijana put a damper on my exuberance. The situation

had been of her making, but that didn’t quell the guilt pangs stabbing

me in the gut.

A block from my hotel I pulled up abruptly. Ahead, gorilla

number two stood outside the front entrance with a phone to his ear.

I backed up slowly, around the nearest corner, and hoped I hadn’t

been spotted. How did they know where I was staying? The answer

was as clear as the look of panic on my face; I’d told Besijana. If

they’d already gotten that information from her, had they also

discovered what I was carrying? My rental car was in the courtyard

behind the hotel, the only entry and exit point five metres from

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where the Kosovan bodybuilder paced. There was no way I could

get to it without being seen.

I spotted a taxi on the other side of the street parked in the shade

of a tall pine tree. The driver had the front door open, the seat fully

reclined and his legs spread-eagled through the open window. I

raced across the road and threw myself onto the back seat.

Slamming the door jolted him awake, and he spat out an

exclamation in his incomprehensible language.

- Do you speak English?

- Sure. Why the fuck you wake me? I’m on break, find another

driver.

- I don’t have time. I’ll make it worth your while.

- Why didn’t you say so? You want tour? I give grand tour of

Skopje, at fair price. You American?

- No, Australian.

- Even better, you get discount. I, Spiro. I have cousins in

Wollongong. How you say? Good day, mate. What your

name?

It took an eternity for Spiro to stumble over the words but it gave

him time to sit upright. He stretched a seat belt across his rotund

belly and buckled it with a weary sigh. His face was deeply tanned

and etched with lines that mirrored the cracked vinyl on his

dashboard; a bald spot on the back of his head was shaped like a

poached egg and surrounded by thinning salt and pepper hair.

- It’s Matt.

- No, pretty sure saying is - mate.

12

- You’re right. But my name is Matt.

- Ah, I get it. You Australians, always pulling legs.

Speaking of legs, I was still trying to get mine situated in the back

of the cramped Soviet-era Lada as Spiro pulled out of the parking

space. I’m not a tall man, just a shade under 180 centimetres, but the

rear legroom had me wishing I was one of Snow White’s seven

friends.

- Take a right here.

Spiro came to a stop at the intersection. I snuck a glance to the

left back towards the hotel. The burly hunk of beef was still stalking

back and forth on the pavement. A moment later I knew why; as his

ride pulled to a stop right beside us. I quickly slunk down as low as

I could, but not in time. As Spiro turned right and the Kosovans

turned left, the gorilla I’d earlier given the slip turned to face me. His

dark eyes were shaded under his Neanderthal brow, but even from a

distance of three metres, I could see them sparkle in delight. The last

I saw, before they turned towards the hotel, was his ugly slit of a

mouth part in the vague impression of a smile.

- So where do you want to go?

I answered as I pivoted in the backseat to look through the rear

window.

- Keep going south.

As I suspected the sleek black BMW with diplomatic plates made

a quick U-turn in front of the hotel, picked up their partner in crime

and accelerated in our direction. I dug for the phone in my back

13

pocket and hit redial. While I waited for Ryan to answer, I gave

Spiro an added incentive.

- You see that BMW behind us?

- Sure.

- It belongs to a lady friend’s husband. And I really don’t want

to explain to him why she was out late last night. I’ll pay you

double if you can lose it. Understood?

- I got it, Matt.

Spiro let out a phlegmy laugh as he punched the accelerator. The

Lada skipped a beat before an ungodly whine from the engine

increased in pitch as the speedometer’s needle inched slowly to the

right.

- You Australians, fucking hilarious.

Ryan’s voice crackled through my mobile.

- Matt? What’s wrong? And what’s that noise? You onboard

a fighter jet?

- Just a Lada trying to break fifty. Listen, Ryan. I’ve got a tail,

and I’m not sure I can shake it. I need that local help to call

ASAP.

- Got it. Head towards the Consulate if you can. I’ll light a fire

under the locals.

- Thanks, Ryan.

- And stay off the main streets. Usain Bolt could out run a Lada,

and could explode if they hit sixty. That’s the Lada, not Usain.

14

We crossed the Vardar River motoring south on Boulevard

Kocho Racin, one of the main north-south thoroughfares. Three out

of four of the Lada’s cylinders sung a frenetic tune, the fourth had

lost the beat. Ahead, Mount Vodno rose majestically above the city.

In a warren of streets at its base was the Australian Consulate. A

quick look behind showed the BMW closing quickly. Any closer and

I’d be able to make out the drool on the gorilla’s face in the front seat.

I was in the middle of placing my chances of escaping this mess

at somewhere between ‘slim’ and ‘I’m fucked’ when Spiro spun the

wheel hard to the left.

- Fucking Gypsies!

An ancient wagon, with four mismatched car wheels and being

towed by a donkey, emerged from a side street. Spiro missed the rear

of the buggy by centimetres. My head snapped to the right and hit

the side window with a resounding thunk. I felt a warm trickle of

blood begin to snake through my hair as we passed the wagon. Three

young Romani children on the bench seat shot me their middle-

finger in unison. The donkey seemed slightly embarrassed.

I dabbed at the bump on the side of my head; the cut not serious.

More importantly, the Roma family, and surrounding traffic, had

slowed the progress of our pursuers.

- Spiro, keep heading south but we need to get off this main

street.

15

Spiro mumbled something under his breath that may or may not

have been English. If I had to guess he was calculating if the notes

I’d slipped him covered the cost of this thrill ride.

Just then, the sound of my ringtone rose up from beneath Spiro’s

seat. As I bent over to retrieve my mobile – thrown loose by Spiro’s

manic gyrations – the rear window imploded showering me in glass.

The bullet leaving a neat hole in the passenger seat headrest.

- Jesus Christ, Matt. Who you sleep with? Macedonian

husbands too lazy to care this much.

- She’s from Kosovo.

A sense of calm and understanding came over Spiro as he pulled

hard on the wheel and turned left across oncoming traffic.

- Oh, that explains it. Them crazy bastards.

I grabbed my phone and remained lying across the back seat.

- Yeah?

- Matt Latham? I hear you need some assistance.

The voice was deep, laboured and unmistakably Australian. It

sounded as if he’d just finished a long day in the shearing sheds.

- You could say that. I’m under fire, south of the river, heading

your way. We’re now on side streets, but I doubt we can out

run them.

- Right.

It came across as, “royt.”

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- We’ll be with you in two shakes.

- What’s that in “getting shot at” time? And how do you

propose finding me?

- We’re about five minutes from you. And we’re tracking your

phone signal using GPS, whatever you do don’t turn it off.

I checked the display – twelve percent. I hung up and prayed it

was enough.

Spiro’s mumbling was growing in intensity as he swung the

wheel wildly taking corner after corner. The Lada rarely had four

wheels on the ground at any one time. And the engine was

screaming for a priest.

- You okay, Spiro?

- I survive Tito and his communists, I survive the Serbs and

their bombs, only to die trying to save Australian who pork a

Muslim.

Spiro chortled ironically.

- Ha, I make Muslim joke!

Who was I to deny a man a little gallows humour?

- Hang in there, Spiro. We’ll get out of this; you’ll be seeing

your wife and family again in no time.

- Huh, if you knew wife, you know that no incentive to live.

Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow streets leaving only

room for one vehicle. We’d be trapped if we met oncoming traffic.

17

On the plus side, the narrow streets and constant turning also slowed

the progress of the BMW.

I needed to buy a little time for the sheep farmer to reach me, and

to get Spiro out of harm’s way. I dug the rest of the notes out of my

wallet and dropped them onto the front seat.

- Spiro. Take this.

Spiro did a quick double-take; the wad of Euros close to four

month’s pay.

- At the next corner, after you turn, slow for a second so I can

roll out.

- You sure? I drive you to Athens for that amount of money.

- No. It’s yours.

If I could slip out unseen the ruse may buy me the time I needed.

Another quick check of my phone – nine percent.

The BMW was sixty metres back picking its way gingerly

through the congested side streets. Spiro made another left then

slowed for me to drop out of the Lada. I landed heavily on my

shoulder and rolled once before hitting the front wheel of a parked

car. I shimmied between two cars and hid behind a rear quarter

panel just as the BMW rounded the corner. It sped on past in pursuit

of Spiro.

I crouched there a moment and took stock of my situation. My

shoulder hurt like hell, but I’d survive. My shirt and pants were torn

and filthy, and my head wound had reopened. Just your average

London pub crawl. More importantly, the thumb drive was safely

18

tucked away in my front pocket, now-empty wallet snug in my back

pocket, and phone … gone.

My body temperature dropped to mirror a Nordic fjord as a rush

of ice water ran through my veins. I knew I had it in my hand when

I rolled from the car, it had to be somewhere close. I searched

beneath one vehicle with no luck. As I looked under another, a

screech of brakes broke the silence.

Two hundred metres further along the street a delivery van had

backed out of a driveway blocking the road, and Spiro’s escape. My

pursuers would quickly realize I wasn’t in the taxi and double back.

I checked under the second vehicle … nothing. I willed myself not

to panic and looked again under both vehicles. The gutter lining the

roadway was clear in both directions but for a pile of pine needles. I

dove my hand into their dryness; crunching the brittle slivers into a

million pieces. Finally, my hand closed around a familiar shape. The

high-pitched whine of an engine in reverse told me it was time to

run.

I ran alongside the pockmarked, graffiti-covered, concrete

exterior of an apartment building before ducking down an alley. The

dark walkway opened into a courtyard framed by the rectangular-

shaped complex. There was no way out without heading back in the

same direction. And into my pursuer’s arms. Ahead, an elderly lady

dressed head-to-toe in black and carrying two heavily-laden

shopping bags struggled with the entry door to her building. I rushed

up, smiled, held it open and followed her inside.

The miniscule stairwell was stuffy, dark and smelled of fried

onions and cat piss. The widow continued on up the concrete stairs

19

worn smooth from years of foot traffic. I leant against the wall to

catch my breath and check my phone. Down to five percent, and six

minutes since I’d talked with the sheep farmer. Help, I prayed, had

to be arriving any moment.

A small window in the entry door, about twenty centimetres

square and reinforced with wire mesh, offered a view of the

courtyard. Standing deep in the shadows, I could see children

kicking a soccer ball, and across the way a building of identical design

with a door mirroring the one I’d just entered. And one of the

gorillas was checking to see if it was locked. A second later a large

body blocked out my view.

Not wasting a second, I turned and ran up the stairs. I wasn’t sure

if the door was locked or not, the squeak of a rusty hinge answered

my question.

In my youth, I’d played a little football, but these days my

exercise routine was limited to running down stories, which didn’t

require any actual running. However, when chased by a gorilla with

a gun, the six flights of stairs flew by. Unfortunately, when I reached

the top, an imposing metal doorway blocked my path.

Saying another short prayer – I’d prayed more today than in the

past twenty years – I tested the handle. It gave way with a reluctant

groan. Once safely back in London, I’d definitely be making a hefty

donation to St. Stephen’s Anglican Church on Uxbridge Road. With

a solid nudge from my good shoulder, I squeezed through the narrow

opening. I emerged onto the rooftop and into blazing sunlight.

Shielding my eyes from the blinding reflections off of numerous

metal surfaces, I surveyed my surroundings.

20

Before me lay an appliance graveyard. A post-apocalyptic

Harvey Norman. The rusting carcasses of refrigerators, portable air-

conditioning units, washing machines, even an old gas heater, lay

strewn haphazardly. Before I could shift a clothes dryer to bar the

door the crack of a gunshot echoed through the concrete canyon

below. Two more shots quickly followed. Then … silence. My

rescuers had arrived, though who had stopped the bullets was

anyone’s guess. I ran to the edge of the rooftop hoping to get an idea.

The bordering of the roof consisted of thirty centimetres of

wrought-iron latticework atop a fifty-centimetre-high plaster and

concrete ledge. From ground level, it would have appeared quite

ornate. From my perspective it seemed an irresponsible safety

hazard. I thought, someone really should have a word with a

supervisor in building safety compliance. The top of the railing came

to just above my knee, and as I grasped the metal and leaned forward

to get a glimpse of the courtyard below, I discovered it also

surprisingly fragile.

Forget a supervisor, I needed the damn Macedonian minister in

charge.

Before I could react, the plaster façade supporting the wrought-

iron crumbled under my weight and I tumbled over the side. My

body hit the side of the building knocking the wind out of me. And

there I dangled with just the crook of my arm looped through a piece

of latticework tenuously connected to its shaky underpinning. I

looked down; six floors and certain death if the metal gave way.

I shouldn’t have looked down. My head swam with a sudden

rush of vertigo.

21

From above, came the groaning shriek of the rooftop door. Then

heavy footsteps slowly picking their way through the debris. I

looked up, directly into the blazing afternoon sun. A moment later

the sun was blotted out by the silhouette of a hulking creature, gun

in hand, peering down at my tenuous situation.

He cradled his stomach like he’d eaten a dodgy burrito. Blood

seeped between his fingers from a gunshot wound. And as he raised

the gun, a drop of blood landed on my forehead painting a

convenient target.

I closed my eyes waiting for the inevitable; God thumbing his

nose at my St. Stephens IOU. The sound of the gunshot almost

caused me to loosen my grip – and bowels – but I felt no pain. I

opened my eyes to see the hulk above me begin to sway back and

forth. Blood blossomed from an exit wound in his chest. A slow-

motion swan dive off the edge of the building followed. I didn’t need

to look down to know his landing wouldn’t impress the judges.

As his lifeless body made a sickening splat, another enormous

shape holding a gun took his place. This one, however, spoke

English.

- Matt Latham, I presume. Barry Jenkins is the name.

I breathed a sigh of relief, raised my right hand and watched it

disappear into his colossal mitt.

- Jeez, Matt.

The sheep farmer named Barry exhaled a slight grunt as he pulled

me to safety.

22

- Bet you’ve had better days.