‘Go,’ Esterházy says. ‘Take the others and run.’
‘We can’t leave you.’
‘You must.’ For a moment, she presses her palm against my chest. ‘Now go!’
I run for the stairs. At the top I look back and see Esterházy, her back against the bar, the long rifle loaded and trained on the door.
‘Out!’ I bellow into the corridor, as the shouts from the street grow louder. ‘Everyone, out!’
Bebe stumbles from her room, eyes puffy with sleep, the gun holster slung over her nightgown.
‘The Marshal, he’s back,’ I gasp, and she goes running, screaming for Thrip to arm himself, for Franzi to hide.
‘Ten?’ Silas is there, naked and dishevelled. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Get dressed, we have to get out.’
I burst into Falco’s room. She’s already standing, buckling on her guns. I realise she has not slept.
‘Trouble?’
‘The Marshal. With a posse. We have to run.’
Her face hardens. ‘Esterházy?’
‘She told us to go.’
Peg stirs groggily in the bed, the bloodied bandage wound around their upper chest.
There’s a cry from downstairs, an explosion of gunfire and shattering plastic.
‘General!’ I yell, and run.
Together, half-dressed and rattled from sleep, we tumble onto the landing, Silas and Falco holding Pegeen between them. Rapidly, I give Peg a shot – a cocktail of amphetamine and analgesic – so they can run and not feel pain.
‘Now me.’ The General holds out her arm.
No time to argue. I shoot a dose into her as well.
‘Falco, how many guns do we have?’ I ask.
‘Four. Flyboy, you got that peashooter?’
Hurriedly, Silas scrambles for the pistol he wears at his ankle.
‘Five then.’
I hold out my hand. They have chased us onto a path of chaos; if I want to live, I have no choice but to walk it. Falco places a pistol in my palm.
As we round the stairs, gunfire lights the darkness; the bright flashes of charges, the duller flare and thunk of old metal bullets. The windows are already smashed, as are most of the bottles behind the bar, where Esterházy, Bebe and Thrip shelter.
‘Out the back!’ the bartend yells. ‘We’ll cover you!’
‘Pec!’ Falco cries.
The old woman looks up. In the fitful light her face is that of a younger woman, the tattoo stark on her skin, her eyes like scorched metal. She smiles.
Then there’s a scream, and a smoke grenade arches in through one of the windows.
‘Go!’ she orders.
We run, smoke billowing at our heels. And yet it works in our favour, because in the confusion of dust and smoke the posse doesn’t see us stagger around the corner and onto the road behind them.
Two of the Peacekeepers kick at the saloon’s doors. With a horrible clatter, they give way, the metal bent inwards. A rifle shot rings out, and one Peacekeeper staggers back, holding their middle.
Vehicles block the road ahead of us; a dozen buzzards and mules and mares ridden by the posse.
‘We’ll never make it to the ship,’ Silas gasps, staring at the distance between the town and the port, a stretch of darkness with no cover, nothing but empty dirt. Pegeen sags, clutching Falco’s shoulder and breathing heavily.
‘We will,’ Falco retorts. ‘Get ready to run. Peg?’
‘Ready.’
As the gunfire and the shouts from Esterházy’s place increase, I meet Falco’s gaze. She nods.
Lowering my head, I sprint out into the middle of the road, to draw the Peacekeepers’ fire. The wind is with me as I run, as I raise the pistol and fire once, striking a Peacekeeper in her shoulder. Across the road, I see Falco push the others on.
Four Peacekeepers open fire on me; I scramble behind a parked mule, sparks flying as charges smash into the metal. Reaching up, I fumble for the ignition, praying it’s still engaged. It is – I jam the lever, punch the accelerator with my fist and leap away as the vehicle shoots forwards, straight at the posse.
I sprint, Silas’s jacket whipping behind me. Gunfire spits dust at my heels. Ahead, I see the others, heads bent against flying charges. If we can just make it out of range…
From nowhere, an explosion sends me sprawling to the dirt. There’s smoke, and a ringing in my ears, but I force myself to my feet. Up ahead, Silas drags Pegeen up from the ground. Falco, her nose bloodied, reaches for her guns. Then, in the light of the gunfire, a small shape comes running towards me, a pair of pistols in her hands, her eyes fixed.
Without stopping, the General sights and fires. The Peacekeeper on our heels sprawls backwards, a bullet hole in his skull. She seizes the weapon he dropped: an ex-army blaster.
A louder explosion, and flames paint the night. I look up, eyes stinging with acrid smoke and dust. Esterházy’s place is on fire.
‘No!’ I scream, but it’s too late. The Marshal’s buzzard bursts through the smoke and speeds towards us.
I run. Somewhere up ahead I hear the rabid snapping of Falco’s pistol as she fires over her shoulder. I turn to do the same when a volley of charges sends me diving for cover behind the stands outside the General Store. Glass shatters and witchetty grubs fall tumbling and writhing into the dirt all around me. Then, someone fires out from the window over my head: the store owner, screaming insults.
It’s just enough cover. I stumble forwards, onto the stretch of dirt before the port. Fear rattles through me. There’s no way we’ll make it. Over the sounds of gunfire, I hear the awful cackling of the buzzard speeding towards us. I look back: Marshal Joliffe is at the wheel yelling something, his bandages scorched and bloody. Behind him, a Peacekeeper sights a rifle.
A blast and the Peacekeeper falls, throat spraying blood directly onto Joliffe, who swerves wildly off course. Falco lowers her pistol.
‘Come on!’
There – up ahead – I see the shape of the docks, the looming bulk of the Charis at the
