Vanished by James Delargy (free novel 24 TXT) 📕

Stevie inched closer to Lorcan. ‘You can’t take that,’ he said, polite but firm.

‘I am,’ said Lorcan. ‘And leaving with my family.’

‘We can find a way,’ said Stevie, his hand up, pleading for calm.

‘We tried. You shut me out.’

Mike found his voice. It wasn’t as strong as he had hoped. ‘You can’t rob us,’ he said, the whimper diseasing the words.

Turning to him, Lorcan said loudly, ‘I can and I am.’

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Stevie pounced.

Mike yelled at his friend to stop but the gunshot drowned it all out. Stevie slumped to the side, blood pouring out of a wound in his chest. There were no moans, no final, rasping gasps of air, no goodbyes. Just dead.

Mike stared at his friend. Just like words had failed him earlier, now his muscles failed him too. He couldn’t move. He stared at Lorcan. The rifle was still pointed towards Stevie but lowered, aimed at the ground. If he attacked now he could disarm Lorcan. If he moved right now. But his feet felt glued to the earth.

In the end Lorcan moved first, the bag of gold slipping off his shoulder to the dirt. His face betrayed the shock of what he had done. Then he broke into a run, away from the scene, back in the direction of his house.

Mike’s feet finally moved. He ran to his friend but could immediately see that there was no hope. All life had gone from the eyes, the blood seeping into the earth, creating a dark pool underneath him.

He looked up. Lorcan was still running, the coward fleeing the scene. The crippling fear left him. Revenge took over. Returning to the tunnel he grabbed the rifle. Checking it was loaded he made for the bastard’s house.

Charging through town he stalked up to the front door still not quite aware of what he was doing. He had never fired a gun before, he’d had no need to in the quiet suburbs of Brisbane; nothing to shoot for there but the highest grades possible. Grades that give you an education. Grades that are meant to shield you from ever having to wield a rifle in anger.

Taking cover, he peeked in the living-room window. It was empty, the air quiet, prickling with tension. The kitchen was the same. Only a little more airy given the gap in the roof. He made a calculation. Lorcan was holed up in the back with the boy and the rifle. A firm press on the front door determined that it was closed, maybe even wedged shut. He wondered what to do. Climbing in the window was possible but left him a sitting duck. He wasn’t built, designed or trained to stalk prey. Especially prey that could shoot back. And as much as he hated Lorcan Maguire’s guts, he didn’t want to shoot the boy by accident.

Feeling too exposed to think properly he retreated back to where Stevie lay. Anger boiled his blood. He needed to release it. To hurt Lorcan. Looking at the quad the bastard had just purchased, he pulled out his penknife and slashed the tyres, cursing Lorcan to hell as he crippled it.

It was time to consider his next move. He could return to the house and wait for an opportunity to shoot Lorcan, maybe even threaten him with the fact that he could testify to him killing Stevie to lure him out. Now, for the first time, he held all the cards. But the cost had been too great. His friend’s death. He squeezed off the tear that leaked from his eye. This was no time to cry. It was time to decide.

Another option was to wait for Ian to return. Use their numerical advantage against Lorcan. But that had already failed once. Tragically.

In the end there was really only one choice: make a run for it. With the gold.

He glanced at Stevie’s body in the bloody dirt, the sun already cooking his dead flesh. A tremendous guilt coursed through his veins for what had happened but there was something else. Something that had been brewing inside him ever since he agreed to this bloody scheme: a cold determination to profit from it. It was time for the living to stay alive.

Fishing the security box key from Stevie’s pocket, he loaded up the rest of the gold into Lorcan’s canvas bag. The three-way split was now two, half and half, so he didn’t feel bad about taking it all. Fuck lan. Where was his protection when they had needed it most? He was meant to stop the bullets. Or take them. But Stevie had instead.

He filled the bag, threw in the rifle and lugged it onto his back. It was manageable but awkward, the short straps biting into his shoulders. He needed to get out. Looking at the quad he cursed himself. He regretted slashing the tyres now. Another fuck-up in this town of fuck-ups.

104

Mike Andrews

He added some bottles of water to his haul of gold. And the rest of the Chunky Peanut Butter KitKats. His two-bars-a-day habit. He affixed the load until it was more comfortable on his back then climbed onto the quad and turned the engine. It spat into life, buzzing underneath him. If he took it steadily he might be able to use it to get out of Kallayee. Far enough so that he could swap it for another mode of transport. All that mattered right now was getting the fuck out of Dodge.

Using his foot to click it into gear he tried the throttle. The engine roared, trying to drag the bike like a donkey-owner at the seaside, but the flat tyres failed to rotate. He gave it more throttle but there was no progress, the engine spluttering frustration at being unable to go anywhere.

With the rising stench of burning oil, he shut it off. His rash temper had foiled his best chance of escape. Now he was wasting