Mister Wolf was still leaning against the ruined car, unconscious. His chin rested on his chest, dribble darkened his shirt, and blood dripped from the wound at his temple. Tom thought he saw him breathing, but he did not want to move close enough to see for sure.

It was time to find out whether his plan would really work.

The chain was long enough to wrap twice around the man's head and the steering column of Tom's wrecked car. Tom joined the chain at the base of Mister Wolf's neck with two of the broken links, using the bolt croppers to squeeze the snipped ends together. He supposed that the man would be able to work the chain around and perhaps prise the snapped links apart, but he would not be able to see what he was doing, and it would take a long time.

Someone would have found him by then.

Lastly, the gun. Tom cleaned it as well as he could with his shirt, found the button that ejected the magazine, then placed the unloaded weapon on the ground beside Mister Wolf. He pocketed the magazine, then stood back to survey his work, frowning. He knelt again, grabbed the gun, lifted the man's hand and curled his finger into the trigger guard, pressing it onto the trigger.

Shit, he had no idea what he was doing! In the movies this would work, but this was not a bloody movie. He was not quite sure whether it was real life, either, but whatever it was he had to get going. Whatever he had done here would be found soon enough, and while Mister Wolf answered questions with the police, he and Natasha would be gone.

"Gone for Steven," Tom said, standing, glancing into the car at his dead wife, remembering the birth of their son. Jo had been screaming, and Tom had been crying so much that he could barely see. "Gone for Steven, Jo." Damn. She had died without even knowing there might still be a chance.

Something touched his crotch.

"Move and you lose them."

Tom looked down. Mister Wolf had raised his head, lifted the gun, and now he was pressing it into Tom's scrotum.

"No bullets," Tom said, revealing the tip of the magazine in his pocket. But something prevented him from moving; he had never touched a gun before, and he had no idea how they really worked.

"Always keep one in the hole," Mister Wolf said.

Tom bit his lip. Learning all the time.

"I'm going to shoot you now."

"What's your name?" Tom asked.

"Huh?"

"Your name? What's your name?" Tom looked down. The man was frowning, right eye swollen half-shut and thick with blood, face pale, and his head was swaying from side to side as if it hurt to hold it up.

"Cole."

"I'm Tom."

"You're dead."

"I'm Tom." He had no idea what he was doing. Stalling for time? Trying to start a conversation with this killer pressing a gun into his balls?

"Huh?" Cole looked woozy, and his head dipped down to his chest, then up again. The gun never moved a millimetre. "Shut the fuck up, Tom," he said. His voice sounded stronger. His left eye focused on Tom's face and stayed focused. "Where is she?"

"I told you, I hid her back—"

"I'm tied up with her chains, shithead."

Damn! Tom pursed his lips and looked along the road. Please come now, please come now, someone, anyone, please please I don't want to die like this, with my balls blown off for the birds to come and take away. …

And then Natasha woke up.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut as he felt her worm inside his mind, her presence fresh and seemingly renewed. She rooted around, finding things. She felt vibrant and … alive!

Only one bullet to dodge, Daddy? she said. Well then, he's in pain, dizzy, and I'll be able to give you one chance.

"What… ?" Tom said, but Cole suddenly cried out in pain and pushed the gun harder into Tom's balls. Here it comes, he thought.

Cole squeezed the trigger. For the first time in his life he was actually looking forward to killing someone. His head hurt like hell, his temple felt weak and mushy, and the headache meant he could barely even open his one good eye. The piece of shit deserved to die.

He squeezed harder.

"What?" Tom said.

Natasha came. She erupted from Cole's subconscious, throwing open the doorways of his deeper mind, gushing up into the foggy streets of his awareness, shouting and screaming and raging like the insane berserker she was. There was no sense or meaning to her outburst, though he read the hatred it contained. He could not make out any single words, but her mockery and derision was obvious in the scream, driving into and filling his waking mind with such loathing that he could only shrink back under its assault. She gave him the violence she had always possessed. He tried to curl into a ball. He dropped the gun and grabbed his head in both hands, ignoring the pain from his temple, feeling the sticky blood there and wishing the wound would vent Natasha from his mind.

"Get out," he whispered, because he had little strength for anything more.

Get out get out get out! she screeched, whining like a little girl who knew far too much.

"Leave me," he said.

Leave me leave me … Mister Wolf, fuck you, you can suck my ass, fuck you Mister Wolf, you'll lose, you've already lost!

"No," Cole said. And with a monumental effort, fighting through the agonies of his body and the torture in his mind, he opened his eyes, saw the gun lying next to him and reached for it.

A wavering, fuzzy shape grew smaller in his vision as Roberts fled.

Cole screamed, aimed the gun and fired.

Cole fell away from Tom, dropped the gun and curled into a ball.

Daddy, it's time to run, Natasha said, her voice calm and considered. One chance, Daddy. He's got one round, and you've got one chance.

Tom panicked, dropped the bolt croppers, stepped over the groaning man and headed for the BMW. His balls ached, he felt sick, the painful glow radiating up from his stomach almost bending him double.

Quickly! Natasha said.

"I'm moving."

"Leave me," Cole said from behind him, and Tom glanced over his shoulder, wondering what she was doing to this killer's mind. Something horrible, if his expression was anything to go by. Something that gave him pain. Tom was glad.

"No," Cole said. He raised himself on one elbow and grabbed the gun.

Run, Daddy, dodge, fall, he's going to—

The shot blasted out, startling Natasha deeper into Tom's mind, and he sensed her own profound shock as something punched him in the back and sent him sprawling across the tarmac.

Shot, he thought, I've been shot. There was no pain, no real sensation other than being winded, and he hoped that this was as it had been for Jo, this shocked numbness before death.

Death…

"I'm dying," he said.

Daddy! Natasha gasped, and he could hear her tears. Wait … it's not that bad. Stand up. Stand up now! Her voice changed on those last three words, losing their childish lilt and taking on something of age, experience, something that spoke of power and adaptability. And fury. She was enraged.

Tom groaned, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, stood. From the BMW he heard the squeak of leather as something moved inside.

Natasha screamed in his mind, a long, loud, incoherent exhalation of pure rage. Cole had heard this before, years ago when the berserkers were at their fiercest, mad and hungry and craving the feel of living flesh between their teeth. Then they had been contained at Porton Down, and their psychic abilities had never been so strong. Now, Natasha had changed.

He tried to crawl away but the chains held him tight. Neither could he escape his own mind.

Cole screamed, but he could not hear himself.

He scrambled around on the ground and found the bolt croppers Tom had dropped. Instinct grabbed him and he snipped and cut, hardly aware of what he was doing, pulling hard at the chains until they parted and he fell to the ground. He crawled then, across the road and into a ditch. The terrible effects of Natasha's scream lingered.