The year is 2041, eight years post World War Three.
Over half the population of Western Australia perished in a nuclear strike. Local militias are tasked with vanquishing outlaw gangs that are wreaking havoc throughout the State.
Police authorise bounty hunters such as Archie O’Connor, a former contract lawyer turned soldier, to bring the most heinous of criminals to justice. Together with his new apprentice, Fiona Katsaros, and his long-time friend Clary Ugle, Archie strives to survive this new world, while preserving his morality and state of mind.
After breaking up with her girlfriend and being forced to work as a skimpy barmaid, Fiona is endeavouring to begin a new life working as a bounty hunter, which she finds both liberating and terrifying. Clarence, who is a proud Whadjuk Aboriginal man, is dreaming of a return to pre-war infrastructure, so he can continue his career as a scientist.
The team's vulnerabilities are exposed when their latest bounty develops into twists and turns of extreme violence and chaotic uncertainty.
The year is 2041, eight years post World War Three.
Over half the population of Western Australia perished in a nuclear strike. Local militias are tasked with vanquishing outlaw gangs that are wreaking havoc throughout the State.
Police authorise bounty hunters such as Archie O’Connor, a former contract lawyer turned soldier, to bring the most heinous of criminals to justice. Together with his new apprentice, Fiona Katsaros, and his long-time friend Clary Ugle, Archie strives to survive this new world, while preserving his morality and state of mind.
After breaking up with her girlfriend and being forced to work as a skimpy barmaid, Fiona is endeavouring to begin a new life working as a bounty hunter, which she finds both liberating and terrifying. Clarence, who is a proud Whadjuk Aboriginal man, is dreaming of a return to pre-war infrastructure, so he can continue his career as a scientist.
The team's vulnerabilities are exposed when their latest bounty develops into twists and turns of extreme violence and chaotic uncertainty.
I woke at dawn and peered through the flaps of my canvas tent. Like the surface of Mars, undulating plains of red dirt stretched as far as the eye could see. The morning heat promised a searing summer day in the desert, twenty-five kilometres east of Kalgoorlie in Western Australia. My lack of funds and wounded ego fuelled my resolve to capture a fugitive that had evaded my grasp for almost two months.
Crawling from my tent, I stood up to hear a deafening craaack! A sharp pain exploded on the right side of my head. Dazed and confused, I instinctively touched my temple. As I contemplated the fresh slippery blood dripping from my fingertips, I hurtled towards the desert floor.
When I opened my crusty eyelids, the harsh glare of the sun made me squint. I could have been unconscious for two seconds or two hours. I was being dragged on my back through the bush scrub, my shirt pulled up under my armpits, with bits of sharp gravel scoring my skin. As I lifted my head, I immediately regretted the decision when a piercing migraine overwhelmed me. It didn’t help that I was looking at the back of an enormous outlaw, standing at six-foot-five and 130 kilograms. I didn’t realise he had a ponytail from his mug shot. He gripped my right ankle, hauling me with ease like a ten-kilogram bag of salt, dragging me around termite mounds, large boulders and rusted mining machinery abandoned in the sand. This was not helping my state of mind.
Once again, I reflected on how I ended up in these situations. Before the War, many considered me an up-and-coming contract lawyer, practising out of McGlennon and Graff Legal, a respected law firm in Perth. That old saying is right on the money – ‘You don't know what you have until it's gone’. I'd just won the rising star award at the firm w was newly married to the loveliest woman in the country, and moving up the ranks in the Army Reserves. And then the War started.
We may have won the War, but like many others, I lost everything - my wife, mother and father are dead, along with most of my mates. Bloody hell! How life has changed. The War resulted in over two billion deaths, the crash of the world’s economy, and the destruction of almost all orbiting satellites and undersea communication cables. The Internet is now a tool of the past. My law career ended after the economic collapse. Now I’m reduced to apprehending fugitives to scrape out a living.
I returned my attention to my current dilemma. I’d finally located my bounty, but unfortunately, he found me first. To be locked up in this day in age, you have to either be a psychotic deviant or desperate enough to murder, rob or kidnap. Billy Spratt wasn’t desperate. His latest escapade involved kidnapping three ten-year-old girls for the purpose of holding them for ransom. All three happened to be related to influential citizens - the mayor, a respected farmer, and a wealthy miner. The constabulary attempted to apprehend Billy at a brothel. But the arrest went awry when he fatally shot two officers and escaped out the back. In his depraved mind, they were mere obstacles that deserved to die for ruining his plans.
I considered the best course of action and reached for my revolver and then my knife. Both were missing. Billy wasn’t that stupid. Ignoring the thumping migraine, I scuttled my backside towards Billy and hooked my left foot around his left ankle. Billy fell forwards. Breaking his fall with both hands, he jumped up to his feet from a push-up position with surprising speed. He moved like a world wrestling superstar of old, swiftly closing the distance as I raised myself up from my knees. His knee connected with one of my floating ribs, forcing me to fall onto all fours.
Now, I’m only a lean 80 kilograms at just over six-foot-two, but I have one slight advantage over Billy, I’m a highly skilled fighter who’s often underestimated. I had an old man that saw shadows amongst shadows, a former soldier who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. He thought it was imperative for his son to face physical and mental adversity. Dad enrolled me into mixed martial arts at a tender age, and spent his spare time manipulating my joints, kicking, punching, and choking me. He’d be considered a child abuser by most people. But if you’d asked my old man, he’d tell you that he was just doing his job as a father. There’s no doubt I have mixed feelings on the matter, but I’d be a liar if I told you that the skills weren’t helpful in my current career, especially in situations like this one.
Pushing the pain of my ribs to the back of my mind, I dived forwards for a double leg takedown, driving my shoulder deep into Billy’s stomach, propelling the air from his lungs - Oooffff! As he doubled over in pain, I grabbed him behind both knees and completed the move by pulling his legs out from underneath him. Billy groaned as he came crashing down onto his back, destroying a termite mound as he fell. There are three essential rules to restraining an adversary on the ground. First, circumnavigate their legs without being kicked or tripped, second, attain a controlled position, and third, choke them unconscious or knock them out.
Upon issuing the ‘Alive’ contract, the bondsman made it crystal clear that nothing short of a public hanging was an acceptable punishment for Billy’s heinous crimes. My hammer fist strikes broke his nose and caved in his front two teeth. Payback can be sweet! When he turned away from me to avoid further punishment, I wrapped my arm around his neck, squeezing his arteries to stop the blood supply to his brain, only releasing the pressure after losing consciousness.
Billy had dragged me about 300 metres from my temporary camp, lugging me towards an old mine shaft. The landscape was riddled with similar abandoned mines, with estimates of 10,000 discarded claims in the Eastern Goldfields alone. Early prospectors would dig a square shaft straight down, thirty metres or more deep. The perfect spot out here to get rid of a body.
To ensure Billy didn’t escape, I hogtied him, securing his wrists to the back of his ankles and rolled him onto his side. There have been stories of bounty hunters leaving unconscious fugitives in a face down prone position, only to find them dead from positional asphyxia. I needed Billy alive to claim the full bounty. If I returned to the station with a corpse, I’d only receive a quarter of the reward I was entitled to. The incentive to claim an ‘Alive’ bounty was substantial, especially when the authorities desired a public execution. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise the political benefits of allowing citizens to witness justice being delivered.
The authorities may be politicly shrewd, but they are also pragmatic. A ‘Dead or Alive’ bounty is issued when the cost of delivering the offender with a pulse outweighs the political benefits. Think of it as your classic risk versus reward scenario - if the hunter considers the risk of an ‘Alive’ contract is too high, they'll simply wait for the next job. In fact, most hunters will only accept ‘Dead or Alive’ contracts, so they can shoot the offender from a distance, thereby reducing their risk. To top it off, the reward for a ‘Dead or Alive’ contract does not alter in value whether the hunter escorts the culprit back kicking and screaming, or just deliver their head. In the grand scheme of things, I prefer to bring the culprits back alive, as I don’t consider myself an executioner. And it helps me sleep better at night.
Roger stamped his hoof as I hitched Billy on the saddle. My disgruntled horse demands attention, and quite frankly, it’s tiring having to constantly pander to his needs. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I love the silly bugger, all 500 kilos of him. As I secured Billy, I felt Roger’s wet nose shove my shoulder, “Come on, mate. I’ve got a splitting headache. And I’m tired and hungry.” Roger made a high-pitched whinny. “Okay, mate, I get the message.” I grabbed him some feed before packing my tent and belongings.
My possessions may be meagre, but they're critical to my survival. I picked up my .38 Smith and Wesson revolver and knife from the dirt and slid them into my holster and sheath. After knocking me out, Billy stripped me of my weapons, items that he would have eventually sold. But first, he would have displayed them like trophies, bragging to anyone that would listen – ‘Do ya want to hear how I killed a hunter?’ I made a solemn oath to give them a good and thorough clean upon returning to my lodgings.
After retrieving my silver flask from my pack, I swallowed a blue oxycodone pill with a gulp of whisky. Before we commenced our long walk back to town, I wrapped a makeshift bandage around my noggin to stem the bleeding. It was forty degrees Celsius, but it felt like it was fifty. I waved the voracious flies from my face and scanned the desert. It appeared desolate, but there were critters everywhere – lizards, spiders, and snakes can give you a fright if you step or sit blindly unaware.
It didn’t take long to locate Billy’s tent. It was pitched just three kilometres west of my campsite. I searched through his belongings, taking items of value – three litres of potable water, a compass, a spade, a map book, and a pack of playing cards. Billy didn’t complain. He was still unconscious and blissfully unaware of his dramatic reversal of fortune.
We were making good time, being almost halfway into our return journey to Kalgoorlie, when Billy muttered a desperate plea, “Let me go, and I’ll give ya my thash of nuggets. I have twenty ountheth.” Billy now spoke with a lisp due to his missing teeth. I would have probably considered his offer if it were not for his horrid treatment of the young girls he kidnapped.
Twenty ounces of gold would greatly assist me in achieving my dream of settling near Darwin at the top end of the Northern Territory and opening a small brewing company. My lack of funds is a significant barrier to achieving this dream. Crypto traders weren’t the only ones that had heart attacks when the Internet and electronic systems were destroyed. Every person or business with a bank account lost all their wealth instantly. On the flip side, mortgages and personal loans also disappeared without a trace. High inflation and the inability to print cash forced the government to search for alternative currencies. Gold, silver, and bartering are used to purchase goods and services. Coins are still minted, but the State Government carefully controls the supply to avoid hyperinflation.
I shook my head and turned towards him, “Shut up, Billy. You deserve to hang for what you did to those girls.”
Billy’s following tirade of abuse and threats would have impressed the roughest and toughest of stockmen.
We finally arrived in Kalgoorlie late in the afternoon. Before heading to the hotel to quench my thirst, I stopped at the cop shop to deliver Billy. I tied Roger to the hitching post out front and left him to drink the clear water from the trough. The local sergeant is a horse tragic and a man after my own heart. Hence, the equine population is provided with cleaner water than the residents. Just one of the reasons why beer is so popular.
Prospectors arrived in Kalgoorlie in 1893 during the Western Australian Gold Rush. The city’s name is derived from the word Kulgooluh, a word from the Wongatha people, meaning the place of the silky pears. The silky pear, also known as the bush banana, is a native plant eaten by the Indigenous people. Due to the food shortage, bush tucker is becoming popular with the non-indigenous population - native fruits, vegetables, nuts, grubs, insects and animals (goanna, snakes, kangaroo and emu).
Water was scarce when prospectors first hit the red dirt with their pickaxe in search of gold. Their poor knowledge of the land made survival challenging in harsh and unforgiving conditions. The government of the day hired a talented engineer by the name of C. Y O’Connor, who envisaged a pipe pumping water 590 kilometres from Perth to Kalgoorlie. In 1902 the heralded engineer killed himself less than twelve months before ‘liquid gold’ poured from the thirty-inch pipe. This ready access to clean water supported the thousands of people who participated in the Gold Rush and continued to do so until 2033. Grandad used to swear that C.Y. O’Connor was a distant relation of ours. When Grandad wasn’t looking, Dad would shake his head to dismiss the notion.
Nuclear missiles struck the City of Perth on the 22 of February 2033. The Kalgoorlie residents continued to drink and bathe in the water delivered by the pipeline. Thousands of residents were sick from radiation poisoning, and hundreds died. Miners and associated industries still populate Kalgoorlie because of the promise of gold. Locals are now relying on trains to transport water from the Avon River in Northam, 495 kilometres away. The irony is not lost on local historians, as this was the method used before O’Connor’s pipe was constructed almost 140 years earlier. It’s not surprising that water in Kalgoorlie is not only rationed but also priced higher than oil.
I took my .223 Remington rifle from the scabbard and hung it over my shoulder. With Billy in tow, I approached the police station’s front counter. Senior Constable Atkins leaned against the counter, attempting to complete a crossword puzzle. He had a look of deep concentration and mild frustration. The demise of the Internet and smartphones has resulted in a paper-based media and entertainment resurgence. One thing I'll never miss from the old world is the annoying buzz of my work phone: that and social media.
Atkins is an athletic-looking man in his late twenties, with shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes. Give him a wetsuit and a board, and he wouldn’t look out of place in the big surf of the expansive west coast beaches. He’s popular with the ladies; until they get to know him.
I peered down at the puzzle before flipping it around and contemplating the two missing words. “Ten across is aardvark.”
Atkins glared at me. “Did I ask for your assistance Archie?”
With a fist full of Billy’s ponytail, I tilted my head towards the enraged reprobate, “I’m not just helping you with your puzzles, mate. As you can see, I’ve dragged back your favourite escapee.”
Billy spat across the counter, yelping, “Get off me, ya dog!” Atkins pointed to the side counter entrance and asked me to bring him out the back. I dragged Billy by the scruff of his neck to the cell door and pushed him towards the far wall. As Atkins locked the cell door, he muttered, “I’ll meet you at the counter and fix you up.”
I took one last glance at Billy. “I don’t mean to rub salt into your wounds, but I’m hoping we don’t meet again, in this life or the next.” Billy spat towards me, falling short, just like he did in life.
It took just three months after the War’s end for the Australian States and Territories to fracture and secede from the Federal Commonwealth. The decimation of the population, the destruction of the communication systems and the crash of the global economy caused untold stress on Government structures, including law and order. One of the consequences of the increase in violent crimes was the contracting of bounty hunters to chase down the most violent offenders.
After returning to the front counter, Senior Constable Atkins passed me the completed handover documentation, which I required to prove to the bondsman that I had honoured the contract. It was time to get paid. But first, I needed a much-deserved alcoholic beverage. I led Roger to Heidrick’s Stables and handed the reins to the stable boy. Roger’s agistment cost me one-twentieth of an ounce of gold per month. Because I love the silly fella, I paid extra for his rub down, walk around the yard, and better-quality feed.
It was reported that during the War, the United States, India, China, and Russia, used electromagnetic pulse weapons (EMPs) to disrupt their enemy’s technology. Most technology with a computer chip is now completely useless. In recent years horse ownership has risen as a primary form of transportation, as vehicles manufactured after 1975 are non-operational due to their electronic parts and computer chips. Consequently, motor vehicles are costly to purchase, run and maintain. To the best of my knowledge, modern vehicles are no longer being manufactured, and if they are, they are not being imported to the land of Oz. Roger is not just my mate; he’s my sole method of transportation. Walking is not an option over the vast dry plains of the Eastern Goldfields. You’ll shrivel like a grape left in the sun on a forty-five-degree day.
The citizens of Kalgoorlie kept to themselves as I moseyed down the dusty sidewalk to my current place of abode. My palm pushed open the hand-carved saloon doors of the Exchange Hotel. It wasn’t much cooler inside the venue than out. It may be grimy and full of cheesy neon signs and memorabilia, but this is my favourite watering hole. Drinking, fighting, and furphies have occurred within these walls since the early 1900s. Not much has changed in that regard.
The cloakroom attendant made small talk as I checked in my rifle. When I’m in the presence of strangers, or those I do not trust, my revolver and knife never leave my side. However, it’s a strict rule to hand over your longarms upon entry to a licensed establishment. Longarms include assault rifles, shotguns, lever-action rifles, and bolt-action rifles. Publicans, owners, and staff want to avoid patrons settling arguments with an assault rifle that can fire 600 rounds a minute or a shotgun that can separate a man’s head from his neck before he can shout ‘Don’t Shoot!'. Aside from the necessary clean-up after a shoot-out, it’s also considered bad for business. No one wants to spill their drinks while ducking and diving behind furniture.
The haze of the unfiltered tobacco smoke wafted through the venue. The bar was full of miners; tough, resilient men and women who worked hard and played even harder. The jukebox was thumping out a heavy metal tune as the skimpy barmaids delivered jugs of beer to the tables. I scanned the room and noticed that sections of the crowd were intoxicated and rowdy, with everyone appearing to be in good spirits. The young men at the dartboard were mucking around, grabbing each other in headlocks and slap-fighting. There was no sign of the colossal bouncer with the broad shoulders of a silverback gorilla.
The publican is a redhead in her early sixties named Jules. She has a tiny waist with impressive mammary glands; with a blonde wig, she could win first place in a Dolly Parton lookalike competition. Jules came around the counter, gave me a big hug and then pinched my backside. She may be twenty-five years older than me, but she can still make me feel mighty uncomfortable. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I was worried it would match the pigment of her hair. As she returned to the other side of the bar, she shouted above the sound of AC/DC’s, ‘Highway to Hell,’ “What are you having, cutie?”
“I’ll have a pint of Hannans, thanks. And Jules, I’m planning to fix up my account this arvo.”
Jules smiled as she poured the beer from the bar tap. “No worries, Luv, I know you’re good for it. You're not planning to stick around?”
I’d been lodging at the hotel for the past three months while searching for Billy and was hoping another contract presented itself in the interim. “I’ll be staying put for another week or so. You know how it is. I’ll have to follow the gold.”
Jules passed me the pint and looked up at my bandage, which was beginning to unravel. “You be careful, Luv.”
Acknowledging her advice with a nod, I took a swig of my beer and turned towards the sound of a ruckus. A skinny blonde skimpy in her early twenties had a young wiry looking bloke pressed hard up against the dartboard. She had both her hands wrapped around his throat. She spat in his face and shouted, “Don’t ever grab me like that again. You got that, you filthy fucker?”
Unless there's a transaction of value or I'm drunk, I’m hesitant to become involved in a physical confrontation. Otherwise, it's a high risk for no reward. The young fella wouldn’t have been more than twenty-one years old, but he looked like he worked on the tools or some other form of hard labour. He appeared to have recovered from the initial onslaught. He picked up the bare-chested blonde from beneath her armpits and threw her against the side of the jukebox, which was still screaming out ‘Highway to Hell.’
Jules darted around the counter with a concerned look on her face. The blonde was one of her barmaids and wanted to protect her asset. There was still no sign of the bouncer. Where the hell was he? The barmaid was sitting on the floor leaning against the jukebox with her palms defensively raised above her head, while the young bloke stood over her with his fists clenched.
I looked over at Jules and gave her a wink as I approached the young fella. “Hey mate, I think you’ve made your point. It’s time to move on.”
He turned to face me with a thousand-yard stare. “Who the fuck are you, and what makes you think you can get involved in my business?”
I placed my open palms up in the age-old gesture of peace. As I tried reasoning with the young bloke, the barmaid rose to her feet and launched the toe of her high-heeled foot right between his legs, in a kicking action that would have made an Aussie Rules footballer as proud as punch. For a split second, the young man looked shocked before wincing in pain and toppling over into a foetal position and dry retching as he cupped his hands between his legs.
The 150-kilogram plus bouncer suddenly bounded forward from behind the bar. He made his appearance known by grunting expletives at anyone in the crowd who got in his way and pushed and shoved those that failed to heed his warning. When he arrived at the scene of the disturbance, he bent down, picked up the bloke by the back of his jeans, and dragged him out the saloon doors to the curb. The no-nonsense bouncer gave him a solid kick to the ribs for good measure, leaving him groaning in the dirt, clutching his groin with one hand and his stomach with the other. I considered the turn of events and hoped for the young fella’s sake that the outcome would be an important lesson – ‘Don’t ever hit women.’
Now that the situation had calmed, I sculled the remnants of my pint and made my way up the spiralling staircase to my room. Once inside, I carefully locked the door and placed my travel pack on the table. The room was spartan, with a single bed, bedside table and drawer, and a door to the balcony.
The floorboards creaked as I shuffled to the bathroom. I was keen to wash the four days of grime from my hair and skin. I turned the cold tap, and lukewarm water dribbled from the rusted shower head. As the water soaked the blood-stained bandage, I looked down between my feet to see the red liquid trickle down the drain. It’s incredible how a little blood mixed with water can turn into rivers of red. The heat of the day was still stifling, so much so that steam rose from the top of my shoulders and neck when the cool water eventually flowed. I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a salmon-coloured towel around my waist. Before I had a chance to get dressed, there were three sharp knocks on the door.
Retrieving my revolver from my holster, I pointed it towards the door and pressed my shoulder against the sidewall. I unlocked and slowly turned the door handle. The blonde skimpy involved in the altercation was now fully clothed, wearing tracksuit pants and a white t-shirt with a diagram of a red drum kit printed on the chest. Before I could ask what she wanted, she barged into the room and stood with her back to the wardrobe. Not for the first time, I noticed she had an athletic runner’s body with narrow hips and small breasts.
I was both surprised and mildly irritated by her presence. I stood awkwardly, and all I could manage to splutter was, “Can I help you with something?”
She gave me a cheeky smile. “Probably not with what you have in mind. Don’t get me wrong, you have the chiselled six-pack and the exotic looks. I’m sure you make all the girls swoon, but I happen to be batting for the other team.”
Fatigue started to set in, and I suddenly had little patience for games. “Okaaay, look, I’m not sure what you want, but I’m shattered, so please cut to the chase.”
“Jules asked me to come up and have a look at your cut,” she explained.
After re-holstering my revolver, I sat down on the edge of the bed, self-consciously keeping my legs together. The barmaid held a white metal container with a red cross stencilled on the side. She stood next to me and examined my cut. “This won’t need stitches, but I’ll apply a fresh gauze and bandage.”
It took considerable self-control not to flinch as she applied antiseptic from an aged brown medicine bottle. As she applied the bandage, she babbled, “Short story. My name is Fiona. I arrived in Kal a week ago thinking I could pick up work. I started working as a skimpy when I got desperate. But as you witnessed downstairs, I’m not exactly cut out for it. What I was thinking was...”
My patience was wearing thin, so I cut her off, “Look, I appreciate you helping me out with the cut, but what’s your situation got to do with me?”
She finished securing the fresh bandage and stood in front of me. “Well, Jules tells me you’re quite the bounty hunter, and she seems to think quite highly of you, which is saying something. What I want is a job as your assistant to get some experience. I learned some advanced first aid on a farm, and I’m a fast learner, so I could be useful.”
I was a bit taken aback, to say the least, but I told her straight, “The answer is no thank you, no way, not on your life.”
She looked exasperated but dug her heels in. “Come on, you’ve seen what I can do. I can handle myself. Why not give me a shot? What have you got to lose? Just pay me enough so I can afford food and my room.”
I was sore, tired, and grumpy. I’d had enough of her nonsense. I pointed towards the door and told her louder than I had intended, “You need to leave now!"
She must have seen the look in my eye because she seemed to bite down any further argument and walked out with a straight back, slamming the door behind her.
I locked the door the moment she left, swallowed my second oxy for the day and face planted onto the bed.
I embraced the numbness that had become my loving mistress and finally fell asleep.
“The Agreement” is an Australian future western in the tradition of Mad Max, but with a more organized post-apocalyptic society. It’s a simple plotline. Archie is a bounty hunter. He takes Fiona on as an apprentice, and they go off having adventures together.
The story breaks into three parts. Their first two assignments could almost be from a normal Western, but the third is much more Sci-Fi in setting, conflict and hi-tech stuff. The worldbuilding is detailed and appropriate to the conflict. These jobs involve a lot of action, with fights of various sorts described with excellent detail and great suspense. It’s a gruelling world, and there is plenty of pain and blood splattered around. Meanwhile, we are getting to know two very sympathetic main characters and a cast of secondary characters who are individuals in themselves. The bad guys are a bit more stereotyped but described in gruesome detail that is entertainment in any case.
The element of the writing that keeps us from getting maximum enjoyment from the story is the author’s loose grasp of point of view. For example, in the battle scene near the middle of the book, the good guys break into five groups, so we view the battle from five different characters, two of them people we have never met before. This requires a brief introduction and a period of getting-to-know-you at a place in the book where we really want solid action. There are also many sentence structure and punctuation errors, and switches from past to present tense in the middle of paragraphs.
These characters are a joy to spend time with, and I'm looking forward to more; the ending definitely leads us to expect a Book Two. With a bit of polishing, this would be a superior novel—a recommended read in any case.