I waved several pestering bush flies from my face and scanned the dry and desolate country. Red dirt, scrub, and a gnarled gum tree as far as the eye could see. It is hard to imagine that spring would transform the landscape into a nature garden of pink, yellow, purple, and white wildflowers.   

Fiona and I rode Jasper and Roger, our trusty and much-loved mounts. We were close to Devils Creek, 369 kilometres north of Perth, the former capital city of Western Australia (WA). Devils Creek is a speck of a town with a population of fewer than fifteen souls. You would have to search long and hard to find a more remote location to hide out. The area is appropriately named after the Devil, as no matter what time of year a traveller visits, they would find the creek as dry as a bone. A cruel fate indeed for a weary traveller dreaming of quenching their thirst.

Perth is now as deserted as the mid-west farming region we travelled through. On February 22, 2033, the Perth Central Business District was destroyed by a nuclear strike. The initial blast and subsequent radioactive full-out resulted in the death of an estimated 1.5 million residents, over half of the state's population.

 Ten months had passed since Fiona and my best mate Clarry joined me in launching a mission into Perth to rescue the grandson of a rich and influential landowner. We saved the boy, but his kidnapper, Noel Patterson, managed to escape. I still have nightmares about that mission. We saw the destruction caused by the nuclear strike and encountered the rotting bodies of murdered civilians. Patterson, a former scientist working for the military, had used innocent people as guinea pigs, experimenting on them to discover a cure for cancer. Not for some humanitarian cause, but to preserve his own life and create an army of radiation-proof super soldiers.

Fiona rode alongside me, "You reckon we're almost there, Boss?"

I lifted my Akubra hat, "We shouldn't be far from his camp. And stop calling me Boss. We've been partners for almost a year now. It makes me feel bloody old," I lamented.

Fiona laughed, "You are old."

When I first met Fiona Katsaros, she had just turned twenty-one and worked as a skimpy barmaid in Kalgoorlie, a gold mining town in the Eastern Goldfields. I intervened when a young buck was getting the upper hand in a quarrel they were having. I was attempting to calm the situation when Fiona launched a high-heeled foot up between the young man's legs. Shortly thereafter, I reluctantly agreed to take her on as my apprentice and teach her how to survive and earn a living as a bounty hunter. Straight off the bat, she proved to be a natural, learning the tricks of the trade faster than anyone I'd known. During her first operation, she saved my ass during a 'Dead or Alive' bounty operation that went sideways. It didn't take her long to earn the right to be my partner, receiving a fifty-fifty split on all contracts and rewards.

We had been residing in the north-western coastal town of Geraldton for almost three weeks, searching the nearby area for a fugitive we had been chasing since mid-November. Lesley Maka murdered her three kids and then just up and disappeared. She'd poisoned the children in their beds and left them to be found by her husband the following morning. We were frustrated that the several leads we had received concerning her possible whereabouts led us down the garden path. 

One of our informants received information from a working girl that Maka had hooked up with some carnie and moved to Darwin. Probably just another useless piece of hearsay information. For a week or so, I'd tried to convince Fiona that Maka had moved on, but she'd made this bounty personal and wanted to continue the search. Fiona portrays a tough exterior but has a soft spot for kids and animals, although not necessarily in that order. 

Fiona was finally giving up on the search for Maka, and we were on the verge of heading south to search for work when the local bondsman offered us an unexpected contract. My former colleague, Marco Gizzarelli, had been tried and found guilty in absentia for murdering two farmers during a bar fight. It's now common to conduct a trial without the presence of the accused, which usually results in the judge delivering a guilty verdict and issuing a bounty.

The 'Dead or Alive' reward was set at two ounces of gold. The end of the digital age has altered the world's monetary system. Commodities such as gold and silver are once again the preferred payment methods for goods and services. Gold and silver coins are still minted, but the Government carefully controls their supply to avoid hyperinflation. The average bounty contract fetches one ounce of gold. The bondsman explained that Gizzarelli's contract paid the high price of two ounces because of the increased danger involved in capturing the proficient killer.

I've had more than one run-in with Gizzarelli, but we had always managed to end our confrontations amicably, meaning that we hadn't tried to kill each other. Last year we had even worked together guarding the water train and were on the same team during the assault on a gang in Norseman.

The water train travels from Northam to Kalgoorlie, providing the prosperous mining town with its sole water source. Gizzarelli and I were hired to guard the train from criminal gangs and desperate opportunists. On the day in question, we successfully repelled a band of outlaws named the Norse Men Gang (NMG), who were intent on capturing the train and its valuable cargo. Regrettably, Gizzarelli and I had a difference of opinion concerning an NMG member he had captured. I wanted to bring the criminal in for questioning, whereas Gizzarelli was in the process of beating him to death. I held my ground on this occasion, but he was filthy with the decision and made sure I knew about it.

Just over a month after the attempted train heist, Gizzarelli was a member of a militia team I led to free Norseman from the NMG's reign of terror. The NMG had enslaved the town, forcing the residents to mine for gold and service their desires. As I led a team down a decline mine, Gizzarelli rescued residents near the mine site's administration building. Before I could rendezvous with him, he executed fourteen unarmed gang members who had surrendered. I had no sympathy for the men, but they should have been captured and tried before a judge.

Fiona recently spoke to Gizzarelli's ex-wife, who stated he was known to frequent an old prospector's camp a couple of clicks east of Devils Creek. No love was lost between the volatile bastard and his former misses. We would have to be on our toes for this mission, as the bondsman's judgement was spot-on; the grizzled veteran would be a difficult and dangerous fugitive to capture.  

As a bounty hunter, I abide by a personal code founded on four rules. Rule one is always go home at the end of the operation. No reward is worth giving our lives away, so we plan our operations to mitigate the foreseeable risks. Rule two is self-explanatory; never intentionally cause physical harm to an innocent. Rule three is a cardinal rule for most hunters; never steal another hunter's bounty. This rule can cause conflict when two or more hunters chase the same fugitive. The final rule is one that most hunters don't follow. We always attempt to capture and transport the perpetrator alive. I'm not an executioner and don't plan to take up the vocation. A few years back, I explained my code to my mate Clarry over a beer or two. He pointed out in his tongue-in-cheek manner that the final rule contradicted the first rule. So I repeated the rule and emphasised the word 'attempt.' If a fugitive tries to kill one of us to escape or out of hate, I'll always defend myself, which can mean using lethal force. I sleep well at night, knowing I do my best to follow this code.   

We entered Gizzarelli's hideout just after 4 a.m., two hours before sunrise. I aimed to catch him unaware and subdue him with minimal force. 

I retrieved the infrared binoculars from my pack and scanned the horizon. It didn't take long for me to spot a campsite consisting of an old tin shed beneath the foliage of a gum tree. My attention was drawn to a recently used fire pit. Its glowing embers were slowly dying in the cool morning. An old mine shaft with a rusted steel headframe sat twenty metres east of the ramshackle dwelling.

"So, what's the plan, Boss?" Fiona asked eagerly.

"We'll tie the horses up and approach from the west. With any luck, he'll be sleeping like a baby. And then Bob's your uncle, we'll get the drop on him."

Fiona raised an eyebrow, "We're after Gizzarelli, not some daft bank robber. Can't we just prop 250 metres out and take him down with the sniper rifle?"

"You know the code. That's not how we work."

"He wouldn't pause for a second before putting a bullet between our eyes," she rebutted.

"I'm not so certain about that. Anyway, when we return to Geraldton, I think it's best I tell you about the glass jar philosophy. It's been my moral compass since my former professor gave me a lesson about it."

Fiona chuckled, "Philosophy 101? As long as you're buying the drinks, I'll listen to whatever lecture you're giving Boss."

We tied Roger and Jasper's reigns to the trunk of a large eucalypt tree and hiked through the scrub from the west. I saw the tin roof through the foliage and signalled for Fiona to stop by holding my open hand up at shoulder height. We both knelt behind a weeping bottlebrush. I signalled for Fiona to enter his camp from the north and approach the rear of the shed. I planned to continue walking from the west and snake around the shrubs and mining machinery to the front door of the shed. If all goes to plan, we'll meet at the door and tactically enter hard and fast, catching him unawares.

The full moon provided enough light to avoid tripping over rusted junk and large rocks. As I approached the shed door, I was startled by the sound of bells ringing, followed by a high-pitched scream and a thud!

It was a matter of seconds before I found the cause of the commotion. Fiona was lying face down in the dirt, about four metres from the rear of the shed. Her legs were tangled in wire with small brass bells attached. Gizzarelli was standing above her, holding an empty champagne bottle by its neck. 

As Gizzarelli grinned and stepped towards me, I glanced at Fiona's motionless crumpled form. "You thought you could bring me in. Shit mate, you've got dibs on yourself," he sneered.

"What did you do to Fiona?"

"She's trespassing on my property, so I gave her a bit of a whack with the old Dom Pérignon. But I think you should be more concerned about your own welfare."

I tried to keep the conversation light. There was still a chance I could reason with the man. "Dom Pérignon? I wasn't aware you had such expensive taste."

"I don't. The fella that's been squatting in my shed left it with all his other shit. If I find him, he's going to look a lot worse than the sheila over there," he said, pointing at Fiona.

"Why don't I check on her, and then you and I can have a chat about where we go from here."

He spat on the ground, "You can rest your silver tongue, O'Connor. Nothing you say will save you." He lowered his stance and lifted the bottle above his head. "This has been a long-time coming," he growled.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I guess it is what it is," I grunted.

I stepped backwards while Gizzarelli rolled his shoulders and followed me to the open space beyond the fire pit. I wasn't sure if Fiona was breathing, let alone conscious, but I wanted to create some distance between her and Gizzarelli, as I had no idea what was running through his mind.

 I would be wasting valuable time attempting to negotiate with the man. He was stubborn, desperate, and pissed. And he was confident he would give me a flogging. At about five foot eight, he had a wrestler's frame, with thick forearms and broad shoulders. I had six inches of height on him, but he outweighed me by at least fifteen kilos.

I reached for the grip of my revolver as he sprinted towards me,

dust spiralling into the air as the tread of his boots gripped the red dirt. Just after my revolver left the holster, he struck my gun hand with the bottle. I spun to the side, and the revolver flew out of my grip into scrub. I couldn't risk turning my back to search for it, and it was too dark to locate it at a glance.

Gizzarelli held the bottle like it was a sword. Forget what you have seen in old movies; ninety-nine bottles out of a hundred don't smash when you strike someone. He watched me like a hawk as I circled and tested my right hand for injuries by forming a fist. He stretched his neck to the left and right, touching his ears to his shoulders, causing his vertebrae to crack and pop in response. 

As I raised my fists to my jaw, he hurled the bottle at my

head, narrowly missing when I flinched like I was slipping

a punch. He charged forward like a raging bull and threw a

right hook toward my jaw. Reacting with muscle memory, I bobbed

and weaved under his punch. With surprising speed and grace, he

instantly regained his balance and rotated on the balls of his feet to

face me.

I smirked, "Jeezus! You move fast for an old boy. But I notice that you're puffing pretty hard. Do you need a bit of a lie-down, granddad?"

I intended to enrage him and provoke a mistake. I just needed an opening to win the fight so I could check on Fiona. Come on, Gizzarelli, throw a haymaker. But unfortunately, he had other plans.

When I threw a quick cross, he slipped to the outside and launched an uppercut into my liver. I instantly doubled over, clutching my stomach in excruciating pain. He didn't hesitate to take advantage of the opening. He drove his right knee into my jaw. 

My vision blurred, and I fell to my backside in a heap. Gizzarelli wasted no time taking advantage of my vulnerability, attacking me with the ferocity of a Tasmanian devil claiming its kill - raining down punches and elbow strikes without respite. Reflex and instinct took over. I managed to block most of his blows with my forearms.

When he realised most of his strikes were missing the target, he altered his attack by pressing one of his hammy fists across my throat, forcing his weight down with grim determination. Then, breathing heavily, he growled, "Say goodnight to granddad, you cheeky fuck!"

 I struggled to breathe as I desperately reached for my knife. Thud!