Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Although he owned the uppermost floor, building regulations meant that there had to be ample escape routes in the event of an emergency. He could lock the elevator by way of his key, but access could be gained via two fire escapes: one was inside the building and one outside. The internal one had already been breached and so too, he guessed, had the metal stairwell on the side of the building. Against fire regulations he'd installed a gate that he kept padlocked, but anyone with a pair of bolt croppers could be through that in seconds.

Rickard moved quickly up the stairs.

He paused at the door to the roof, listening. He couldn't hear anything but that didn't mean they weren't there. He placed the knife between his teeth, and dropping low so he was supported on his fingers and toes, he crawled out. Alisha's imported plants were both a blessing and a curse. They gave him cover as he made his way over to a service conduit, but they also blocked his view of anyone coming on to the roof via the fire escape.

In the shadows of the conduit, he crouched, feeding the knife from lips to hand. He didn't have to wait long. Beyond Alisha's palms he caught movement. Big man in dark clothing, beanie hat pulled low. The man was holding a handgun. Judging by the length of the barrel it wasn't silenced, which Rickard found odd. Impulse was to attack the man immediately, stick him in the throat and open his carotid artery, but Rickard waited.

A second figure came over the balustrade and on to the roof. He too was dressed in dark clothing and packing a gun.

So, at least three of them. Rickard weighed the equation in his mind. Three men, possibly more, with guns. Him with a knife. No problem.

The men made their way across the roof warily, eyes scanning. They paused to whisper to each other, then one of them lifted something and pressed a button. To his credit he didn't talk into the radio, just depressed the button in a prearranged sequence. Giving the all clear to the others downstairs.

The men paused at the open door, but then one of them shrugged and used the barrel of his gun to tease it wider. Bad form, Rickard noted: you never compromise your weapon like that. Then one of them went down the stairs. A few seconds later – a final check over his shoulder – and the second man followed into the stairwell.

Rickard moved after them.

Dressed only in trousers, chest bared, he felt primal, like an unstoppable force of nature.

At the entrance to his apartment both men had halted. One of them nudged open the door and took a quick look into the room. The one with the radio quickly keyed the send button. Almost immediately, there was the sound of the front door crashing back on the jamb as someone powered their way inside. From the bathroom, Alisha shrieked loudly.

Good girl, Rickard thought. Her screech attracted the attention of both men in the stairwell. One of them moved forwards, his friend's hand on his shoulder.

Rickard came down the stairs silently.

His knife whispered across the throat of the man at the back. The ceramic blade was sharper than any made of steel and opened him up from ear to ear. The man dropped as though pole-axed. Rickard stood on him as he fell, used him as a springboard and went after the leading man. At the same time, he was looking for and assessing the others in the room. There was only one more.

Goddamnit! I knew it!

Coming in through the front door was the man from the elevator. He'd changed his suit for a windcheater and jeans, and the mobile for a radio and a handgun.

So he wasn't Alisha's secret fling, but an assassin scoping the terrain before making his assault. His reaction when surprised by Rickard's appearance as the elevator doors opened now held more sense.

It took Rickard all of a split second to analyse the facts and to act on them. The elevator man was surprised by his sudden unexpected arrival and he was a second too slow in lifting his gun. His shot missed and put a hole in the wall a foot behind Rickard's moving form. Rickard caught up with the big guy in the beanie hat just as the man was turning round. He jabbed his knife under the man's jaw, the blade cutting through the tissue and piercing his tongue. Not an immediately fatal stab but one designed to cause debilitation of the senses and a lot of blood. Without stopping, Rickard ducked under the man's arms and came up behind him. Elevator Man had no clear shot. Rickard jammed his blade into his human shield just below his floating rib, not deep enough to reach the liver, but enough to induce shocking pain. He released the handle and grabbed the gun out of the man's lifeless grip. Considerately the big man had already racked the slide, putting a bullet in the firing chamber.

Realising the inevitability of the next few seconds, Elevator Man was already turning, hoping to make it back out the door where he could at least use the cover of the door jamb to return fire.

Should have just gone for it, Rickard thought. Then he shot the man between his shoulder blades as Alisha screamed a second time. The dead man made it to the doorway, but he was face down, his arms outstretched.

In the same moment Rickard disengaged from the big guy, plucked free his knife then shot the man in the side of the head. The guy went over sideways and landed on the carpet, his blood fanning out on the usually pristine flooring. Rickard grimaced at the mess because he was fastidious about those kinds of things. But not now. The apartment was no longer his; he was moving out immediately.

'Tell me what I want to know or I'm going to put you out of business. Permanently.'

'You're gonna shoot me, Hunter? Do it. See how much information that gets you.'

'I'm not going to shoot you. Not yet.' With my left hand I grabbed Kenneth Wetherby by his throat, sinking my fingers tightly each side of his oesophagus, and hauled him backwards over his own desk. A laser printer and a stack of papers were knocked flying and scattered over the floor. Then I dumped Wetherby on his back on the threadbare carpet. I slipped my SIG back into my waistband and bunched my right fist. 'First I'm going to beat the living shit out of you.'

I'd only been in Miami a little over twelve hours and already I'd made a few new enemies and reacquainted myself with another. Rink had also earned himself some anger, but the man he'd knocked cold wasn't voicing an opinion just yet. Rink stood threatening another two men with his fists while I roughed up their boss.

I loosened my grip on Wetherby's throat enough that he could answer my questions. 'Tell me who it is.'

'Are you fucking insane? Coming here like this, you've just earned yourself a bullet with your name on it.'

'I've already got someone trying to kill me,' I snarled. 'And you know who it is. Tell me, you fuckin' arsehole.'

'I don't know, goddamnit! Whoever it is, he's not on my books.'

I grabbed him off the floor. But only for as long as it took to slam him against his office wall. Wetherby slid back down to the ground, his arms covering his head. I kicked him in the pit of his stomach: should have gone for his balls, but I was more interested in intimidating him than putting him fully out of commission.

Wetherby's pinched gaze went to his two friends. 'You gonna help me here? What the fuck am I payin' you idiots for?'

The two men glanced at their fallen companion. They'd just witnessed Rink putting the biggest of them out with a single back fist strike to his jaw. Maybe they thought it was a lucky punch – maybe they had a little sense of duty – because they launched themselves at Rink. Bad mistake.

Rink ducked the first man's cumbersome overhand punch, came up and blasted the point of his elbow into the man's face. I heard his nose break all the way from the other side of the room. Even as he was falling, Rink caught the second man's right arm, pivoted so that the elbow was hyper-extended and pulled the man forwards and off balance. In the next instant Rink reversed direction, folding the man's wrist back on itself. In an aikido dojo, the recipient of such a move would flip out of the joint lock and avoid injury – but this thug was no aikido specialist. He went the wrong way and his wrist and elbow snapped as loudly as had his friend's nose. Rink released the man's arm. It was useless now as a point of control. The man went to his knees cradling his busted arm. He was screaming. Rink whipped a shin kick into the man's head to put him out of his misery.