Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Rink was slightly ahead of me, but as he approached the burned-down house he came to a halt and covered as I moved forwards. I went by him, took up a covering position and then Rink moved ahead again. It was a one-two manoeuvre we sometimes called pepper-potting back in our military days, and the technique hadn't left us.

We had to approach with caution. We knew that Rickard was armed and extremely dangerous, but more than that he held a superior position. If we both entered the grounds at the same time he could take us down with one burst of gunfire. This way, one of us would still get a chance to kill him if he got the other.

In the next instant that consideration was taken away.

I heard an engine burst to life and a car came hurtling out of the yard in reverse. I had to dive clear and went down on my chest. Twisting round, I saw the bulk of the vehicle spin past me as Rickard hit a skid that angled it away from us. I fired into the body of the vehicle, but I must have missed him, because Rickard hit the gas and the wheels spun furiously before biting into the road surface and launching the car away from me.

Rink held his gun with both hands as he fired repeatedly. The back windscreen of what I now recognised as an older model Ford Taurus imploded, and as I rose up I caught only a fleeting glimpse of the top of Rickard's head where he hunkered low in the driving seat.

I took a few running steps after the accelerating vehicle. Came to a halt. Centred myself and fired. The front windscreen exploded but Rickard continued on. At the far end of the block, he spun the wheel and the Taurus was gone.

Shoulder to shoulder, we stood there in silent contemplation.

It's never a nice feeling when you realise you've failed, but at least we had one thing going for us. We were still alive and could take up the chase again. Too many others in Liberty City weren't so fortunate.

Escaping from the police cordon was his first priority. Everything else could come later. Rickard dumped the Ford Taurus at an underpass beneath Route 95, then walked out and into an industrial estate struggling to remain viable in the current market but falling into decay. He left behind all but his own gun and knife. During the gun battle he'd used up all the ammunition for the Glock 18: he'd have liked to hold on to it for a little longer, but in the circumstances it was simply dead weight. At the very most his own gun held four rounds and he knew he'd have to rectify that soon.

At a mail forwarding depot, he ducked inside the nearest door and found a woman sitting behind a desk. She was surprised by his sudden appearance and had to put away the gossip magazine she was reading. Evidently she didn't get too many visitors in a day. She definitely wasn't the public face of the company, dressed as she was in a dull grey sweatshirt and matching pants, her brown hair scraped back into a ponytail held in place with a rubber band. The polish on her nails was chipped and stained by the cigarette wedged between her pinched lips.

She squinted up at him. 'Sorry. We don't allow personal pick-ups from the office.'

'I'm not here to pick anything up,' Rickard grunted. He looked round the office, his eyes drifting over the faded posters to the open door into a small warehouse. There appeared to be nobody else there.

'You want to send something, you have to do it via a carrier.' She took the cigarette out of her mouth, flicked ash into a ringed coffee mug. Then she stuck the cigarette back between her lips and sat staring up at him through the smoke.

Rickard ignored her and reached over her desk. He grabbed hold of her handbag and dragged it towards him. The woman lunged for the bag, digging her nails into his hands. She let out a shout of outrage but still managed to hold on to the cigarette like it was fused to her lip. Rickard wrenched loose, scowling at the scratches in his flesh. He'd just fought a gun battle, killed six or so people without a scratch, and now this?

'You shouldn't have done that.'

The woman clawed at her bag again but Rickard snatched it out of her way. He dug inside it. Came out empty. He upended the contents on her desk.

'Where are the keys to your car?'

'You're not having them. Get out now before I call the police.' The woman made to drag her personal belongings across the desk. Among the dross was a mobile phone. As she did, Rickard grabbed her by her hair, using the tail at the back to twist her head sharply on one side.

'Where are your keys, bitch?' From his belt he drew the ceramic knife and thumbed it open. He placed the point as close to her right eye as possible without blinding her. Then he nudged it a little more. The woman shrieked, all her toughness gone. She flailed at Rickard's hands trying to get away from the blade but he just gripped her all the tighter.

'If you want to keep your other eye, you'll tell me where they are.'

Between howling in terror and trying to wrench away, she dug a hand into her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a bundle of keys. The ring was overloaded with small stuffed animals and Disney character fobs. Rickard released her and she bent over, holding her damaged eye with both hands as she sobbed. He looked at the frippery then tore loose the accumulated keepsakes and scattered them across the desk. He held up the key for the Ford Focus parked outside in the depot lot.

'Look at me,' he commanded.

The woman moaned.

'Look at me.'

'I'm blind!'

'You still have one good eye. Tell me what you see.'

When she didn't raise her head, he shrugged. He grabbed her hair to yank her up and quickly slashed her throat. His hand was guided by frustration but it was still a clean cut that opened her up almost all the way to the spine. The woman died instantly. There wasn't even a shudder – with the vagus nerves severed, there was no route between the brain and viscera to send any residual commands to her system. Killing the woman had formed no part of his original plan. He'd intended stealing her car, before dumping it nearby and transferring to another stolen less obviously than this. He had wanted the woman alive in order to raise the alarm about her stolen car so that while the cops were busy searching for the Focus he'd have a clear run out of town.

'You should have looked at me, goddamn you,' he said, as though her death was her own doing.

He walked out of the office and approached the Focus. He glanced all round, then, pretty certain that no one was observing him, he unlocked it and climbed in, then drove out of the lot. The car stank of cigarette smoke and was flecked with ash. Even the windscreen was discoloured with nicotine. He opened the windows to let some fresh air inside, feeling the draught ruffle his hair. He drove off the industrial estate and back under the highway, noting distractedly that the Taurus remained undiscovered, before taking a ramp to join the northbound traffic.

He decided to keep the Focus for the time being. The woman looked like she'd spent most of her days alone, smoking herself into oblivion, so it wasn't likely that her murder would be discovered any time soon. If there were roadblocks ahead, he'd take the chance that the identification he carried would get him by without question, so it was more important to put distance behind him now than lay false trails. He only required a couple of hours and then he'd be out of the country and free of pursuit.

Since arriving home at his apartment yesterday, his mind had been working in a mode commandeered by a strange sense of disassociation. He was driven by a self-righteous wind that pushed at him insisting on immediate and positive action for all the betrayal he'd suffered. Alisha – and the man whose arms she'd run to – demanded punishment. So too did the one that had sent men to kill him at his apartment. This was what he must concentrate on.