Matt Hilton: Cut and run

In the distance armoured FBI troopers patrolled the grounds, but they were more concerned with watching the points leading in from the swamp than they were the front approach. They probably didn't believe he'd have the nerve for a full-frontal assault. That had been Cesar Calle's mistake and Rickard recalled where that lapse of judgement had got him.

Rickard brought the sniper rifle to his shoulder and extended the silenced barrel through the hole in the fence. Through the scopes the solitary trooper standing guard at the front of the property looked as close as could be without becoming intimate. Rickard studied him through the scope. The man was fully armoured, but his chin and a notch of skin at his throat were exposed when viewed through ten times the magnification. He was only fifty yards away. Shit, Rickard thought, I could drop him without the sights.

The shot was an easy one for him.

So why was he waiting?

Crash through their defences, cut them down.

He touched the trigger, but again he paused.

Thinking rationally, he knew that this was a fool's errand he'd set himself. What would he gain from murdering Alisha that he hadn't already achieved? This was an insane plan he'd embarked on, whatever way he looked at it. He was chancing death when he could simply walk away. He was wealthy; he could turn his back on his apartment in Miami, move anywhere in the world he chose and live a good life on the proceeds of his trade he'd tucked away in offshore accounts.

'You can't let a woman see any weakness in you, Luc. None at all. Do that and she'll despise you. You will become nothing in her eyes. You understand, oui?'

Nothing.

'You must make women fear you. It is the only way you will gain their respect.'

The serpent, the manifestation of his rage, pulled the trigger.

The trooper dropped in a boneless heap on the lawn.

Rickard waited for the alarm to be raised, but except for the distant call of a bird nothing else could be heard.

He propped the rifle against the fence, then scrambled over the top of it and into the hospital grounds.

He went directly to the dead man. He caught him under his armpits and dragged him into some nearby shrubs. There he peeled the Velcro patches from the man's uniform, discarded the redundant SWAT insignia from his own and replaced them with the FBI ones. The uniforms weren't exactly the same, but they were close enough. By the time anyone noticed the differences they'd only be a split second from death.

He took the guard's place, standing with his back to the hospital while surreptitiously searching for danger. Then slowly he ambled towards the front of the building like a man bored by routine and killing time by patrolling the grounds. No one watched him from any of the windows. He noted CCTV cameras, but doubted that he'd been observed due to the lack of troopers charging in his direction. He went up the steps and through the front door as if he had the right to do so.

Immediately inside was an automatic door. Beyond it an auxiliary nurse was busy at a desk. Rickard moved through the doors as they whisked open. The faint purr of the motor caused the woman to glance up at him.

'Toilet break,' Rickard told her.

'You know where they are.' The nurse gave him no more attention, turning back to her work. A spurt of anger went through him. Teaching her a lesson wasn't a good idea, not at this moment, but maybe on his way out he'd show her he wasn't to be ignored. He marched by her, looking like he knew exactly where he was going.

Signs pointed him upwards.

He went that way.

At the top he found a hallway bordered by wards. This being a private facility, he expected each ward to be separated into more individual rooms, but to his surprise found them to be open spaces lined with beds. The fact that the beds contained no patients gave him a trickle of unease.

He recalled the administration buildings and how deserted they'd looked.

Something else: where were all the staff? A hospital like this should be bustling with doctors, nurses and support personnel. That solitary woman at the front desk? She was a plant. Probably FBI. Everyone else had been moved because they were expecting him.

He'd just walked into a trap.

Panic clutched fleetingly at him. In the next second he pushed it aside, feeling instead the rage roiling in his innards.

He turned back, ready to return to the reception area and show this latest bitch what became of those who schemed against him. He pulled out his ceramic blade and thumbed it open.

Another thought struck him.

Maybe it made sense that Alisha had been brought here.

Perhaps it was a logistical – and logical – decision to take Alisha out of the Cedars and bring her somewhere more remote. Less chance of collateral damage if Rickard did come calling. Perhaps this facility had only recently closed down, and had been commandeered as a temporary safe house for the critically ill woman. That would explain the lack of patients and medical staff.

Feasible?

Not very, but Rickard wasn't going to run away without first checking out his theory.

He gave the wards only a cursory inspection, then moved further along the hall. A door led into a descending stairwell. He could detect the faint residue of cooking smells left over from a once-bustling kitchen area. She wouldn't be down there. Instead he went a little further along the corridor and found another staircase, this one leading up to the third level. It would be unusual for a patient to be closeted away up there when there were so many rooms on the lower levels, which was exactly why he thought that was where Alisha was roomed. He went up the stairs, passing his knife to his left hand and drawing his gun in his right – the two-weapon style of Musashi.

The upper hall was dull under muted lighting. But at the far end he could see a door and around the jamb leaked brighter light. The obligatory armed guards were nowhere to be seen, which was peculiar. Perhaps they were inside.

He moved forwards stealthily, ears straining to hear voices from within the room. He could make out the electronic blip… blip… blip of monitors and something else like a distant chorus of voices. As he progressed he heard music and realised that a radio or TV was playing in the room, the volume low.

He was walking into a bottleneck. The hall behind him had only one exit and that was the way he'd come up. A couple of doors on each side led into cupboards or maintenance rooms with blind walls formed from the sloping roof. Should anyone come up the stairs, his only recourse would be to go directly into the room and damn the consequences.

But that was OK by him.

His mantra still played in his head.

Moving right up to the door, he placed an ear to the wood. He thought he heard the shifting of a body on a bed but couldn't be sure, as it could easily have been noise from the radio or TV programme. He glanced behind him, checking that the hall was still empty. It was.

Having no idea of the dimensions or layout of the room behind the door, he only had one plan of attack. Go in hard and fast, shoot anyone standing.

This was wrong.

Not his intention but the scenario.

His mind was screaming at him that he was walking into a trap.

He felt that the second he burst through that door he'd be confronted by a dozen armed troopers who would open up on him like a firing squad.

Let them try. He'd kill them all anyway.

He took in a deep breath, settling himself.

Used his left hand, the knife palmed in it, to twist the doorknob.

Then he threw the door open and followed it inside with a lunge. He was wearing Kevlar and could trust the armour to stop any return fire while he chose his targets.

Except there were none.

The room was empty of FBI commandos.