Matt Hilton: Cut and run

I powered up into the attic, squirming so that I bent forwards over the joist beam, then swung my legs up and balanced there for a second. My night vision was beginning to kick in and the space didn't look as impenetrable now. I could make out arched beams above me and a sequence of horizontal joists that had formed the original support structure for an earlier ceiling. It was like being in the upturned hull of a ship.

Coming to my feet, I reached with a toe for the next horizontal. Couldn't quite reach it without jumping, but there was nothing else for it. Rickard was already a good way off and I couldn't see him, only hear the thuds as he hopped from beam to beam. I followed. Reaching the spot where he'd almost fallen through into the room below, I saw that a support wall actually extended into the attic here, making a tombstone-shaped bulwark between me and Rickard. He had to have gone up and over it and into the attic above the hallway where Rink was stationed. I went along a beam like a tightrope walker, found where the wall and the roof were conjoined. Large metal bolts strapped the roof beams to the brick structure but there was enough room between them to squirm through. First I listened to try to get an idea of how close Rickard was. I didn't want him to catch me halfway through the gap. Thuds resounded from a distance, then the unmistakable sound of someone kicking loose roof tiles.

Didn't matter how much sound I made now, I shouted at the top of my lungs. 'Rink, he's getting away. He's trying to smash his way on to the roof.'

I was rewarded by a couple of bullets fired at me, but Rickard was more intent on making an escape route than he was on hitting me. The bullets struck the wall, spitting shards of brick-dust at my face. I screwed my eyes tightly to avoid being blinded, and when I looked again I could see a spill of light cutting an oblique slash through the darkness about twenty yards ahead of me. Judging by the lack of movement within the light-spill, Rickard had already forced his way outside.

Mindless of the grazes I picked up, I eased my way through the gap and clambered upright on another beam. Then I loped through the attic, jumping from one beam to the next as I tried to recall what the building looked like from outside. I'd watched it for long enough from my limestone perch in the swamp, but now when my mind was working on overtime I could only dredge up an impression of a large mainly wooden structure of three floors with a crenellated balustrade around a peaked roof. As I hurried after Rickard, more details came to me. Chimney stacks stretched into the sky in at least four different locations along the length of the rooftop. I also recalled that at the back of the building more recent extensions had been added, with two annexe wings erected at right angles to the main structure. These wings stood two storeys tall, with sloping roofs abutting the back wall. It was a feasible escape route for Rickard to drop on to one of those roofs, then from there to the ground below. Maybe there was even a fire escape, but I couldn't remember.

Arriving at the exit hole, I found that Rickard had smashed loose the tiles and wooden lats and had slashed a hole through an asphalt inner lining. The hole was barely large enough for my head and shoulders. I was risking things by looking outside. I couldn't hear where Rickard was; he could be standing a couple of feet away for all I knew, waiting for my head to pop out like a target in a shooting gallery.

I had to go after him, nothing else for it.

Positioning myself next to the hole, I quickly lunged out, looking one way then the other. He could be above me, up towards the peak of the roof, and I twisted to get a look. No sign of him. The fact that my head didn't explode was a good thing too, meaning he was more concerned with escaping than finishing things between us. I clattered through the hole, dislodging more tiles that slid to the edge of the balustrade. I followed them, sliding on my backside, using my boot heels as brakes to halt me from pitching over the low wall and to the ground. From up here it looked a lot more than three storeys high.

We had come out on the roof towards the back left corner of the hospital and there was a chimney stack thirty feet to my left, another twenty feet to my right. Rickard had to be hiding behind one of them; I just wasn't sure which one. I chose to go right because the one on the left was too near to the side of the building. From below Rickard would be exposed to fire from the FBI men in the grounds.

There was a narrow catwalk on the inner side of the balustrade, a thin strip of lead flashing that acted as a drainage channel for the infrequent but tumultuous rain showers that hit the area. I could fit one boot in at a time which made me keep moving to avoid losing my balance. I jogged along, left arm extended from my side, my right busy with my SIG. Occasionally I had to steady myself with the butt of my gun striking the roof tiles. The sound was a giveaway, but then again so was the hollow thud of my boots. As I approached the chimney stack I raised my gun, expecting Rickard to pop out and take a shot at me. Thankfully I made it to the brick stack without being shot, and I jammed my back to the wall. I waited, steadying my breathing, then swung round the stack.

The son of a bitch wasn't there.

I'd picked the wrong hiding place.

Looking back the way I'd come I couldn't see him either.

Further on – a good fifty feet at least – was the next chimney stack, but there was no way he could have got that far without me seeing him.

I even looked over the edge of the roof. The two annexes were below but too far away for him to have jumped to the rooftops unless he was as agile as a spider monkey. The fire escape I expected wasn't there; it must have been on the side of the building. Rickard wasn't flattened in the earth below me so he hadn't fallen. That left only one place he could have gone: up and over.

Studying the roof tiles, I saw that there were indeed a number of scuff marks, a smear where a boot had slipped and dislodged a growth of algae. The peaked roofline was about twelve feet above me, on an angle of about thirty-five degrees. He must have scaled it, using the bricks of the chimney as handholds.

I was just about to start up when I heard shouts from down on the ground. Three troopers were down there, guns raised. In silhouette against the sky my clothing would be indistinguishable from any other and Rickard had a similar body type to mine so I suppose their mistake could be forgiven. They began firing at me. I plastered myself flat to the roof as bullets cut chunks from the brickwork and balustrade.

Pinned down, I had nowhere to go.

I shouted something, but my words were lost amid the racket of bullets and challenges from below.

Next second I heard a bellow like an enraged bull and the FBI guns fell silent. Chancing a bullet in the face, I leaned forwards and saw Rink stalking among the men, yelling at them and generally threatening to tear their heads off if any of them had hurt me. He looked up and I waved. He nodded back at me, but then turned on the men, shouting again. HRT troopers are very tough guys, but Rink's tougher. They acquiesced to his command, moving back to offer covering fire for me instead.

I'd been distracted for the last few seconds.

Those seconds had almost proven fatal, but the next few weren't that much different.

As I turned I caught a blur of movement from above me.

Instinct caused me to dodge and to bring up my SIG in response.

I fired at the exact same moment that Rickard did. Deja vu all over again.

This time there was no striking of my gun to put off my aim. My bullet hit Rickard in the chest and he slid back down beyond the peak of the roof. It was gratifying, but it didn't stop Rickard's bullet from striking me in my right thigh. My leg was knocked from under me and I crashed face first against the tiles, rebounded off and pitched backwards.