Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Three floors up, it looked a long way to the ground.

It looked a whole lot further when spilling head first over a crumbling balustrade.

Being shot in the chest was just the latest in a series of shocks to his system that Rickard had to contend with. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't the worst.

Finding the corpse in lieu of his wife was the first. That had thrown him more than he liked to admit. It had made him realise how stupid he'd been. Walking directly into a trap that was simple to avoid had been an amateur's mistake. It slowed him momentarily as he considered his next move. He'd been led to the chamber with the intention of blocking him in. Any minute the FBI would come boiling into the room and he didn't expect to be taken alive. He decided that the hall was no way out; the room had no other exits, not even a window he could smash his way through, so that left him only one escape route. Decision made, he had no qualms about standing on the corpse while he dislodged a ceiling tile and swarmed up and on to a joist.

Discovering that Joe Hunter had survived the explosion and had tracked him back here was next. He had really believed that Guarapo's grenade had torn Hunter to pieces and he couldn't imagine how he'd got out of that room alive. He supposed that how wasn't an issue now, only that Hunter was there and firing at him in the attic space. Hunter had hit him, but the armour had kept him safe.

Breaking through on to the roof of the hospital maybe hadn't been his greatest plan, but it was all he had left to him. Hunter had shouted to someone down below, cutting off his escape that way. On the roof he was forced to run like a coward to avoid being pinned down by the HRT troopers at ground level. He'd gone up and over the peak, had only made it there before he heard machine gun fire. When he looked back over the roof, there was Hunter in all his glory, wide open for a killing shot. Hunter, unlike him, didn't have the comfort of a bullet-proof vest.

Hunter's return shot struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards, but not before he saw his nemesis hit in the leg and tumbling towards the roof's edge. Nowhere for Hunter to go but down.

Biggest shock of all was that Hunter had died after all this by falling off a roof.

Rickard touched the spot where Hunter's bullet had hit him in the chest. The vest was punctured, singed stuffing poking out the hole, but the flattened slug must have fallen out as he slid down the roof. If he hadn't been wearing the vest he'd be a corpse, no doubt about it. Hunter's bullet had struck him dead centre. That was some shooting. Admirable in a way.

He wasn't going to dwell on it.

Hunter was dead but there were others out there who were equally dangerous. Jared Rington, for example; and who knew who else had been drafted in to bring him down?

He was at the front of the building now. Here the balustrade was taller and more ornamental, providing better cover from the troopers running round the front and taking up positions. If he'd had the sniper rifle with him he was confident that he could take them all out one by one. But the reality was it was now him who'd have to be careful not to fall into the sights of a sharpshooter.

He checked his weapons. He unscrewed the suppressor from his gun, then fed a fresh magazine into it. He touched his knife in its pouch.

Staying under cover of the balustrade, he began crawling towards the left front corner of the hospital. He couldn't stay up here forever because it was only a matter of time before gunmen made their way on to the roof, or the FBI called in air support. His best chance at getting away and re-establishing his plan for killing Alisha was making his way to the ground. If he made it into the swamp he was confident that no one would find him there.

Coming to the corner of the hospital, he found that a fancy embellishment of the balustrade allowed him to come to his feet, while still being blocked from two angles from those searching for him from below. He looked for a fire escape on the side of the building and found it, the problem being it was a floor lower than his current position and could only be accessed via doors from the building. An awning with latticed sides had been erected above the stairs to stop birds from nesting on the steps, but it looked a little flimsy and he doubted it would bear his weight as he climbed down. He could possibly grip the awning and use it to swing on to the stairs but as he did so he'd be open to a sniper on the ground. He didn't fancy his chances.

At the back of the building there were a couple of structures jutting out from the main building. If he could get down to the roof of either of those he could smash his way back inside the building and reach the fire escape. Or he could take his chances by going back down through the building, finding himself a hostage to use as a shield while he made his escape. Preferably that bogus nurse at the front counter: he'd come here to kill a woman and she would do.

Decision made, he went to his hands and knees and set off for the next corner. He heard the pounding of feet below him. He glanced between the crenellations and saw two troopers running to add extra firepower to those at the front of the building. Good, less for him to worry about at the back.

A chimney stack loomed on his right, but he went past it, determined now that he knew his way down.

He was on all fours, gun pressed against the duct work, a compromising position in the purest sense. Not the best of places to find yourself when a man with a huge knife attacks you from above.

Having four hands would have been useful. One to hold my gun, one to slap on the wound in my thigh to stop the bleeding, another two to hold on to the edge of the roof to stop me from plunging three floors to a nasty landing.

As it was I only had one free hand, which didn't say much for my chances of survival.

Rickard's bullet had struck me in the meat of my thigh. It felt like Thor had smacked me with his hammer, the pain a white hot flame followed by the numb sensation of traumatised nerve-endings. My leg had lost its ability to support me and I'd nowhere to go but down. The balustrade would have halted my fall, if not for the fact the bullets fired by the HRT troopers had cut it to pieces. It crumbled and I fell.

Experiencing slow motion is an aspect of endorphin overload. My mind was working faster than the ability of the real world to keep up. My eyes saw and pigeon-holed the various images that flashed before me.

Bits of the railing drifting towards the ground like feathers caught on a breeze, intermingling with droplets of my blood.

The sky pitching slowly, becoming the green of the lawns and then the grey of the gravel path at the base of the wall.

Rink running, arms outstretched, intending snatching me out of the air like he was Superman coming to the rescue.

My left hand shooting out and grabbing at the edge of the roofline. Fingertips digging in, thumb curling under the stone ridge.

The wall coming at me.

Then things returned to normal as I slammed against the wall, my nose and left eyebrow taking the brunt of the force. It was almost sickening enough to make me loosen my grip and give in to the inevitable.

But I didn't.

I clung on for dear life.

I'm a fatalist. I know I'm not going to live forever, but I wasn't ready to cash in my chips just yet. When it's my time to go then so be it, but I wanted it to be after Luke Rickard wasn't a threat to anyone else.

I kicked and scrabbled at the wall with the toes of my boots. My right leg was numb, couldn't rely on it to support my weight, so I concentrated on finding a foothold with my left. My arm felt stretched beyond belief, like it was coming undone at all the joints. I had seconds before it gave out. Glancing down, I knew that Rink wouldn't make it to stop my fall, and even if he did I'd probably kill the two of us.