Matt Hilton: Cut and run

I needed my right hand.

It was holding my SIG and I loathed giving it up.

With not even enough time to slip it into my waistband, I had no option.

I let it drop, arching it out towards Rink.

Let him save my gun instead. I'd collect it from him later if I managed to stay alive.

Unencumbered by my gun, I now had two hands free. My right was still weakened from the injury I'd taken in Colombia, but it was better than nothing. I got a hold on the roofline, then grabbed up at the balustrade with my other. Kicking and digging with my toes, I finally found a seam in the wall and I pushed and pulled myself up and got my forearm over the edge of the catwalk. It was an effort to drag myself up on to the roof, and when I finally looked there was a broad smear of blood advertising my exertions. I lay there a moment, my view full of blue sky as I sucked in air.

Finally, I craned my head over the edge and peered down at Rink.

He grinned back at me, teeth just a shade whiter than his drained features. Rink worries about me, even though I tell him not to.

He was holding my SIG.

For a second I expected that he'd try to throw it back up to me. I pulled out my Ka-Bar and showed him I was armed, so he jammed the SIG into his belt.

'Where is he?'

It was strange hearing my own voice. It came to me like an echo in a tunnel, another effect of adrenalin.

'Must have gone to the front. Forget him, Hunter. Come down, we can take him when he tries to make a break for it.'

I held up the knife. 'Got to finish this, Rink. You know me, right?'

'Right. Except you're bleeding like a stuck pig and he's still got a gun.'

'What's new?'

He shrugged, seeing the point. I'd been injured and outgunned before and when had that deterred me? Sometimes when the thrill of battle takes me I'm just too pig-headed for my own good, and it takes Rink to remind me. This time, he just held his peace. He knew this was our best chance of stopping the murderer.

Two troopers ran past, heading for the front of the hospital.

Taking it that they'd been summoned by their colleagues, I had a good idea where Rickard had got to. Didn't fancy my chances of making it up and over the roof with my lame leg, so I set off along the catwalk, heading for the corner. Blood pulsed from my wound with every step.

Ideally I needed to staunch the blood loss and lower my racing heartbeat or I'd bleed out in minutes, but I guessed that reacquainting myself with Rickard was more imminent than that. I could hear the thuds of someone making their way along the roofline just round the corner.

My first thought was: Maybe I shouldn't have given up the gun after all.

Rickard had one and I didn't.

That put me at a distinct disadvantage.

But then again, I had the fact that he wasn't expecting me working in my favour. I had a knife too, and it would prove more effective against his anti-ballistics armour than a nine mm Parabellum would.

The chimney stack I'd earlier discounted as his hiding place was now only feet away from me. I grabbed at it and pulled myself up, pressing myself against the brickwork. From this vantage I could see over the slope of the roof going down to the side of the building. Rickard was on his hands and knees.

Perfect.

Without fear of the consequences I pushed out from the chimney, as if I was taking that HALO jump from the airplane over Colombia all over again.

Joe Hunter?

How many lives does this son of a bitch have?

That was all the thinking that Rickard managed.

Then Hunter was on top of him and he had to forget about thinking and go on instinct.

He spun on his side, lifting and discharging his gun in the same instant. Would have got him in the guts, but Hunter's knee came down on his wrist and plastered it to the roof tiles. The bullets careened off the slick surface, ricocheting off into the heavens. Hunter's hand plunged and only a twist of Rickard's body saved his life. The military knife jammed through the material of his bulletproof vest but was halted before it found flesh by Rickard's catlike movement that twisted the blade off-line. Undeterred Hunter ripped out the knife and stabbed again.

Rickard pulled loose from under Hunter's knee, swinging his elbow up and back and catching the crook of Hunter's arm. The blade missed his throat by less than a thumb's width. Rickard twisted again, getting himself under Hunter's chest, and thrust with all his power, throwing them both back against the roof. He tried to turn, to bring round the gun, but Hunter wasn't having any of it. He grabbed a fistful of collar and dragged Rickard backwards, driving into his ribs with the knife. Kevlar vests often had exposed areas under the arms where the straps were fixed round the body, but this was full tactical armour and the opening wasn't there. It didn't deter Hunter, he just kept on digging with the razor tip, drilling his way through the material. The armour was designed to stop the blunt trauma of a bullet, not sharp pointy things. It was only a matter of time before the knife would penetrate and start to saw its way through his ribs.

Rickard reared back again, using the edge of his helmet as a weapon against Hunter's jaw. He struck twice, felt the pressure go from his ribs. Then he dropped his gun and snatched at the ceramic knife on his belt. Thumbed it open.

He jabbed down, slashing open another wound in Hunter's injured leg. Then he swung from the hips, using his elbow to drive Hunter away from him. He reversed, swinging now with the knife at Hunter's throat.

Hunter got his own arm in the way and their forearms clashed.

Hunter kicked at his groin, but there was no power in his leg. Rickard took the kick, allowing the steel cup in his jockstrap to take the brunt, and cut again at Hunter's throat.

Hunter ducked, but Rickard felt the knife graze the top of his skull and saw a lock of hair spinning in the breeze of their making.

Hunter came back at him with the big knife and Rickard twisted so that it missed. The only problem was it left him teetering over the balustrade and he had to make a quick adjustment to avoid crashing through it. He threw a back kick into Hunter's legs. But now it was his kick that held little power.

Hunter slammed him from behind, an elbow across the nape of his neck. The armour didn't help cushion this blow, and Rickard staggered away, almost going over the balustrade again. Below him he saw the Japanese dude – Jared Rington, Wetherby had called him – lift up an assault rifle. He saw the flash before he heard the rattle, and he felt the impact of bullets hit his body before he felt the pain. He stumbled away, feeling like he was being pummelled by a crowd of determined pugilists.

Then he was out of the line of fire.

The cessation of bullets left him as dazed as the incoming fire had. He wondered for the briefest fraction of a second if he was still alive.

Of course he was.

Testament to that was the intensity with which Joe Hunter lurched after him to finish the job.

How none of Rington's bullets had found flesh he had no idea, but he didn't want to chance them again. He was at the corner of the building now and he dodged round it, causing Hunter to follow.

'Come on.'

He beckoned Hunter after him. He was confident that the armour would halt Hunter's knife whereas there was nothing to stop him from slicing the man to ribbons.

'Come on, Hunter.'

'Don't worry, I'm coming.'

Hunter was pale, weakened by blood loss and favouring his right leg. The material of his trousers was slick with blood and he was limping on the ball of his foot. His balance was off. No way could he avoid Rickard's lunge.

Rickard leaped at him, slashing upwards at Hunter's belly.

Hunter didn't dodge back.