At that moment the killer looked up and their eyes met again. What was it that Jack saw flicker in them? Certainly not defeat. He hesitated, millimetres away from the killer’s knife hand.
“What’s the matter, Tyler? Don’t you want to take my knife?” Pritchard asked, a little too meekly.
“Why don’t you put it down on the floor, just to be on the safe side?” Tyler said, withdrawing his hand and taking a step backward.
The killer frowned, pondering this. “What’s the matter, Jack, don’t you trust me?” he asked with a smirk.
“Just humour me,” Tyler said, flatly.
“Sure,” Pritchard said, and then gave a defeated shrug. He began to bend down, pointing the knife towards the floor. “Whatever you say, Jack.” In one swift movement, he lunged forward, thrusting the knife at Tyler’s chest with the speed of a striking cobra. As Tyler sidestepped the killer’s advance, the tip of the blade effortlessly sliced through his jacket lapel. The killer changed direction in one fluid move, going from a jab to a backhand slice without breaking his step. Jack ducked under the blow and tried to shuffle backwards, but he snagged his foot on the mesh floor of the catwalk and stumbled backwards, landing heavily on his rump.
The killer reversed his grip, holding the flat of the blade against his forearm in the concealed position. “You didn’t really think you could win, did you?” he mocked as he came forward, raising the knife for a downward thrust. Now that Tyler knew his identity, Pritchard couldn’t allow him to leave the building alive. He didn’t buy the bullshit about them already knowing he was the Ripper for one moment; that was just Tyler playing mind games to unsettle him.
“Fuck you,” Jack replied. He kicked out at the knife hand as it came down, deflecting the blow from its intended target. He hooked one foot around the killer’s left ankle and kicked out at the killer’s left knee with the heel of his other foot, knocking him over with a ju-jitsu move he hadn’t practised for years.
Jack rolled over on his back in a reverse somersault, coming up to his feet less graciously then he would have liked. The killer was already halfway up, holding the knife out in front of him to deter Tyler from counter-attacking.
“Very good,” he wheezed. “But it won’t save you for long.”
There was little room for manoeuvre on the catwalk, and it vibrated and shuddered with their every move. Jack couldn’t help but wonder if it was up to this sort of thing. He had visions of it collapsing under their weight.
The killer was advancing again, slicing left and right in a vicious figure of eight. He certainly knew how to use that damn knife, Jack noted, wishing he had something to fight back with – preferably a Glock 17 pistol. There was nothing like an ounce of lead, strategically placed between the eyes, to slow down a crazed knifeman. He was being forced backwards, towards the stairs, and he had to find a way to turn the tables before it was too late.
The killer lunged forward again, but this time Jack was ready for him. He stepped inside the blow and pivoted. As the knife shot past his face, he grabbed hold of the killer’s wrist, trying to shake the knife loose. Unfazed, the killer tried to turn the knife inwards, towards Tyler’s stomach. Jack hung on tightly. In this position they cannoned off the railings, bouncing from side to side as though they were in a pinball machine. As each one struggled to gain the upper hand, the two men swayed dangerously over the side, both trying to pin their opponent down.
Pritchard managed to pull his knife arm free of Tyler’s grip. Twisting around, so that he was now on top, he stabbed downwards with all his might. Tyler somehow blocked the blow, halting it inches away from his face. For several seconds they remained locked in that position before gravity began to take its toll and the knife began to creep downwards, edging ever closer to Tyler’s face. Then, just when all seemed lost, Tyler twisted the killer around, using his own momentum against him. The killer’s body slammed into the metal railing, stunning him. Making the most of the sudden advantage, Jack banged the knife hand hard against the solid metal railing, once, twice, three times, until it sprang from the killer’s hand, falling thirty feet to the ground below.
It landed with a dull thud.
Tyler drew his right fist back to deliver a haymaker of a punch. Without the knife, Pritchard was no match for him.
“No!” Simon Pritchard screamed, wide-eyed. In a sudden frenzy, he grabbed hold of Tyler’s jacket and threw himself backward, taking them both over the edge of the railing and out into space.
CHAPTER 41
Kelly opened her eyes to find a giant figure bending over her. As an out of focus hand reached for her face, panic mushroomed inside her chest; she didn’t want to die. “No!” she screamed, raising her arms to fend off the monster. The last thing she remembered, before losing consciousness, was the killer leaning over her with that horrible knife in his hand.
“It’s alright, love. It’s me, Tony Dillon,” a familiar voice soothed.
“Tony Dillon?” she repeated automatically, only half understanding.
“That’s right, Kelly, it’s just Dillon.” He waited until the fear drained from her face and her hands lowered of their own accord before reaching forward again to help her. This time she didn’t resist.
Kelly’s head was throbbing, her skin was
