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Dillon found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Never a good place to be at the best of times, it seemed infinitely worse when the person holding the weapon was a confirmed cop-killer who hated your guts, had previously tried – but failed – to kill you, and had made no secret of the fact that he was desperate to have another go at ending your life.
Despite the shock, Dillon’s reaction was instinctive and immediate. Without conscious thought, his left hand shot forward to seize Winston’s right wrist in a vice-like grip, jarring the gangster’s gun arm up towards the ceiling. At the same time, he lunged forward and attempted to bury his right elbow into the side of Winston’s face.
Unfortunately, Winston saw the strike coming and he tucked his chin into his shoulder so that his deltoids absorbed most of the power. Nonetheless, the sheer force of the impact sent Winston staggering sideways into the wall of the elevator.
Inevitably, the gun discharged; its bark painfully loud within the tight confines of the metal lift. Thankfully, the sub-sonic round imbedded itself harmlessly into the overhead lighting instead of ricocheting into one of the lift’s crouching occupants.
A natural-born brawler, Dillon had always enjoyed fighting at close quarters, where he could make the most of his considerable strength. It was one of the reasons he’d taken up Ju Jitsu in his early teens instead of Karate or Kung Fu, which were all the fashion back then thanks to the popularity of the Bruce Lee films and the iconic seventies TV series that featured David Carradine as a Shaolin monk called Kwai Chang Caine.
Still holding onto Winston’s wrist, Dillon jammed his shoulder under his opponent’s right elbow and yanked downwards to execute a vicious straight-armed lever lock.
Winston let out an agonised howl and shot up on tip-toe to avoid his arm being snapped in two. His fingers involuntarily sprang open and the revolver was propelled from his hand, landing on the floor directly in front of them. Thankfully, the hammer was down, so it didn’t result in an accidental discharge.
Maintaining his grip on Winston’s wrist, Dillon pirouetted inwards, wrapped his free arm around the gangster’s wide waist, and executed a near-perfect hip throw that sent Winston sprawling over the top of the wheelchair to land on his back with a heavy thud. The lift floor vibrated in protest, and the gangster bellowed in pain as more of his stitches were ripped apart.
Without pausing for breath, Dillon quickly spun and kicked the gun out into the corridor, where it clattered noisily across the linoleum floor until it came to a halt in a corner. He would retrieve it once they had all the suspects detained.
At the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw that Bartholomew had moved forward to engage the man dressed as a doctor, while Terry Grier had his hands full trying to restrain the bald-headed brute who had chased the ward sister. With six people fighting three separate battles, it wasn’t long before the combatants started getting in each other’s way.
Over in a corner, Winston had dragged himself up onto his knees and, with one arm folded painfully across his midsection, he was now trying to summon the energy to rise to his feet.
“Stay down,” Dillon warned as he advanced on him, and there was an undiluted air of menace in his voice.
Before he could reach the escaped prisoner, a feral woman launched herself onto his back and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. Caterwauling like a demented banshee, she attempted to claw out his eyes with her frighteningly long nails.
Blindsided by the attack, Dillon just about managed to grab her flailing wrists in time to stop the talon-like nails from inflicting serious damage to his face. With her hands now nullified, Dillon’s assailant screamed in primal frustration and started trying to bite his ear off.
Dillon bucked and twisted like a rodeo bull as he endeavoured to dislodge the demented creature before she could sink her teeth into his flesh. As much as it went against the grain to strike a woman – even one as vile as this – he quickly realised that if he didn’t, there was a good chance he was going to end up disfigured.
Reaching behind his head, he scrabbled around until he found the woman’s hair. Taking a firm grip with both hands, he violently extended his arms upwards until the elbows locked out. Hoisting her above his head as if he were performing a clean and press, Dillon threw her out of the elevator.
As she sailed through the air, the ululation of her scream denoted fear and rage. The shrieking came to an abrupt halt as she slammed into the corridor wall and slid down into a messy heap on the floor.
Dillon straightened up, gulping down air, to find Claude Winston staring up at him from the floor, where he still knelt, his beady little eyes filled with pain and hatred. Allowing himself a savage smile of triumph, Dillon marched over and hoisted him to his feet by the scruff of his neck. “You’re nicked, sunshine,” he said, gleefully.
“Get your grubby hands off me, pig,” Winston snarled, ineffectually trying to pull away.
Dillon ignored him. The man was a spent force, almost doubled over in pain. Blood was now seeping through the fingers of his right hand as it protectively clutched his abdomen.
Dillon realised that the heavy landing from the hip throw had caused the stitches from his operation to burst open but he felt no sympathy; in fact, he hoped it hurt like hell.
With Winston now in custody, Dillon allowed himself to take in his surroundings properly for the first time since the elevator doors had opened. He was pleased to see that Bartholomew had control of his prisoner, and was holding the fake doctor’s arm in a gooseneck, the most well-known of all the traditional police arrest holds.
Alarmingly, there was no sign of either Grier or the
