He was suddenly consumed by self-doubt. What if he dropped the canister at the vital moment, or missed with it altogether? He had never used the stuff in anger before. In fact, for all he knew, the canister might be out of date and not even work when he tried to use it.
During his Officer Safety Training sessions, the instructors had rammed home how unwise – stupid was the actual word they had used – it was to discharge CS in a confined space like this. Unlike pepper spray, CS didn’t just target the person who was sprayed, it spread outwards, affecting anyone unfortunate enough to be standing within reach of the ever-expanding cloud like nuclear fallout.
Despite his considerable misgivings, Bartholomew knew that he simply didn’t have a choice. He swallowed hard, knowing he was only going to get one chance at this, and that was going to be…
…NOW!
Roughly shoving his prisoner aside so that he could get a clear, unobstructed shot, Nick Bartholomew brought his right arm straight up, making sure that the CS was aimed directly at Winston’s chest – always aim at the centre mass and then work the stream upward till it hits the face, he recalled his instructor telling him.
When he pressed the trigger mechanism with his thumb, he was relieved to see a concentrated jet shoot out of the cannister’s nozzle. In a textbook display, it struck Winston’s upper chest and then travelled upwards to soak the gunman’s face.
Winston immediately raised his left hand to block the liquid, but it was too late. The CS had already started to affect the soft tissue of his mucous membrane, attacking the eyes, nose and throat. Letting out an agonised scream, he pivoted towards Bartholomew and angrily pulled the trigger twice.
Fortunately, Bartholomew was no longer there, and both bullets imbedded themselves harmlessly in a thick concrete wall, several feet off target, spewing out plaster fragments and generating a fine mist of dust.
Without the threat of the gun to hold him at bay, Dillon charged forward and, taking hold of Winston’s gun hand in both of his for the second time that day, he wrenched it downward with savage force.
Winston dragged his sleeve across his face to wipe the disabling substance away, but that only made things worse. He couldn’t open his eyes, and he was struggling to draw breath.
Weakened to the point where he could hardly stand, he was on the point of dropping to his knees when he realised that the CS was having an equally detrimental effect on Dillon.
“Nick, Nick, give me a hand,” the detective spluttered, and there was an unmistakable urgency to his plea. “Drop the gun,” Dillon coughed, tugging at his arm again.
“Never!” Claude Winston screamed. He clung to the weapon defiantly, as if it were a magic talisman, something enchanted, which – as long as he retained control of it – would guarantee his eventual success.
As Deontay Garston watched his injured uncle fight a hopeless battle against the hulking detective, Angela appeared by his side and placed a tentative hand on his arm. Her hair was bedraggled, her uniform was torn, and she looked totally shell shocked. “What should we do?” she implored, looking as vulnerable as a lost child.
Garston seriously considered grabbing Angela’s arm and making a run for it. In his weakened state, Winston didn’t stand a chance, and Garston knew that if they remained where they were for much longer, they would both end up in the clink with him.
A wave of pessimism flooded over him.
They were done for.
Without the map to guide them, he had no idea how to find the alternative escape route he’d been told about. Within minutes, all the hospital exits would be in lockdown, so even if they got out of their current predicament, it would only be a matter of time until they were run into the ground. Short of flying out of here, there was no chance of…
Wait a minute! Flying! Of course!
For the first time since the wave of armed officers had surged toward him on the ground floor, he experienced a fleeting glimmer of hope. Perhaps there was a chance after all, albeit a very remote one.
“Get yourself over to the lift and wait for me,” he whispered to Angela. Ignoring her protests, and praying that she wouldn’t desert him the moment he turned his back, he pulled a heavy leather sap out of his white coat and ran towards the uniformed policeman who had sprayed Claude. The man was now trying to help his muscle-bound colleague, who was struggling after being exposed to the CS gas.
Acting with a single-minded determination born of desperation, Garston charged straight up to Nick Bartholomew and viciously belted him across the side of the head with the cosh. It was full of lead shot and Bartholomew went down like a stone, landing groggily on his hands and knees.
Satisfied that the uniformed cop had been incapacitated, Deontay turned his attention to the two big men, trying to position himself for a clear shot at the detective. The CS was already starting to sting his eyes, and he wondered how long it would be before he was forced to withdraw.
The first ineffectual blow glanced off Dillon’s shoulder, merely annoying him. The second swing, more through luck than skill, connected with the side of his neck, stunning him.
Before the policeman could recover, Garston wrapped a supportive arm around Winston’s waist and half walked him, half dragged him towards the safety of the waiting elevator.
“Come on Claude, you can do it,” he coaxed through gritted teeth. His legs were almost buckling under his uncle’s gargantuan weight, but somehow Garston managed to keep going. “Close the doors, close the doors!” he ordered as soon as they were inside.
Angela did as she was bid, this time finding the correct button.
Releasing his uncle, Garston swivelled to see Dillon stumbling towards the lift, arms outstretched to block the doors. Clearly disorientated, the
