I twisted right and caught his arm above the cuff. His left wrist in my left hand. I pulled his forearm into my chest. I slid backwards. The whole weight of my body pulled him across me. I twisted his arm and pushed downwards. He stretched out in front of me, doubled over, neck extended. My right hand came down hard. The side of my palm bit into his spine. The vertebrae beneath the base of his skull fractured with a crack. Beneath the skin his spinal canal imploded, severing the delicate cord within. He dropped, dead. I went down with him, close to the wall, diving headlong towards his feet. The AKS was strapped across his chest, trapped between his body and the floor. The doctor had drawn, and began shooting around me – not at me. Pistol rounds sparked off the metal walls. He was trying to keep me down, not kill me.

But opening fire in a massive metal box guarantees two things: deafening noise – and ricochets. One nicked my left elbow, the others took off every which way but loose on a 9mm pinball game from hell. Rounds bounced off the ceiling, the walls, even the guard’s flak vest. I got my head down, squirming myself small against the lifeless barricade, facing the door. His shots went nowhere near me, but they were potentially lethal nonetheless – if only accidentally. Spent brass cascaded to the floor as the lead swarm screeched through the forty-foot cavity. Halfway through the tirade the second guard arrived back on the scene, carbine up, followed closely by another man, pistol drawn. The guard stepped into the open container at precisely the right moment to stop one of the doctor’s pistol rounds from leaving it. His nose exploded in a thick red spray as the mangled bullet blew lead and cartilage back through his brain. He fell instantly, lights out. The man behind recoiled out of sight.

My ears rang with a flat, high-pitched whine. My limbs throbbed as blood surged back into them. I’d counted eighteen shots.

On your feet, sunshine.

I got my head up. The doctor stood six feet in front of me, deafened, disorientated, staring in mute disbelief at the empty Grach in his hand – though whether at the fact that every bullet had missed me, or him, I couldn’t say.

I stepped over the dead guard who’d shielded me and twisted the Russian pistol out of the doctor’s hand. No resistance. I hit him with it, hard across the right temple. His skin split across his skull with a wide, red tear. He fell with a grunt, clutching his head, blood spilling through his fingers.

Movement at the door.

Bang. Crack. Zip. More shots. More ricochets.