“Shoot me and you won’t get away alive,” she heard someone say in the distance, through a throbbing cloud bank of darkness.

“What the fuck.” He yanked the cable tie tight around her wrists. “You think I give a shit about that, you bitch? Live fast, die young.” He grabbed her hair and pulled, and she screamed. “Leave a pretty corpse.”

Miriam tried to stand: Her legs had turned to jelly somewhere along the line. This is crazy, she thought vaguely. Can’t let him blow up the fort with everyone under it, or on the other side—She leaned drunkenly, almost falling over.

“Stand, bitch!” Someone was slapping someone else’s face. Suddenly there was a hand under her armpit. “Fuck, what’s wrong with you?”

“Three jumps, two hours,” she slurred drunkenly.

“Crap.” A door opened and he shoved her forwards. “Fucking get over it or I’ll start on your fingernails. You think your head hurts, you don’t know shit.”

“What do you want?” she mumbled.

“Freedom.” He pushed her toward the low leather-topped sofa opposite Matthias’s desk. “Freedom to travel. Freedom to live away from this fucking pesthole. A million bucks and the wind in my hair. The boss looks after his own. Drop the fort and deliver you and I’ve got it made. Loads of money.”

He pushed her down onto the sofa. “Now you and me are going to sit tight until your friends are over on the other side.” He waved at the CCTV monitor on Matthias’s workstation. “Then I set a timer and we leave by the back door.” He cleared his throat. “Meantime, there’s something I’ve been wondering. Do you give good head?” he inquired, leaning over her.

Something flickered at the edge of Miriam’s vision. She focused past his shoulder, saw the door open and Roland standing there with a leveled pistol. The gunman turned, and something made a noise like a sewing machine, awfully loudly. Hot metal rain, cartridge cases falling. A scream. Miriam kicked out, catching him on one leg. Then the back of his head vanished in a red mist, and he collapsed on top of her.

“Oh Miriam, you really are no good at this!” trilled Olga, “but thank you for drawing his attention! That creep, he makes me so angry…” Then her voice changed: “Dear Lightning Child! What’s happened to Roland?”

“I—” Miriam tried to sit up, but something was pinning her down. Everything was gray. “Where is he?”

“Oh dear.” Olga knelt in the doorway, beside something. Someone.

“Are you wounded?” she asked urgently, standing up and coming toward Miriam. “It was his idea to follow you—”

Miriam finally sat up, shoving the deadweight aside. Strangely, her stomach wasn’t rebelling. “Get. Others. Go across and finish off. I’ll look after him.” Somehow she found herself on the other side of the room, cradling Roland. “He’ll be alright.”

“But he’s—”