“You’d land somewhere between the books of Helen Fielding and that author with the beard whose name I can never remember.”

“I have problems with his name, too. Think you can get out of the building without being seen?”

“Already taken care of, girl. Look there.”

He pointed at a figure dressed in identical clothes walking toward the exit. The figure stopped for a moment and looked up. It was Jack Schitt—or a copy, at any rate.

“The real you?”

“No, I’m in a coma at present. That was just a standard Mark Vb ‘Alibi’ Model. By the time anyone got up here following your fatal fall, I would have zipped myself up in a body bag and hidden in the roof space just behind the water tank. I’d probably not be discovered for years. The point is that with the ‘through the window’ plan, you’d be dead and I’d be in the clear to try another method to get to the vaults. From my position it’s win half-win, and from yours it’s lose-lose. So think again.”

I did. In fact, I desperately tried to think up a plan of action. I would probably be able to get to my pistol, since he was on the other side of the room, but then I realized with a falling heart that he probably already had it. He guessed my thoughts and showed me the revolver he had lifted from me earlier.

“I took it from you when you entered. And don’t even think about going for the Beretta on your ankle. I can have you through the window before you get even halfway there.”

He was doubtless right, and the situation was looking increasingly desperate. But just at that moment, I suddenly felt different. My leg was no longer hurting me—in fact, I felt no pain at all, and a warm feeling of euphoria suddenly swept over me. I felt better, stronger and fitter, and I even had some of those feelings for Landen, too. I must have been replaced during one of the two visits out of the boardroom—probably when on the phone to Friday. Knowing that changed the game plan. I would be as fast as Jack and get off at least three shots before he’d even touched me—and all the shots would make the same entry hole, even if he was moving. I was that good.

I made a swift lunge for the Beretta in my ankle holster.

It didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned. The limited mobility in my back and leg stopped my hand four inches from the pistol, and I misjudged the position of the table on the way down and hit my forehead. Now momentarily off balance, I grabbed the chair behind me, which had casters and slid away from me, causing me to completely lose my balance and collapse in an undignified heap on the floor.