Outside the penthouse, on top of the hotel, Maddox had sent Grafton to seek help for his bullet wound. As soon as Grafton had turned his back, he had swung his leg over the ridge of the rooftop and had allowed gravity to take its course. 

He’d slid down the tiles towards almost certain death, hoping his outstretched hands would find something, anything that he could clutch onto. 

But recent rain had, if anything, made things more treacherous, and he lost what little control he’d had, finding himself tumbling and spinning in the air, only to bounce again and again onto the hard surface. He could hear tiles cracking underneath him. 

As he’d neared the edge of the roof, he had dug his heels in, hoping that he could somehow catch onto the guttering. However, whilst grabbing the pipework had slowed his descent, the structure had given way, breaking under the speed of his falling body. 

He’d gone over the edge, bracing himself for a long fall to a certain death five stories below.

There was a sudden impact as he landed on his back onto a small balcony that jutted out from one of the hotel rooms.

The pain had been agonising. He’d laid there gasping, trying to force air back into his lungs. Eventually, he’d opened his eyes and sat up, the realisation hitting him, that injured or not, he had to move.       

Getting painfully onto his feet, the memory of being shot flooded back to his senses as a splodge of blood fell onto his shoe. His arm was numb. He could hear the sound of sirens. He had to get out of there.

He put the palm of his hand against the glass sliding door. He exhaled with relief as it opened.

He’d poked his head through the drawn curtains into the dark room beyond and looked towards the bed. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that the cover had been drawn back, but there was nobody there. 

Of course, the fire alarm. Everyone must have been evacuated. The occupant of the room must still be downstairs in the lobby.

Maddox had gone into the bathroom and wrapped a towel around his arm to stem the flow of blood from his wound. Opening the wardrobe, he’d selected an overcoat. It was too small, but it would have to do. He found a flat cap and put it on, tilting the brim to conceal his appearance. Leaving the hotel room, he went cautiously down the stairs.

In the reception area, there was mayhem and confusion, with people asking when they were going to be allowed back to their rooms. With the absence of any authoritative figure, the staff appeared helpless and disorganised.

Maddox passed by them unnoticed, his hands in the pocket of the coat to disguise the shortness of the sleeves. He walked down the steps of the hotel, straight into a passing black cab.

Lara was still angry and upset, but it was clear she still loved him. She had tenderly cleaned his wound. The bullet had passed through his arm, tearing flesh on its way. Apart from the wound and the multiple bruises he’d sustained back at the hotel, he’d been lucky.

Maddox had slipped away from Lara’s mum’s home and into the night. There was a cut-through to the woods behind the house. If the police were watching the house, they hadn’t seen him come, and they wouldn’t see him go.