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down the corridor. The full force of a ten-kilogram oxygen cylinder hit him right between the legs. His face went mauve and he dropped the knife. He tried to breathe, but oxygen was the one thing he couldn’t find. He crumpled, eyes bulging.
    Alex dropped the tank. It had taken all his strength to swing it, and he ran a hand across his chest, wondering if he had damaged himself. But the stitches seemed to have held.
    Leaving the two unconscious men behind him, he ran back past his room and over to the main stairs. He heard the swing doors crash against the wall as the others came after him. At least he’d halved the opposition, even if it was going to be more difficult from now on. The remaining two men knew he was dangerous; they wouldn’t let themselves be surprised again. Alex considered disappearing. There were dozens of places he could hide. But that wasn’t the point. He forced himself to slow down. He had to lead them away from rooms eight and nine.
    They saw him. He heard one of them swear—a single, taut whisper of pure hatred. That was good. The angrier they were, the more mistakes they would make. Alex ran down the stairs. He felt dizzy and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. After spending so long in bed, his body wasn’t ready for this.
    His left arm was hurting too.
    The arm reminded him where he was going. The physio department was on the first floor. Alex had been there many times; it had been a necessary part of his treatment.

    The bullet that had sliced through his artery had also done serious damage to his brachial plexus. This was a complicated network of spinal nerves leading into his left arm. The doctors had warned him that the arm would hurt; there would be stiffness and pins and needles—perhaps for the rest of his life. But once again Alex had youth on his side. After a few days of therapy, much of the pain had subsided. In that time, he had been put through a series of exercises—static resistance, stretching, reaction and speed work. By the end of the week, Alex had got to know the physio department better than any other department in the hospital. That was why he was heading there now.
    He half stumbled through the doors and stood for a moment, catching his breath. First, there were two cubicles with beds where patients would lie while they were put through a series of exercises. A human skeleton—very realistic but in fact made of plastic—hung on a metal frame opposite. The corridor dog-legged, then continued past a series of doors and cupboards to another pair of swing doors at the far end.
    Alex knew exactly what he would find in the cupboards. One of the rooms leading off the corridor was a fully equipped gym with cycling machines, dumb-bells, heavy medicine balls and treadmills.
    The cupboards contained more equipment, including chest expanders and rolls of elastic. Each day, the physiotherapist had cut off a length of elastic and given it to Alex to use in simple stretching exercises.
    These had been gentle at first but had become more strenuous, using thicker lengths of elastic, as he healed.
    He opened the first cupboard. He had worked out what he was going to do. The question was the same as before. Had he left himself enough time?

    Forty seconds later, the doors opened and Combat Jacket came in. He was breathing heavily. He was meant to be in command of this operation, and one day he would have to answer for it. Two of his men were lying unconscious upstairs—one of them electrocuted. And what made it worse—what made it unbelievable—

    was that both had been taken out by a kid! They had been told it would be simple. Maybe that was why they had made so many mistakes. Well, he wasn’t going to make any more.
    He crept forward slowly, his fist curled around an ugly, square-nosed handgun. It was an FP9, a single-action pistol manufactured in Hungary, one of dozens coming in illegally from Eastern Europe. There were no lights on in this part of the hospital.