Free Identity X by Michelle Muckley Page A

him rather than get wedged in his
body.   He shuffled himself behind the protection of the building, and turned
to brace his back against it.  His right arm felt very heavy and suddenly quite
useless, and what he assumed must have been a bullet had caused an inordinate
amount of pain.  It burnt worse than when he had out of curiosity touched the
hot plate of the iron as a child.  It hurt worse than when he had been shot in
the foot by a stray arrow at outward bound camp during an archery session.  It
hurt all the more for knowing that he was balanced on the ledge of a first
floor office building with an unknown entity chasing him with a gun for reasons
of which he had no idea.   
    Ben
leapt towards the roof of the next building which was located only a foot or so
below him but which felt like a much more dangerous distance away.  He landed
on his right hip with a thump onto the roof.  He sat round onto his backside,
comforted in the embrace of a temporary reprieve, and he pressed his palm
against the shoulder wound whilst hissing in a sharp breath through gritted
teeth.  He had only moments, and the previous sense of tiredness and lethargy
that he felt had been ripped apart by the adrenaline that was pumping through
his veins courtesy of his galloping heart.  He heard nothing of the wind as it
blew past the edge of the building, or the rapid chirrups of the city birds
circling overhead.  He was wired, and he could feel his heart pounding
rampantly as if he could still hear the whoosh of the extractor fan in his
ears, willing him on to make the next decision.  Where now?   He fled
across the roof, no idea whether the gun toting maniac was following him or
not.  He charged over the roof past air conditioning pipes and air vents.  He
bounded towards the edge of the roof and leapt forwards without a single lucid
thought, jumping to clear the small space that separated the current building
from the next.  He landed on the next roof, never once considering the danger
of a misplaced step or a misfortunate trip.  He found a wall that housed a door
that would permit him entrance to the building below.  It was the last building
in the row.  There was nowhere else to run to.  He tried the handle but found
it to be locked.  Considering a feat of incredible strength, he wondered if his
adrenaline levels had spiked sufficiently to break through the door, head first
like a raging bull, but assumed his conscious thought for the matter rendered it
an unlikely possibility.  Edging back around the corner of the wall, he could
see the shooter, wearing nothing but black just climbing his way from the ledge
onto the first flat roof. 
    “Fuck! 
Fuck!”  Ben rolled his body back behind the security of the brick wall.  He
tried the handle, more desperately this time.  The door moved ajar, and he
could see that it was padlocked from the inside.  He kicked it over and over,
heaving his weight behind it and praying that the door would smash open.  It
budged, but stayed firm.  He glanced around looking for somewhere to hide,
knowing that his time was running out, but found nothing.  He kicked the door
one last time.  The door buckled under the pressure and the flimsy looking
wooden door frame splintered away from the wall, leaving just enough space for
him to slip through.  He ducked inside, wedging the door back into place and
crept down the first few stairs and into the shadow and safety of the building. 
He crouched down to hide in absolute silence before hearing the interruption of
footsteps as the shooter approached.  Through the small space that was left
from the damage to the door he could see the black boots and trousers of the
shooter stood just feet away.  It sounded like he touched the door, but there
was no desperate pulling and smashing.  No attempt to force it open.  If there
had have been it would surely have buckled inward like a flimsy garden gate. 
Instead Ben heard his voice.  It was deep and