Original character POV, mention of Hathaway and Lewis
Richard White was a runner.
He'd run in marathons all around the world, Athens, Berlin, New York, London, to name but a few, raising thousands for charity. A familiar face at the ten mile and half marathon races throughout the UK; he knew how to pace himself so that he could run for mile upon mile. Mind and body in perfect harmony, each breath perfectly calculated with the rhythm of his body, he competed only against time, against himself. Each mile precisely clocked, his pace adjusted, breathing attuned, body, mind and soul as one.
But Richard White wasn't a sprinter.
The tall, blond, plain-clothes officer behind him was gaining ground every second, long legs effortlessly driving the man ever closer. The tow path they ran along was enclosed by the river on one side and hedges on the other, leading to freshly ploughed fields, slick with mud from the recent downpours; White had nowhere to go but forward.
He had studied the street maps of Oxford, knew where his target would be and when, had memorised several routes that would take him to the city centre, knowing he could hide amongst the mingling Saturday afternoon tourists and shoppers. He should have been long gone before anyone found the body of some local loser with an addiction to horseracing and a debt that he couldn't repay to some highly dangerous people. However, he hadn't planned for two men in suits and overcoats to walk around the corner of the small street as he double tapped his latest victim.
He made another mistake by immediately turning and running, assuming that the men were office workers or something to do with the University, that they would be shocked into inaction by the brutal scene before them.
The younger of the two had given chase, identifying himself as a police officer and demanding White to stop. He heard the dark haired older man yelling instructions into, presumably his radio, demanding backup and an armed unit.
Richard White was screwed.
White risked a look over his shoulder, the copper even closer now, long black coat flapping behind him like Batman's cape, stride loose and easy, breathing perfectly timed. White pushed himself harder, sweat ran down his face, breath coming out in gasps, as he fought to get his body and breathing into a rhythm.
He was a freelance enforcer, a thug, a heavy, whatever term was fashionable at the moment. He had a reputation of getting the job done, whatever it may entail and his employers were the rich and powerful who ruled the dark underside of humanity. Whether the job involved a beating, a kneecapping or murder, White was the man you called.
He pulled the gun from his coat pocket, unscrewed the silencer and threw it in the river. The Walther PPK was the perfect weapon, small, lightweight, accurate and lethal , especially at the distance between him and his pursuer. Stop, turn and fire and White's chances of evading arrest greatly improved.
The only trouble was Richard White had a code of conduct.
He never hit women or threatened children and he never, ever killed a copper. He knew the rules were old-fashioned, but they were the rules his father had instilled in him, women and children were beyond the touch of violence and police officers did their duty and were to be respected for it, if they caught you then you deserved it for being sloppy. They were the rules White had always lived by and he had no intention of breaking them. Even if it meant a life sentence in jail for murder.
White ejected the ammunition clip from the gun and chucked it in the river, the gun quickly following, it would give the police divers a day out, White smiled to himself as he stopped running, hands coming up to rest on the back of his head.
Richard White was a murderer, but even he had a line he wouldn't cross.