The lights blared across the corridor as the two men half pushed, half dragged Van Helsinki along it. The policeman weighed them up. One was tall and stout, built like a bouncer, imposing and solid-looking. His jacket shifted aside every now and then to reveal a Browning Hi-Power thrust into his waistband. His partner, the man on the right, was chewing some sort of leaf, which he would occasionally spit parts of off to the side. He seemed to be carrying some kind of SIG-Sauer in the small of his back. Van filed that nugget away for future use. Men with back-holsters were vulnerable to falling on top of their weapons. The two men pushed open a set of double doors, and ushered Van through. He went down the flight of stairs which met him on the other side, the two men following him. When the policeman reached the bottom, he paused. As his two guides saw him pause at the door ahead, both moved hands to the butts of their guns. Van sensed they were tense. He didn't want to try anything, not yet, no when they had the advantage in firepower and numbers. Van took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

Inside, a single bulb swung slightly from the ceiling above the people in the room, hanging over the chair in the centre of the room. Van's attention was first drawn to the man who stood in the centre of the room, behind the chair. He was nearing baldness, with a ring of brown hair round the sides of his head and a small goatee and moustache. This was him. The arms dealer. A further four men stood about him, all cradling submachine guns or clasping pistols in belts. And on the chair…Sophia. Van knew it. He could tell it was her from her clothing, her build, her body language. She had a bag over her head, and had been securely bound to the chair, but appeared unhurt. For now. Van tensed, but the two men behind him shoved him into the room. The man in the centre turned to him.

'Do you know something, Mr. Croche? Do you really not know?'

Van stalled for time, looking puzzled. At least he was still 'Jean Croche' to them, not 'Van Helsinki'. He licked his lips nervously.

'Know what?'

'She's one of them. She's a cop. Your wife is a cop.'

'What! No…'. Van didn't need to feign shock. They knew about Sophia. But, even in the brief blind moment of panic, he noticed that they still seemed to think he was a businessman. And that she was his wife.

In fact, Van Helsinki was a cop too. An undercover cop. As was his partner Sophia. They were posing as man and wife, to try and draw out this arms dealer in hiding out and arrest him. It appeared that the arms dealer had got there first. Van stalled for time.

'But…but how do you…how did you…'

'The documents and proof are all here'. The seeming-leader handed over a file. Van leafed through it. It was indisputably her. Van thought from a mission of hers about three years ago. But definitely her. He feigned more shock, and then handed the file back.

'Who…who is she? And who are you …'

'We are your guardians. She is a dead bitch.' Well that wasn't much help. Van didn't think he could beat seven armed men unarmed. He stalled for more time.

'What are you going to do to my wife?'

'Us? Nothing.'

'Then why is she…'

'You're going to do it. All of it.'

'No! You don't mean…'

'Hit her. Hit her now or I kill you and then kill her. I'm not asking again'. These men were not wasting time. One withdrew the bag from off of Sophia's head. She looked fine, not bruised in any way, and the only addition since the last time he had seen her, walking up the hotel stairs to bed, was the addition of a bright red ball gag into her mouth and a plastic zip cord around her wrists. Sophia had been drooling around the gag, but somehow she still looked perfect. Van, oddly, couldn't think of anything except that he would never look so good if he groomed daily as she did at that moment. Then, even as he thought it, he felt his fist rise, and come smashing into his partner's belly. He couldn't fake these blows, couldn't weaken them. These men would know. These men were professionals. These men would kill him if he slackened, then kill her. He had to. He just had to.

After about three minutes, one of the men called a halt. Van, panting slightly, stopped. He had tried his best to avoid the…sensitive areas while he was punching, but it had to look real. He was thankful for the pause, but only for a moment. One of the men stepped forward. The goatee man gestured, and the man drew a pistol from his holster and offered it to him. Van looked at it. It was a flintlock. One bullet, probably several hundred years old.

'Now kill her, Mr. Croche. Kill your traitor wife.' The goatee man stepped aside, leaving a wide aisle as a kind of 'shooting gallery'. Van held the pistol lightly. He considered his options. One bullet, seven men. He needed something, and fast. Van waited a moment, not long enough for them to get suspicious, then he made his choice. He moved.

Van took one swift step to the left, raised and fired the pistol. He caught the man furthest away on the right in the throat, killing him instantly. The smoke kicking out of the side of the pistol, from the flint spark of the flintlock pistol, hit the man next to him in the face. He doubled up, retching, and Van body-slammed him. His submachine gun went off, striking one of the men across the room in the legs, felling him. Van kept moving, a half-stumble half-dive which meant he was able to grab the next man along before the rest had time to do more than grab their guns. This was the back-holster man, and he went down hard. Van heard a crack from behind him, and knew either he had broken the gun or the gun had broken him. Either worked as far as he was concerned. Van went down with him, but he rolled over the prone body, and as the remaining three men drew, Van rose from the pile, holding a Taurus PT92. There was a pause, and then the goatee man ran for it. Van and the remaining two men fired at the same time. One of them caught Van in his right shoulder, but his aim was better and he caught one in the throat and the other in the leg. Van moved to finish the second man off, but the gun jammed on him. He looked about him. Two men were rolling on the floor, legs injured by bullets. Two were dead. The last two lay prone, one not moving, the other stirring slightly. Van strode up to him, raised one boot, and slammed it down on his face. There was a crack, and the man stirred no more. Van took one look at Sophia, moaning faintly and barely moving. Then he took to his heels after the fleeing goatee man, the arms dealer himself. The prize. The target.

Van sprinted out the door, up the stairs, and along the corridor. He took the open doors, figuring that this was the way that his quarry must have gone. As Van dashed along a gantry over the hotel central square, he saw below him the fleeing figure of the goatee man, running two floors below. Van breathed in deeply. He hated leaps. So much. He'd broken several ribs in the last leap he'd made, and nearly been killed shortly afterwards. But then Van thought of Sophia, bound and bleeding, and his heart hardened. Even as he ran, Van swerved close to the edge of the gantry, then lightly leapt over the edge and, not pausing for a second, jumped downwards.

He hit the correct floor, though with more force than he had intended. Van slammed into the side of the rail chest first, and felt something give inside. He just managed to pull himself up over the rail, and fell onto the floor. The goatee man had heard the crash and turned. He saw the policeman drag himself onto the floor. Both men faced each other. There was a pause. Both breathed heavily. Van was fitter, but his opponent had not had to fight his way out, or make a two-story leap moments before.

Van pulled himself, slowly, painfully, to his feet. The two men looked at each other. Van was bleeding from small cuts and bruises, as well as a few larger wounds. His side, never good since his fall from the hotel room a year or so ago, had begun throbbing again. Van was the first to speak, though it came out as more of a rasp.

'So this is it, Edward de Furta'. Edward nodded, not trusting his lungs to reply. The two men sized each other's conditions up. Neither felt confident enough that their opponent looked worse to risk an attack, and both preferred to let them alone and recover their breath. The policeman and the arms dealer stared into each other's eyes. Edward was a schemer, not a fighter, but desperation gave him strength. The Chechen arms dealer spat out some blood. Van smiled, his dangerous half-smile. 'This is where it ends'. His opponent stumbled closer.

'You waste your breath' hawked Edward, spitting another blood splatter aside as he staggered at Van, a knife in his grip. Van moved aside, and smacked his hands down to push aside the weapon. The two men struggled with the blade between them, straining to gain control and turn the weapon on their foe. Van felt Edward's momentum beginning to tell, so he twisted aside further, so the knife slid down between the two fighters. Van heaved at the weapon, and then twisted his arm to elbow Edward in the face. The arms dealer staggered back and dropped the knife. Both fighters looked at it, and there was a pause. Then Edward lunged down. Van waited a moment longer, to see that Edward was really going for his weapon, then slammed him in the side. It hurt like hell. Van was sure he'd broken another rib. At this state, he'd be in no fit state to fight well again. But his ploy worked. Edward, nearly to the knife, was knocked sideways, onto the rail. Van was on him in an instant, fuelled by adrenaline. He grabbed the lapels of Edward's greatcoat, hoisting him over the handrail. The arms dealer flailed, but Van's grip was implaceable.

'No, no-' the Chechen began, but Van pushed harder. Edward's leg's slipped over, leaving him dangling by Van's hands. He screamed. Van smiled. There was a moment where, a few year ago, he'd have pulled Edward up, with the arms dealer exhausted, terrified and not willing to fight back. But the Case had changed him. Don't talk and save, talk and fight. You can't save them all, but you can always fight them. It was the work of an instant to let go with both hands.

It took perhaps 20 minutes to stagger and limp back down to the basement. He'd hurt himself in the fall worse than he thought. At least one broken rib, probably also some sort of leg ligament injury. But eventually he reached the cellar where they kept Sophia. She was still bound, still gagged, and even after he'd beaten her into a pulp, still looked better than him. Van leant in, and slit her bonds with Edward's knife. Sophia fell into his arms, the binds no longer holding her to the chair. Van gently undid the gag, and cradled Sophia in his arms. She stirred. A trickle of blood ran down her face, from where the straps had cut in. She said nothing. They just stared at each other. Eventually, five, ten, twenty minutes later, neither cared, Van helped Sophia up. The two of them leant on each other to limp out of the door, up the stairs, and to a phone. The job was done. The bitch was dead.