Van Helsinki dropped into a half-sprawl on the floor next to the skip. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered across the parking lot to his Porsche, parked nearby just for cases when something like this might occur. As Van neared the car, he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the keys, found them, and clicked the car open, falling against the bodywork in the same movement. He could feel his strength failing even as he lay there, one hand awkwardly screwed above him grasping for the driving seat handle. Van could hear the shouts of the gunmen from the hotel room, and knew that by now some would be on their way outside. He finally found the handle and pulled the door open beside him, then turned and half-climbed, half-crawled into the driver's seat. Van pulled himself upright, coughing like crazy now. Some of what came out was blood. That was not good. A broken rib or two was looking more and more likely. He needed a doctor. More pressingly, he needed to stop his pursuers. Van pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it into place to give him additional support sitting upright, though it dug into his bloodied side. The pain caused would at least keep him awake and out of shock for a time, he reasoned. Across the parking lot, he could hear the shouts and sporadic gunfire of his would-be killers. One small mercy seemed to be that, as unprofessional assassins from one organisation, they would likely would have come in one vehicle, and left it somewhere hidden. That gave him a small window of time if some went for their van or similar vehicle. In the event, it looked as if at least four of five had declined the van in the hopes of killing him before he left. Van could see the tactical lights on their guns swinging as they crossed the car park. He quickly reached into his pocket for the keys, but the seatbelt made it awkward to extract, and he lost precious seconds removing it and then inserting it into the engine, turning the key and waiting for the car to start. At the engine, the tac-lights across the parking lot began to swing violently as the holders broke into runs towards the sound. Van stamped on the accelerator just as the nearest broke the ten metre mark away from him. The car shot forwards, Van's control not helped by the jabbing pain in his side. A flurry of pistol and SMG fire rattled past, but at this range and with the assailant's lack of real training, the effect was minimal. Van aimed the Porsche for the exit. All he needed was to get out of the immediate area, then lie low and call for help. He had to leave his colleague, he had no choice. The small shack next to the exit helped his directional positioning. He sped the car, gunning the engine towards escape.

There was one thing Van hadn't planned for. Another gunman, experienced, the leader of this band of wannabe assassins. The men who had sent these petty thugs, who had armed them with high-quality submachine guns and provide them with his room number, had realised they might not be up to the job They had sent one of their best to try and deal with the problem. His name was unknown. The men working for him knew him as 'Vladimir', but this was not his real name; he wasn't even Russian. 'Vladimir' had stationed himself at the only exit, waiting just in case. When he heard the sound of the engine and the gunshots he could guess roughly what had occurred. 'Vladimir' stood up, brushed himself down, and took up the device sitting on the table beside him. He pushed the cap off, then pressed the button beneath with his finger. Did the detective really think that they didn't know which car was his? At about 30 metres from the gate, 'Vladimir' saw the car sudden slew sideways. The detective countered with a wheel jerk, but then the explosives in the back went off. The blast blew the side and back windows out and badly charred the seats. The Porsche twisted, and slowly slewed to a stop. The back half was little more than metal. 'Vladimir' took up the MP40 which had been lying beside him all the time, and stepped out into the cold night air. His weapon choice was unusual, but the gun he carried had been outfitted specially for him, loaded with custom hollow point-style rounds designed to twist and yaw in the body, but not exit. 'Vladimir' wanted every one of his kills to look like his handiwork. He approached the burned out Porsche, gun raised. A groan from below the steering wheel caught his attention. 'Vladimir' walked closer, cautious, attentive, gun raised. He sidled round the body of the car over to the driver's side, and then opened the door. Van's body flumped out of the side and slid to the floor. 'Vladimir' followed the line of decent with his gun, but the detective wasn't going anywhere. Van groaned at the slack seatbelt finally tightened, halting his downward sprawl. He looked up, dazed. 'Vladimir's' muzzle was the first thing he focussed on. He moaned again, made a wide grab for his holstered Glock, which failed, then just hung, looking at 'Vladimir' and trying to focus. 'Vladimir' waited a moment, then pulled a knife and cut the seatbelt holding Van into the ruined Porsche, letting him fall awkwardly to the ground with a 'crack'. The agent rolled Van over onto his front, eliciting another groan as the detective's injured rib pressed against the ground. 'Vladimir' pulled a set of zip-ties from a pocket and fastened Van's hands together. He then rolled the detective back over, and removed the Glock from its holster, pocketing it. As the frontrunners of the remaining would-be assassin's came running over, 'Vladimir' hauled Van to his feet. The first henchman to arrive pointed his P90 at Van. His finger flexed next to the trigger. 'Vladimir' shook his head. 'We leave him alive. For now'. As the rest of the goons arrived, clutching all manner of weapons, 'Vladimir' raised his voice. 'We got him. We're out of here'.