Disclaimers: See the first part.

Summary: What goes up...must come down...

All my thanks to Char, for taking the time to read this and beta it when she's got so much to do... :)

CALL OF DUTY
High Noon

Part Four
High Fliers

Diablo's fingers or my life...and about five-point-five seconds to decide.

Nah. Not an option. Hell, there wasn't even a choice.

I shoved the Bristol's safety on and jammed it one-handed in the small of my back, needing somewhere to put it to get it out of my hands but still protect both myself and it from what was going to happen next. Meanwhile, keeping a one-handed grip on the chassis, I pushed one foot inside the car and stabbed the brakes while simultaneously grabbing the wheel with my right hand and pushing hard with all my strength.

Diablo screamed in my ears as I forced the wheel to move and thus trapped his frozen fingers, but I forced myself to shut it out and keep pushing. It was either sacrifice his fingers, or sacrifice our lives; there was no real choice to make. I concentrated solely on getting the car to swerve. Almost immediately, the brakes worked up a full head of steam and let out piercing squeals in protest as we slowly began to enter a power-slide, the tyres literally burning rubber as they started moving in ways they were never designed to try.

Come on, come on...move!

I glanced up, checking where we were in relation to the tramstop, and knew that even though the car had barely began to turn aside, it would be enough. It had to be. We were already too close, far too close for my comfort. I took my foot off the brake, praying as I did so that what I'd managed would still save our lives. Sometimes, in situations like this, prayer was just about the one thing going for me, and I'd be crazy to discount something that might actually end up helping.

Still thinking quickly, I shoved Diablo over as far as I could and swung as far into the driver's seat as I could manage with Diablo's feet still on the pedals and his upper body on the other side of the car. I managed to get most of me inside but for my left hand – still gripping the doorframe for leverage – and then I could only brace myself for what was to come. Although I wasn't sure yet what would happen when we hit, no plan fully crystallised inside my head, one thing was certain: whatever happened to me happened to him. If I have to go down, I'll take him with me.

Then there was suddenly no time for second thoughts or even second moves. My time – our time – was up. The taxi hit the tramstop.

For one moment, for one moment of sweet clarity, I thought we'd be all right. The car barely seemed to rise off the ground, so my first thought was that maybe I'd managed to change the car's heading enough, that maybe, just maybe, we weren't going to tip and I wouldn't end up a pavement pancake... And then my hopes came crashing down as my side of the car began to rise, and rise faster and faster. The car had moved, but not enough to make it safe to be in the car right now. Especially at the speed we were still doing.

Then the metal tramstop crashed into the still open door and slammed shut before I could pull my fingers clear.

I cried out, at least I think I did. All I could think was that it hurt. I couldn't even feel my fingers, but I knew already that the entire hand was swelling in sympathy...and I also know that I swore. In six different languages. Fluently.

My unplanned shove on Diablo and then the string of colourful language was probably what woke him from his shock-induced trance. He blinked, and promptly jerked spasmodically like the brain was finally kicking into gear and yelling at the body to catch-up to it. Apparently, having cracked bones in his fingers did nothing to stop him swinging both fists and feet at me.

But at that moment I didn't care what he did or hit, because that was also the point when the tramstop finally passed the driver's door. I threw all my weight back, breaking the lock and flinging the door open, finally releasing my shattered fingers. I immediately lost my grip on the car's chassis now that the door wasn't keeping my broken hand in place. Still cursing fluently, I adjusted my balance as I let the useless hand drop to my side while my other hand got busy with Diablo's collar.

I twisted his shirt in my hands, tightening his collar around his throat and only stopping when his eyes began to bulge. "Keep it up and next time I won't stop," I hissed angrily, furious at him and at the stupid situation he'd put me in. Not only had he put us in a car about to flip, but I'd just given myself at least six weeks of desk duty and paperwork while my hand healed, and I hate paperwork. Personally, I'm convinced Hell is wallpapered in the stuff, and being a cop only made the belief more credible.

Finally, Diablo stopped struggling and went very still, for the first time looking like he fully realised the bad situation he was in: He was trapped in a car about to roll, in very close quarters with an upset Blüdhaven cop who didn't play by the usual rules...and his actions had just led to said cop being injured. Hell, the idiot was lucky I wasn't playing by the usual rules, because if I was I'd have shot him by now. Right between the eyes, and he'd be deader faster than a speck of dust when Alfred's cleaning.

The only good things about the entire situation that I could see were that (a) he wasn't struggling anymore and that (b) at least with most of me already in the taxi, I didn't have to worry about falling out of the car when we flipped.

Or maybe I did...

The decision wasn't that hard to make. It was either stay here, (mostly) in a car about to roll and hope I kept my grip on the Bristol and Diablo when our world went upside-down, or bail out and take my chances.

So I bailed. Impulsive, yeah, but it sure beat the alternative

Diablo still had a firm grip on my good arm, even if he wasn't struggling anymore. Being versed in more martial arts forms than I had fingers made it easy to use that grip against him to actually increase my leverage and thus my advantage. I used my butt and my back to push the door open fully as I yanked hard on his collar. It was either follow me out or choke, and at least he had the brains not to choose the latter. I ignored the curses he started raining down on my ancestry – I'm Rom; I'm used to it – and kept on pulling. "We're getting out," I told him shortly, probably using too much of my Nightwing tones but feeling too hurt and in pain to bother modulating my voice.

Diablo followed, for the moment at least deciding discretion really was the better course of valour. He put his foot on what was now the floor – it was actually the side of the gearbox – and stood up with me. The car was mere moments away from tipping, and I wanted out before it did. I moved to the side slightly and, still tightly gripping his collar, pulled him up beside me. "Out."

And that was when it happened.

He came up and out alright, but faster than his body said he would, obviously indending all along to rush me and catch me off guard. He slammed his right shoulder into my bad hand and, when I gasped and pulled back in absolute agony, landed a blow on the bullet graze on my shoulder and made it bleed again, no doubt in an effort to get me to fall back and onto the road while he took his chances in the car.

Squinting, trying to blurrily see through the black spots and sparks in my vision, I let go of his collar and grabbed the fist now heading for my torso and twisted. It was nowhere near hard enough to break bones, but the coward screamed anyway. I yanked back with all my strength, pulling towards me and down with all I had even as I sensed the car's centre of gravity suddenly shift.

No time. Now!

Diablo stumbled and fell towards me, so I continued pulling until he passed me on his way out the door. I grabbed the back of the jacket Diablo still wore as he passed and allowed myself to follow him. My sole selfish move was to push my aching hand under the jacket and tuck it in place using my good arm. Made it hurt like hell, yeah, but I didn't want it getting more damaged, and at least the jacket should protect it somewhat.

And then we were airborne.

Now, don't let anyone tell you that falling from five-feet above the ground like that is better than falling from, say, a twelve-storey building. It ain't. It's like cats. Drop one from seven storeys and below, and you can kill it. Above seven stories, and almost every single cat will live, minus a broken bone or two. Moral: give a cat or an acrobat (or a vigilante worth his salt) enough time to move and they can survive almost anything. But five feet isn't really enough room to move, and it really isn't enough when you've got another eighty-kilo guy with you as extra baggage. There's just no time to get into a survivable position. Your only option is to hope you don't land on your head or something, and start rolling when you do land to bleed off your momentum.

Me? I was lucky. I was the second one away from the car, and with only five feet to fall there was no way he was going to get me underneath him. With luck, he'd be the one cushioning the impact for me. And with the hold I already had on his jacket, albeit a one-handed hold, I figured I'd be able to control the landing a bit more than the amateur below me could.

Right?

Wrong.

The crafty beggar slammed his elbow right into my ribs while we were still in mid-air, at the very least winding me and at worst hitting a rib. Judging by the spike of pain I just felt, I'd say it was a rib. Probably two of them. I recognised the feeling all too well as I gasped and doubled over, wishing for the thousandth time that the police uniform and Knights jacket had padding in vital areas like my "nightsuit" did. Join the Force and see the world, they said. All I see is stars. He promptly twisted underneath me, shedding his jacket and getting rid of my hold on him. The twist put him on his side, however, and when he landed I swear I heard something go crunch before he managed to get a roll going.

Typical dumb amateur, didn't know how to land without hurting himself.

Then it was my turn. Since I was already doubled over, I at least had the presence of mind to let go his jacket and tighten up into a little ball, bringing up my legs to protect my chest and my ruined hand while wrapping my good arm around my head to prevent a concussion. I started to turn over while in mid-air, so keeping it going when I actually hit was fairly easy, all things considered. Nothing cracked, broke, or otherwise affected my vision, so it seemed I was okay, even if I did have cause to regret putting the hunk of metal called the Bristol in the back of my trousers. I felt it every tumble I made until I finally came to a stop about thirteen metres from where I landed. I was going to have a bruise there the size of Montana by the time I was done.

I unfolded myself slowly and carefully, just in case I'd miscalculated and the adrenaline had protected me from feeling an injury. There was also the fact that the rough landing might have damaged the gun. No way did I want it going off even accidentally, damaging some part of me that I'd prefer kept intact. It turned out that nothing happened and nothing seemed to be hurting more than it already had been, but it was still better to be safe than sorry.

By the time I got to my feet, however, Diablo was already sprinting away from the scene. He had a good twenty metres on me and was already gaining. So of course I ran after him while the car finished its topsy-turvy course behind us with plenty of crunching noises of its own.

Maybe, if I'd known what running after him would do to me and to my family, at this point I might have slapped a WingTrace on Diablo and caught up with him later tonight as Nightwing. I could've done it easily – I had a spare WingTrace in the pocket of my jacket, and Diablo wasn't yet out of my throwing range. Or maybe I wouldn't have taken the easy option out, maybe knowing what was coming for me wouldn't have changed what I did. As for which option was the better one...I don't know. I honestly don't know. For me, prescience didn't exactly come with the Kevlar as a package deal. All I know is that I ran after him, determined to bring him down, one way or another. Logically then, what happened next...was entirely my fault.

TBC...