The asphalt shimmered. Hawley blinked and the solid tar rolled towards him like a Pacific wave. He waited to be pitched off the building and fall three stories to the ground, but he held on to the heavy duffle. He could still fall. He would fall eventually, everyone does, and even though he should have been thinking of what he should do to survive, he kept seeing himself pitching toward the ground, and the awful smack of his head on pavement. He didn’t fear his legs or arms shattering. It was his head smacking against the street below and the sound of it would be terrible. He could hear it, followed by an awful ringing as he bled out. His hand rose to rub his head, to see if it was still attached.
The ringing in his ears moved outside, a dozen blocks away where a police siren caught it and carried the same tune. Other sirens joined around the city, all closing on where he sat. He looked around the roof and saw the gun, then pulled the duffle towards it. He picked it up, checked the action, and thumbed in five more bullets. Then he opened the duffle and began pulling out the metal, frags on one side, smoke on the other.