Pete Wisdom barely registered the muffled "weethm" before the bullet slammed high into his right shoulder, ripping through muscle and tissue, and shattering the collarbone.

Blindly he flung a hotknife in the direction of the shot and dodged, looking for any cover in the littered back-alleyway.  Instead, a second shot took out his leg, sending him crashing to the pavement, agony blacking out his vision for a moment when he landed on the broken shoulder.

A second hotknife left his hand without any conscious effort and he'd just begun to lever himself up when a knife - a real, bloody, steel knife - rammed home through that same hand.

His breathing - great, shuddering lungfuls - filled the quiet London night.  Forehead in a puddle of water and blood, Wisdom tried to still the racket in his head and ears, tried to hear the bastard.  Still, he only heard one or two steps before something plastic landed before him, just centimeters away.

Then the sound of a gun sliding home into its holster.

"I warned you Pete."

His head tipped to the side, only one eye getting a good look at her as she crouched down in front of him.

"I told you what would happen if you got my kids hurt."

"You were there," he ground out through the pain.  "They're still alive."

"Exactly.  The phone's programmed for 999.  Just hit send."

She rose fluidly and walked away.