He jumped.
Twelve floors was a long way to fall. Ryan Anderson cursed is hastiness. He was, after all, the one with the arm-mounted flamethrower. Incinerating a few cops in his condo would have fewer consequences than if this went wrong. He hoped his intuitions were right.
He pointed the flamethrower at the ground, hoping that the intense and long-reaching burst of fire would act as a jetpack, softening his fall onto the concrete below. It was conspicuous to be sure, but they already knew what he had done…
He thought back, again, to the events of this fateful morning. Jimmer Fredette’s curious face, melted in an instant. Jrue Holiday, desperately banging on the exit of the gym, trying to escape, before tasting the cruel wrath of the Flamethrower.
He shook his head. No, he was not the Flamethrower. He was Ryan Anderson, and he was falling at a great rate of speed towards the unforgiving ground. His arm already in position, he let loose a great jet of flame, praying to all the gods that this would work.
Realizing that he would be quickly incinerated if he wasn’t careful, he turned off the flame and let himself hit the ground. It had worked, to an extent. He had successfully forestalled meeting the same fate as his teammates, the cold and endless sleep of death, but not without a price. The mechanized flamethrower that had ensheathed his right arm had splintered on impact, and was now nothing more than a few fragments of metal.
He stood up, gingerly, and looked around. He could see no one. He still had time to escape, leave the city, leave the country even, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to see the Smoothie King, and he knew just where to find him.