A middle-aged man with a megaphone stands six rungs up a ladder wears a helmet, has a shield. A gleaming pile of plastic riot-shields. The fugitive's shins seem grey in this light. He squints back down and shifts his row of stones. The mirrored sun spot jiggles on the cliff.
Ropes crash down from the fringe of jungle plants high on our left.
A camera shoots and shoots. Two armed men reach the level of his ledge. Rifle sound thrown back from the cliff and the first tear-gas puffs out and covers him before the wind can scoop the smoke from the hollow of the rock. The moment of silence poises as the smoke trails from his face and clothes. In front of him the leading cop goes for his gun.