his right, herding him away from Leeson and into the open space.
Hart charged.
Jaeger was huge but he was fast for his size, and he recovered quickly enough to be ready before Hart reached him. The SIG was in his hand and he brought his arm up to point at Hart. Victor saw that though it would take a few more seconds to reach its conclusion, the attempt was already over.
In the same way Jaeger was fast for his size, so was Hart. But Hart was around one hundred pounds lighter. As the gun came up, Hart went low, below the muzzle, and Jaeger couldn’t react in time to stop Hart wrapping his arms around Jaeger’s thighs – thighs that were too close together because Jaeger’s feet were too squared.
Jaeger was huge and heavy but Hart was strong. He didn’t need to lift him high off the ground for his forward momentum to tip Jaeger backwards far enough for gravity to pull him crashing down to the floor.
Victor released Dietrich and Dietrich didn’t attack. He, like everyone else in the room, watched Hart and Jaeger.
Jaeger was on his back and his arms had gone up over his head. He’d kept hold of the gun despite the impact, but being thrown to the floor had momentarily stunned him. Hart used that brief window to go for the gun, standing up to do so, and Jaeger rolled his head backwards to keep him in view as he tried to angle the weapon.
Well played, Victor thought, because he saw what Hart had done. He didn’t go for the SIG, but stamped down with his heel on Jaeger’s now-exposed throat.
Then Hart stood back, because there was nothing else he needed to do.
Jaeger’s whole body seemed to tense. He sat up and whipped the gun around to track Hart, but let it fall from his fingers. Because he was trying to breathe.
Panic warped Jaeger’s face.
He grasped at his throat, eyes wide and staring at a point far beyond the kitchen. He opened his mouth and shoved fingers into it, but Victor knew he had no chance of getting them far enough into his throat to push open his windpipe, which had been crushed by Hart’s heel. Jaeger wheezed and wretched and spluttered, his face reddening with every second that passed.
Everyone just watched.
After thirty seconds of fruitlessly trying to open up his windpipe with his fingers Jaeger barged across the kitchen, knocking aside anyone not quick enough to get out of his path. He wrenched open a drawer, then another because he didn’t find what he was looking for in the first.
Jaeger grabbed a pair of scissors, but dropped them because his heart rate was so high his fine motor skills were almost nonexistent. He fell to his knees to grab the scissors from the floor. He didn’t stand again – having been without oxygen for almost a minute, he had neither the strength to stand nor the time.
He directed his gaze at the ceiling by tilting his head back and with the fingers of his left hand found the groove at the top of his ribcage, where the clavicles met and only a thin layer of skin covered the oesophagus.
‘Look away,’ Victor said to Francesca.
She didn’t. At first Victor thought she was shocked and terrified and confused by his words and Jaeger’s actions, but he saw that she was none of those. She watched because she was curious. She watched as Jaeger used the scissors to stab himself in the throat.
The scissors were an ordinary kitchen utensil, not a surgical scalpel, and the tip of each blade was blunted for safety. Jaeger’s first stab drew blood and a breathless grunt but failed to pierce the cartilage.
Victor had no doubt Jaeger could have driven the scissors through a man’s skull in other circumstances, but he was weak and dying and with such an awkward manoeuvre could only employ a fraction of his depleted strength. Jaeger tried again, then again, stabbing at his throat with increasingly wild and inaccurate blows as oxygen deprivation escalated. Blood soaked his hand and cascaded over his shirt. Torn skin hung in strips from his neck.
He slumped from his knees onto his left side, his face swollen and blue, eyes bulging and red. He made a slow, weak stab at his neck, then stopped.
No one spoke for a long moment. Hart picked up Leeson’s gun and handed it back.
‘Would it have worked?’ Coughlin asked, eventually. He looked around, not certain who would know.
‘Yes,’