head, sending her flying face-first down to the floor, almost all the way to the large open window. As she fell, however, she managed to strip the man’s handgun, and it tumbled over the couch and clanged onto the floor by the food cart.
* * *
• • •
Court knelt at the end of the island, not far from the front door, but he knew he couldn’t stay here. The man in the room service coat would be coming around through the kitchen to his left right now; Court needed to arm himself and get back in this fight before it was too late.
Ducking his head around the corner into the living room, he saw the attacker in the jacket drop his gun over the sofa while fighting with Zoya. It was fifteen feet from him, but he’d have to expose himself to both the larger and the smaller man in order to go for it.
And then he saw something else. Hidden under the edge of the food cart, a small black pistol lay on the floor.
He heard a Russian voice speaking English coming from the kitchen, steps from where he crouched.
“Poor valiant hero! When they find your body, you will be remembered as a cold-blooded murderer!”
At the same moment the big man saw Court, and Court saw him. The man reached to the small of his back, to pull either a gun or a knife.
Court knew he had to go for a weapon now, although he would be up against two armed killers in opposite directions. He saw little chance for success, but no chance at all without action.
Court threw his body forward and rolled towards the pistol, lying there by the island. His shoulder and his arm rioted in excruciating pain, even through the effects of adrenaline.
On his second roll he snatched up the CZ pistol, then rolled again, across eggs and toast and butter on the floor. He crashed into the food cart, causing it to lurch towards the window. As he raised his gun in the direction of the man at the sofa, who was now brandishing a small semiautomatic pistol, he kicked at the second pistol he’d seen lying there, sending it skidding across the floor to where Zoya had just risen into a seated position against the wall.
“Z!”
She spun to him, and he could see in her eyes that she understood.
Court stood and swung his pistol in a 180-degree arc as he pivoted away from the living room to aim at the target on the other side of the kitchen island.
He was giving his back to an armed man so that he could target another armed man, and he was putting all his trust in Zoya, betting his life that she would end the threat behind him while he dealt with the one in front of him.
* * *
• • •
Semyon Pervak had pulled his tiny SIG Sauer P238 up from the small of his back and lifted it towards the man three meters away on the opposite side of the sofa. He had two targets to choose from, but the decision was an easy one for his experienced tactical brain to make. He knew Zakharova was unarmed—she’d been flinging tableware and food around the room, after all—so he concentrated on the man who had just come out of a roll. He saw that the man was focused on Maksim, not him, so he lined up for an easy shot to the back of his head.
Fool, he thought.
Before Pervak could depress the trigger, however, he heard an impossibly loud unsuppressed gunshot. Simultaneously, he felt a blow to the side of his neck that dropped him to his knees.
Blood spurted obscenely from his throat just below the jawline, all over the sofa. He dropped his weapon to press against the wound. He tumbled down to his left, coming to rest over the body of the man he had himself killed moments earlier.
Zoya Zakharova had shot him, he understood this much. But as he died he realized he would never know where she’d found the gun.
* * *
• • •
Finally Court had his weapon up and aimed at a target. He’d managed to catch the man in the white server’s coat as he swung his gun towards Zakharova, who he clearly knew now had a firearm. The man had his back to the wall in the kitchen, and the open window was a good six feet off to his left and ahead of him.
Court shouted at the