Beck shoved the man off him and tried to roll away from the baton blows whipping down on him, but his pant leg was pinned to the floor by the knife.

Beck caught stinging blows on the shoulder, left arm, his back. Without his heavy shearling coat the baton would have broken bones.

Beck blindly whipped the sap sideways at Gregor, connecting with his right shin. That stopped the blows from the baton. Beck finally pulled away from the knife pinning his pants down, ripping the thick denim to get free. He scrambled to his feet. Gregor had gone down on one knee, but now he was up and limping toward Beck.

Beck backpedaled, slipping on blood.

Gregor kept coming. Beck overhanded the Bucheimer at Gregor, hoping to catch him in the face or head with the lead weighted end.

Gregor just managed to duck under the spinning sap. It flew past him and hit the frame of a window, cracking the thermal pane.

The fat man at the other end of the loft finally managed to push himself up off the couch, looking around for the Glock that had been kicked in his direction.

Gregor slashed the baton at Beck’s head. Beck leaned back, barely avoiding getting whipped in the face by the steel tip, and immediately lunged forward, catching Gregor’s arm before he started a backhand slash. He punched hard under Gregor’s armpit. The blow cracked into a bundle of nerves at the top of Gregor’s rib cage, paralyzing his baton arm, but Gregor retaliated with a hard left fist to Beck’s ear.

The blow caused instant, searing pain. Beck saw black for a moment, but the pain fueled him. He punched hard into Gregor’s ribs. Once, twice. Gregor dropped the baton, but managed to grabbed Beck’s coat with both hands, immobilizing him. He lifted a knee aimed at Beck’s ribs.

Beck twisted and caught the knee on his hip, countering but paying the price in pain. Gregor drove Beck backward, trying to trap him against the elevator.

Beck chopped both arms down to break Gregor’s grip, but only managed to break free from one hand. He twisted an elbow into Gregor’s jaw, tried to push Gregor off, but Gregor hung onto Beck’s coat with his left hand. Beck twisted around and slapped the elevator button behind him, turned back to punch Gregor in the face, and hit him a perfect shot in the temple which nearly cracked three knuckles on his bare fist.

Gregor sagged, but still hung on to Beck’s coat.

The elevator door started to open. A gunshot suddenly exploded, followed by a sharp splat of metal on metal as the bullet hit the slowly opening elevator door.

Beck flinched and ducked.

He thought he heard the fat man yell, “Stop!”

The elevator door opened. Beck grabbed Gregor’s right hand with both of his, turned the hand back, twisting Gregor’s wrist until his grip broke, then Beck pushed the hand straight down, bringing Gregor to his knees.

He jammed a foot into Gregor’s chest and shoved him away, sending him down onto the floor. Gregor still tried to grab for Beck’s leg, almost catching his foot as Beck fell back. Two more shots sounded. The elevator doors started to slide shut.

Beck pulled his legs into the cab, barely clearing the closing door. He slammed his palm onto the elevator buttons, not caring which floor it took him to, just trying to get the damn elevator moving.

The door shut, another shot rang out, the fat man yelled something, the elevator descended.

18

Gregor was on his feet banging the side of his fist against the elevator, cursing, screaming, hitting the call button. Markov finally reached him, wrapped both arms around Gregor’s right arm and pulled him back.

“Stop. Stop it!”

Gregor could have easily put Markov down, but he let Markov pull him away from the door.

Markov cursed. “Christ, you with the fucking guns all the time.”

Gregor turned to Markov, testing his jaw where Beck had elbowed him, rotating his arm to get the feeling back. He walked slowly away from Markov, limping because of Beck’s sap hitting his shin.

“A gun in the face stops any resistance.”

“Except this time,” said Markov.

“Who is he? Why did he come up here ready for us?”

“Ready for you?” said Markov. “How? He had no gun. Comes alone. Now he’s fucking gone. Idiot!”

For a moment, Gregor looked as if he might go for Markov. The Russian saw it in his eyes and yelled at him.

“Gregor, calm down. Come, we have to figure out what to do with your men.”

Gregor struggled to contain himself. Clenching his jaw, making guttural sounds, he followed Markov over to the man Beck had shot. He lay in an enormous pool of blood. They slowly lifted him into a sitting position and propped him against the base of the kitchen counter. The man gritted his teeth and hissed at the pain moving him had caused.

Gregor squatted down and began pulling his shirt up to find the wounds.

Markov muttered a Russian curse as Gregor checked the bullet wounds.

“Fucking guy wasn’t even looking. How does he get the gun from you, much less shoot one of you?”

Gregor ignored Markov.

There were two bullet holes, one three inches above the bottom rib on the left side. One two inches below.

Gregor squinted at the wounds. He gently pulled the wounded man forward so he could see his back. The two bullets had exited so close together that the exit holes had merged into one large, ragged wound.

Gregor had seen many bullet wounds. His man wasn’t coughing up blood, so he calculated that the bullets hadn’t pierced a lung. But there had to be massive damage to his stomach and liver and spleen.

Gregor told Markov, “We get him to hospital, and they stop the bleeding, he’ll live.” But he’d said it only to give the wounded man false hope. He could see a gray pallor coming over him. With the enormous blood loss and traumatic shock, he estimated only a twenty percent chance this soldier from his old brigade would live.

The other soldier had made it up onto one foot, keeping himself up with a hand on a chair. Markov turned to him, “Can you drive?”

He could not stand on his right leg, his face was lopsided from the fractures under his left eye, which was completely hidden by grotesque swelling, he had only one useable hand, but he nodded at Markov and said, “For a while. Not too long.”

Markov knew Stepanovich and his men were beyond tough, but it was hard to believe either of the two wounded men could get very far. But that didn’t matter. All Markov wanted was for them to get far enough away that they wouldn’t be his problem.

“Where’s the car?” asked Markov.

“Across the street.”

“Legal?”

“No.”

Markov hoped to God the car hadn’t been towed.

“Okay, Gregor will help you down. You drive away from here with your comrade. Don’t try to make it to hospital. Go north.” Markov tried to think of a neighborhood where a carjacking might be possible. “Try to make it into the twenties. Off the highway. There’s a project over there. The story is, you and Igor got hijacked at a stoplight. They pulled you out of car and beat you. Igor fought back. They shot him and ran. Blacks. You can’t identify anyone. You call nine-one-one. Wait for ambulance. That’s it. You don’t remember anything else.”

Markov turned to the man who had been shot. There was no point in telling him the story.

Markov turned back to Gregor. “Can you carry Igor down to the car?”

“Yeah.”

“Wrap a towel around him, so you don’t leave blood everywhere. Then bring it back up. We’ll leave everything for Alan to clean up.”

Crane turned to yell at Markov, “For chrissake Leonard, get this fucking tape off me.”

Markov turned to him and suddenly something snapped. He moved quickly to Crane, picked up the thirty-two-ounce hammer, and began smashing it into Crane’s precious cherrywood dining table.

He hit the table over and over and over, banging divots and dents into it, all the time yelling, “Shut up, shut up, fucking shut up.”