Bridge and Stéphanie screamed in unison, though for different reasons. Reacting instinctively, Bridge threw the kitchen knife at Novak. It wasn’t designed to be a weapon, much less thrown, and missed him by more than a metre, clattering off the brick chimney breast behind him. That didn’t matter, because at the same time as throwing the knife, Bridge broke into a run and charged at Novak. He was caught off guard, first by Izzy’s gasp and then the knife, and Bridge was able to close the gap, throwing her entire body weight at him before he could fire again.
They fell back against the fireplace. Novak’s head hit the chimney and he spasmed, dropping the gun. Bridge followed up with two quick punches to his head, then picked up the knife and cut through the zip tie securing Fred’s wrists to the chair. He reached for his gag, but shouted a muffled cry before he could remove it, his eyes wide. Bridge ducked, and Novak’s boot glanced off the side of her head. It hurt, but not enough to stop her. She turned, and wrapped her arm around his leg before he could raise it again. Even with two arms she couldn’t have pulled Novak to the ground, but she wasn’t trying to. Instead Bridge used his leg as leverage to pull herself up, headbutting him in the crotch and throwing him off balance. He fell, and Bridge turned to see Fred cutting through Steph’s bonds.
“Go, go,” she shouted, knowing they didn’t need her encouragement, but feeling bound to give it anyway. She heard Izzy call from the direction of the hallway, and the knowledge that Novak had missed — that her sister hadn’t been shot by a man Bridge should have finished off herself the day before — filled her with relief. Here, now and at last, she could make sure the threat was neutralised.
Novak had other ideas. Bridge glimpsed a dark line, tracing an arc through the air, a split second before the fireplace poker struck her on the back of the head. The world spun, then drained of colour as the floor rushed to greet her. Her reflexes saved her, throwing an arm in front of her face as she fell so her elbow smashed against the floor instead of her mouth.
“Bliyad,” she heard Novak mutter, and it gave her some small sense of satisfaction to know she was getting under his skin. The Fiat car keys dug into her stomach from the hoodie pocket, and she wished she’d grabbed the gun from the car instead of bringing a knife. The rational part of her brain knew she hadn’t because she didn’t want to waste time reaching Novak; that if he’d heard her enter the house and then leave again, he might have killed Fred and Steph before she could get to them. She’d done the right thing, and handled it correctly — so how come he was winning? How come Novak was about to kill her stone dead, if she’d done the right thing? Why hadn’t she been able to even the odds?
And then she remembered the other thing in her pocket.
Novak was bending to retrieve his gun. Bridge summoned a burst of energy, pushed herself to her feet, and charged. She slammed into him and they fell together through the French windows, shattering glass that rained around them as they tumbled down the low steps, onto the waiting gravel that crunched under their weight.
Now, while he was dazed. Bridge fought through the cotton wool in her own head to pull out the emergency Ziploc bag, and find the loop of monofilament wire. Only a metre long, but that was enough to wrap around Marko Novak’s throat and pull tight.
He gasped, clutching at the line as it closed around his neck, with Bridge’s weight pinning him down. Hard Man had warned them at the Loch that strangling a man was a slow process. It wasn’t like the movies, where people collapsed after ten seconds. Death took a minute or more to arrive, and the instinctive will to live made it an exhausting business for both participants. Bridge was ready for that; she’d use her own last breath if necessary, to make sure Novak couldn’t endanger her family any more. But she wasn’t ready for him to grab a terracotta pot from the foot of the steps and slam it into her face.
It shattered on impact. Bridge fell sideways, losing her grip, and the monofilament slackened. Novak pushed himself up, throwing her off. As she lay on the ground, wiping blood from her eyes, he kicked her in the head, then twice in the stomach. But the kicking stopped, and Bridge looked up to see him returning inside. She was confused. Why stop? Why didn’t he keep kicking until she couldn’t take it any more? Then she remembered what was in the lounge.
His gun.
She scrambled to her feet and ran, half-blind in one eye as blood flowed from a gash in her forehead. She was a sitting duck out here, and relied on Izzy having enough sense to take Fred and Steph out of the house. Bridge hadn’t seen where they went, but hoped they’d run into the yard. She wanted to keep Novak as far away from them as possible.
She ducked back inside the house through the utility room door, picking up an iron foot scraper on the way, and continued on to the hallway. While she didn’t know the layout of the farmhouse very well, she guessed Novak didn’t know it at all. She picked one end of the hallway and waited behind a corner. Footsteps came from the direction of the lounge, and Bridge steeled herself. Novak appeared in the hallway, near the stairs. She drew a foot back, ready to kick the wall and get him to come towards
