At least, that was the plan until Hugo cried out from upstairs.
Fred must have put him down for a morning nap before Novak got here, because when she dared to look round the doorway, Novak was smiling and making his way to the stairs. He hadn’t known there was another potential hostage.
Bridge had to make a decision. If she attacked Novak now, in the hallway, he’d have time to shoot before she could reach him. The first bullet might not be fatal, but he’d already demonstrated his willingness to kill her, and would doubtless finish the job before leaving. Nevertheless, Bridge was clearly his principal target, so with her dead he might leave her family alone.
Or she could wait, follow him upstairs, and take him unawares. But every step of the bare wooden stairs creaked like a rusty old door, and even if Novak didn’t hear her climbing after him, she’d have to take him out dangerously close to Hugo. The worst of both worlds.
Bridge decided an attack now would at least give her the element of surprise. She raised the iron boot scraper and rounded the doorway, breaking into a run —
“Get off those stairs, you coward, and face me.”
A man’s shout, hoarse and delirious, and Bridge was shocked to realise it was in French. Not Novak, but Fréderic. He advanced from the other end of the hallway, hefting the wood axe from the yard at the Russian.
She shouted, “Fred, get out,” but it was too late. Novak raised his pistol and fired. Fred groaned and crumpled to the ground, falling like a dead weight.
Novak had heard her, and turned to fire at Bridge too. She ducked back behind the doorway, crying out as splintered pieces of architrave blasted through the air like shrapnel.
Fred was on the floor, dead or dying. If she couldn’t help him fast, the distinction wouldn’t matter. But she was literally outgunned. If she tried to reach him now, Novak would shoot her before she got within five metres.
Only one option remained. She ran through the kitchen and back out of the main hallway, into the yard. She’d expected to find Izzy and Steph out here, perhaps hiding behind a car, but they were nowhere to be seen. A movement at the edge of her vision caught her eye, and she turned to see her sister and niece running into the estate woodland. Good. If they stayed there Novak wouldn’t find them, and they wouldn’t have to see Fred.
Bridge fumbled with the keys in her pocket, pressing the blipper twice before the Fiat finally unlocked. She leapt inside, turned the key in the ignition —
Nothing. She tried again. Not a whimper or groan.
Novak emerged from the doorway, laughing as he saw her behind the wheel. He raised his pistol and shouted, “You didn’t think I’d leave a perfectly good car just sitting there, did you?” He fired twice, hitting the bonnet and the windscreen. Bridge ducked, pressing her face into the passenger seat as glass exploded around her. She reached out blindly, fumbled with the glove compartment latch, and reached inside. The car had been locked, so Novak must have forced the bonnet open to remove the starter motor. He hadn’t been inside. It should still be there.
It was. Bridge felt the loaded weight of the SP2022, and the unnerving sense of comfort that came from knowing the odds were now even. She pushed open the passenger door. The window immediately shattered as Novak fired at it, followed by another two bullets slamming into the metal of the door. But Bridge had expected that Novak would assume she was trying to flee the car, using the door as cover, and so would focus on that area. Instead she sat bolt upright inside the car, raised her pistol, and shot twice at Novak through the empty windscreen.
He crumpled like a sack of potatoes.
Bridge staggered out of the car, and saw Izzy and Steph running back across the field toward her. She motioned at them to stay away, then turned back to the house.
Fred lay where he’d been shot, shivering in a pool of his own blood, clutching his abdomen. He was alive, barely, but his skin was ten shades whiter than healthy. Bridge tried to pull him up, but he was too heavy even for her. “Fred,” she shouted, “Fred! Can you hear me?” He looked at her for the first time, his eyes focusing into a glare filled with blind hatred. Good. Anger would keep him alive longer than fear. “I need you to stand for me,” she said, helping him into an upright sitting position. “Put your arm over my shoulder, OK?”
He said nothing, but grunted and seethed through gritted teeth as he pushed himself up. Bridge dropped one of his arms across her shoulder and took the weight on her legs. He reached out for purchase, smearing bloody handprints on the wall, and after a couple of false starts he was as upright as he was ever going to be. Bridge began a slow limping walk back through the utility room, out into the yard. Fred grunted in pain with every step.
Izzy yelped in horror at the sight of him, and Stéphanie started crying again. Bridge couldn’t blame either of them, but she needed Izzy’s car, and shouted at her to open the passenger door. Izzy ran to the Renault, holding the door open while Bridge pushed and folded Fred inside. She removed her hoodie, balled it up, and pressed it against his stomach. “Hold this tight,” she said to him. He nodded weakly, placing his hands across it, then coughed as his head lolled back.
Izzy was trying to reach Fred, to comfort him, but it was just wasting time. Bridge pushed her sister away, closed the door, then gripped her by the shoulders. “Hey, hey. Look at me. You and Steph need to go inside, call the gendarmes, and tell them what happened.”
“But
