Ignore the pain, he told himself. You must ignore the pain…
He hurled himself at her once more, both bodies thumping against the wall. The Beretta went off again, but the round thumped harmlessly into the mattress. Suze screamed as Chet lifted the woman off her feet and threw her out of the door and on to the landing.
She fell skilfully, still gripping her Beretta, and if the fall caused her any pain, she didn’t show it. Her eyes flashing, she scrambled to her feet, and as she saw Chet’s bulky frame staggering through the doorway on to the landing, her demeanour remained calm.
Again she took aim, but Chet managed to launch himself across the metre between them and knock the gun from her hand with one swipe of his left arm. As he did so, the pain from his flesh wound kicked in and for a moment his knees buckled. It gave the woman the time she needed to reach over to where the Beretta had dropped, stoop down and pick it up. But by the time she was standing, Chet was there again, his face twisted with both anger and agony. He grabbed the woman by her upper arms, lifted her off the floor and, with all the strength his damaged body could summon, he threw her down the stairs and on to the stone flags below. There was a dreadful clattering as she tumbled, along with the noise of an accidental discharge from the Beretta.
And then silence.
Chet didn’t wait. He hurried back to the bedroom, where Suze had shrunk into one corner, her pale face terrified. ‘Is she…?’
‘I don’t know.’
He opened the window. Heavy rain, falling at an angle on account of the chill wind, splashed into the room. He looked out. They were just above the front porch, its roof only a couple of metres below the window. Impossible for him to climb out with his leg, but Suze could.
He pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and pressed it into her hands.
‘There’s money there,’ he said. ‘Go.’
She froze. ‘What about you?’
Chet looked over his shoulder. He could feel his strength sapping away.
‘Just go. Get out of here now. You need to head cross-country, and keep going.’
‘How will you find me?’
‘There’s a cairn on the top of a hill about a mile due north of here.’ He took a moment to get his bearings, then pointed just to the left of the window. ‘That way. I’ll meet you there before sunrise. If I’m not there by then, hide. And don’t stop hiding.’
‘But I…’
A sound from downstairs. Movement.
Chet turned back to Suze. ‘She’s Mossad,’ he said.
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Beretta Model 70 semi-automatic. It’s their signature weapon. Last time we met I heard her speak. I’m pretty sure it was Hebrew. She’s a kidon — an assassin. The best in the world…’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. But believe me — if Mossad have us in their sights, that’s as bad as it gets…’
Footsteps, coming up the stairs.
‘Go!’ Chet hissed. ‘If you ever need any help, track down Luke Mercer, 22 SAS, tell him what you know. But only if you have to, Suze. If you don’t, stay anonymous. Remember what I told you before. Stay dark.’
‘How long for?’
‘Just stay dark.’
He pushed her towards the window. ‘Go. Don’t stop running. Find the cairn…’
She made to kiss him, but he pushed her away.
‘Go!’
She nodded, and started to climb inexpertly out of the window. Just before she disappeared, she turned round to face him.
‘Go!’
Chet heard footsteps on the landing. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He headed towards the door. Towards the fight. If he didn’t dig deep, it could be his last.
She had two weapons in her hands: the Beretta in her right, and in her left a brass poker that she had found beside the fireplace downstairs. It wasn’t heavy.
But heavy enough.
Her face hurt. Whatever this man had hit her with had been sturdy. She’d felt the cheekbone crack on impact, and now the pain was blinding. It wasn’t going to stop her from finishing the job, though. It only made her more determined to see this through.
There was silence on the landing now. The light from the bedroom spilled out. No shadow, which meant neither of them was in the line of the doorway. She needed to be prepared for an attack from elsewhere.
She looked into the room. The window was open, rain splattering in, and the latch knocked against the frame. An unpalatable thought came to her. Had they escaped her again?
Carefully, she stepped inside.
He came at her from behind the door, the figurine in his hand and a look of brutal concentration on his face. She was ready for him. One swipe of the poker at the leg he limped on was all it took. Metal met metal with a dull thud, and he crumpled immediately to the ground.
She set about him with the poker, striking him first on the gunshot wound to disable him further. He gasped in pain as the blood started to flow more freely, not only from the wound, but from new cuts that were opening up on his face and neck; but he still attempted to grab her ankles and unbalance her footing. She was nimble enough to avoid that; nimble enough to stamp down on his hands before she whacked him again hard on his wound.
Another gasp, and his body started to shake.
It would have been so easy to shoot him, so easy to put a bullet in his head and be done with it, but she was clear-headed and professional enough, even in the middle of this struggle, to take the more sensible option. For the third blow of the poker, she raised her hand a little higher in the air. When she brought it down on the side of his head, there was a thump and his body immediately went limp.
Silence in the room. Silence throughout the house.
She looked at the figure at her feet. The scarred, ugly face was still contorted with pain; there was a puddle of blood oozing around his head, dark and sticky, and the right leg below his knee was jutting out at an angle. He barely moved — just the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he continued to breathe — and the life blood was draining from him.
The woman walked to the window. Nothing except the rain and the darkness. No sight of Suze McArthur, and she felt anger at the thought that she’d escaped.
‘Kalbah,’ she muttered. ‘Bitch.’
Silently she made her way down to the ground floor. She walked across the reception room, silent and dark, and propped open the door of the greasy old gas oven with a coal scuttle. She turned the oven dial on to full. It would be quicker, of course, to turn all the dials, but that would look less accidental. A hiss, and the smell of gas hit her nose. She took a box of matches from the worktop, removed a few pages from a newspaper and stepped over to the front door — edging round the dead dog — and waited.
The smell of gas grew stronger.
Stronger.
It made her a little light-headed, but that was OK. She could step outside before it really harmed her.
She gave it five minutes before opening the door and stepping outside. Standing in the porch with her back to the garden, she twisted the newspaper to make a torch and lit it. She waited for the flame to catch properly, then opened the door again, casually tossed the blazing paper inside and hurried away from the porch.
The explosion was almost silent, but the heat was intense. She felt it against her back as she ran towards her car, and saw the reflection of the detonation in the vehicle’s windscreen, her own body silhouetted against it. And as she opened the car door, she saw flames licking from the windows: already fierce, despite the rain. She’d set enough fires to know that the house would be an inescapable inferno within seconds.