‘Fine, I’ll kill you where you sit. It makes no difference to me.’ Deiter pointed the barrel at Tom’s head.
‘Won’t that screw up your well-rehearsed pantomime?’
Deiter thought about it for a moment. ‘You’re right.’ He turned the gun around and brought the butt of it crashing down onto Tom’s head, opening up a two-inch gash at his hairline.
Serena screamed and made to go to his aid, but Deiter held her back.
Blood gushed out of the wound on Tom’s head, streamed into his eye and ran down the side of his face.
‘I’ll think of a way of incorporating that into my scenario, when you’ve gone,’ he said, hauling Tom’s dazed frame out of the chair and depositing him on the floor by the entrance to the room.
Deiter backed up to the door to inspect the crime scene and to ensure that all his players were in position. Happy with the result, he aimed the gun at Serena’s face and pulled the trigger. Her head jerked to one side, blood splattered against the wall and she hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Tom’s outcry at seeing the motionless body on the floor was drowned out by the sound of the blast echoing around the room.
CHAPTER 36
The exact millisecond the bullet was about to leave the gun barrel, Deiter’s arm had been involuntarily nudged up and to the left by the door crashing into his back. It was only a fraction of an inch but, over the distance the bullet had to travel, it was enough to save Serena’s life.
Jed burst through the doorway, his mind taking a snapshot of the carnage before him. He saw Serena lying immobile underneath the shattered window, blood splatters on the wall, his boss, Charles, slumped over his desk, more blood, his friend on the floor in front of him, half his face covered in blood, a man hunched over him holding a smoking gun…
He launched himself forward, but the figure had regained its composure. Straightening its posture, it turned towards him, firing indiscriminately. Jed had decided that a rugby tackle would be his best option and the bullets flew innocuously over his head, lodging somewhere in the wall behind him.
He caught Deiter just above the calves, his knees buckled under the weight, bringing them both crashing heavily down to the floor next to Tom. The gun went clattering across the room.
Deiter managed to free one of his legs from the grip and lashed out, the heel of his shoe connecting with Jed’s jaw. His head snapped back but he clung on, clawing his way up Deiter’s torso. Another kick, this time aimed at Jed’s face. It landed on the bridge of his nose, fracturing it. Blood flowed from his nostrils. Momentarily stunned, he loosened his hold on Deiter’s leg, who scrambled towards the gun.
Tom tried to clear the fog that was clouding his head; he could see that Jed was no match for his opponent’s superior physical fitness and knew they had to join forces if they were going to overpower him. He willed himself to stand, but the connection between his brain and his leg muscles was impaired. He staggered to his feet but was unable to keep his balance, instead wheeling drunkenly in the opposite direction that he wanted to go. He managed to make it to the desk and held on to steady himself.
Deiter knew that if he could just get to the gun he would be able to regain control of the situation. Dislodging his assailant with his second kick gave him the opportunity he needed. He could see where the gun had landed some twenty feet to his left and belly-crawled towards it. His breathing was laboured, having been winded by the impact of the tackle, but his focus remained resolutely on the weapon.
Less than two feet away, he felt a vice-like grip around his ankle. He lunged for the firearm but he was inches short, the gap widening as Jed dragged him back away from it. He twisted his body over, trying to break loose, but Jed held firm, drawing him in like a fisherman reeling in his catch. He kicked out with his free leg but failed to connect with anything solid.
The force of the blow to Jed’s nose had made him see stars, but he quickly recovered his cognitive powers when he realised his adversary had broken free and was making for the gun. He shook his head to clear his thoughts further, the blood from his nose dripping liberally onto the floor. He half crawled, half slithered after the retreating form, knowing that if he didn’t manage to catch up in time it would be the last thing he ever did.
He was gaining, but he could tell it wasn’t going to be enough to prevent the other person reaching his objective. Risking everything, Jed got unsteadily to his feet and pounced at the flailing legs, managing to latch onto an ankle. His rival squirmed underneath his grasp like an alligator performing a death-roll, but Jed had no intention of letting go. He pulled him away from the revolver and, having studied his opponent’s form, was ready for him when he lashed out with his foot, dodging the kicks with ease. He drove his fist hard into the other man’s groin, promptly stopping the thrashing limb and replacing it with a low, guttural moan, followed by a whimper.
Tom pulled himself upright using the desk as a crutch; Charles’s blood was now spilling over the edge. He looked beyond the body to the window where Serena lay, expecting the worst. He could see where the bullet had grazed her forehead; it looked bad, but not bad enough to be life-threatening.
He manoeuvred around the desk, almost slipping on a congealed puddle on the floor. Still a little shaky on his feet, his mind had started to clear. Kneeling down next to her, he felt for a pulse. He hadn’t realised until that point that he had been holding his breath and exhaled at the relief of feeling the faint rhythmic beat on his fingertips indicating that life was coursing through her veins. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. He inspected the crease above her eye more closely; it didn’t appear to be that deep and had stopped bleeding. A commotion on the other side of the room drew his attention back to the immediate threat. Unsure of who had the upper hand, he looked around for a weapon. His eyes rested on a familiar object and he gingerly made his way over towards it.
Deiter knew that he was at a disadvantage. One leg was incapacitated and he was lying on his back, like a turtle with its underbelly exposed. He was vulnerable to any attack that his advisory wanted to deliver, so it came as no surprise when he felt the searing pain in his groin; he had half expected it and, as such, had mentally prepared for it. But, to catch his opponent off-guard, he needed to make him think he had delivered a killer blow. The moan that elicited from the punch was genuine, but the whimper after it was pure theatre.
As he continued the charade, he could feel the grip on his ankle slacken and the weight transfer to both legs as the person sat astride him. Timing was the key; if he made his move too soon the other person would be in a position to counter it. He waited, eyes screwed up as if in agony, hands clutching his crotch, moaning softly to himself. He could feel the hot breath on his chin as the victor leant over to inspect his kill.
Now! He launched himself into a sitting position using the weight on his legs as leverage. His forehead connected with the already shattered cartilage that was once a nose, obliterating it. This time it was his opponent’s turn to cry out. As his hands flew up to protect what was left, Deiter pushed him backward, toppling the weight off his legs.
He was on his feet in an instant, delivering a barrage of kicks to his adversary’s head and torso, like a man possessed. Even when the person stopped moving, he carried on remorselessly. It was only when he himself was exhausted that he relented. He quickly retrieved the gun from where it lay and walked back to the vanquished form on the floor. He pointed it at the bloody mess of a face and cocked the trigger, hesitating only because he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.