Headhunters

Chapter Fifty-Four

Milton had opened the door so that Bachman, Ziggy and Matilda could come inside. Ziggy entered first, a look of bloodless terror on his face. Matilda followed, her own face written over with anger and a warning in her eyes. Bachman came through the door last of all.

Milton quickly placed everything, fixing the five of them according to their positions in the room. He was at the rear, his back to the front of the house, facing them and the balcony and then the sea beyond. Five feet away from him and to his left, sitting in the armchair with his back to the wall, was Shavit. Milton held the old man’s shotgun in a loose, comfortable grip, aiming it squarely at the old man. Milton was so close that he couldn’t possibly miss. Between Shavit and the opposite side of the room was Ziggy, and just behind him was Matilda. Bachman was behind them, covering them both with his pistol.

“Hello, John,” Bachman said.

“Avi.”

Milton smiled. “On your own?”

“What do you mean?”

“No Mossad backup tonight?”

Bachman chuckled. “Ah, yes. That’s right. That was a clever trick. Did you see Victor Blum?”

“I did.”

“How did you do it?”

“You have information he thinks could be damaging to the agency. I do, too. And mine is more damaging than yours.”

Bachman nodded at Ziggy. “Your friend here is very clever.”

“He is, but none of that really matters, does it? I thought it would be better just the two of us.”

“But it’s not just us, is it? You have my friend, I have yours.”

“I’ll trade him for them.”

“Shoot him, Avi,” the old man said.

“Be quiet.” Milton kept the shotgun levelled, but he didn’t take his eyes from Bachman.

“Looks like we have a stand-off, John.”

“Maybe.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I know there’s no point in talking to you.”

Bachman shook his head. “I think we’re past talking, John.”

“So do I.”

Bachman took a step forward so that he was closer to Ziggy. He shoved him in the back and Ziggy stumbled ahead, limping on his bad leg.

Bachman pointed the gun away from Matilda and aimed it at Ziggy.

“There are too many of us here. I’ve got her,” he said, nodding at Matilda, “and she means more to you. I don’t need both of them. Easier if there’s just the four of us.”

“Avi—”

Milton saw his arm stiffen as he prepared to fire.

Matilda felt the absence of the pressure that had been between her shoulder blades. She could still feel the malign presence of Avi Bachman behind her, but the gun was gone. She watched Milton’s face.

She turned her head. Ziggy stumbled ahead of her. Bachman had pushed him. She caught the flash of movement in the corner of her eye.

“Easier if there’s just the four of us.”

Milton’s face changed. Impassiveness to fear.

Bachman stepped up. She could see his arm. She could see the pistol. It was aimed at Ziggy.

Milton took a step ahead. “Avi—”

Matilda launched herself to the side, clattering into Bachman. She caught his wrist with her right hand and tried to force it out of the way.

The gun fired.

The pistol was suppressed, but the pop of the gun was still horribly loud. Matilda had ruined Bachman’s aim and, instead of the head shot he had planned, the bullet went low and caught Ziggy in the back of the knee. It was his bad leg, the left. He yelped in sudden pain as the leg collapsed and he toppled to the floor.

Matilda had her right hand around Bachman’s wrist and she reached around with her left to claw for his face. Her nails found the fleshy part of his cheek and gouged down, three red stripes that immediately welled with blood. The blast of pain loosened his grip on the pistol and, as he reflexively reached up to protect his face, he dropped it. Matilda grabbed onto him, reaching for his eyes this time. Bachman had been unseated by the surprise of it the first time, but now he was ready. She had no chance. He instinctively planted his foot to correct his balance, ducked his shoulder into her body, and shrugged her away.

Milton didn’t have a clean shot. The shotgun spread would hit Ziggy and Matilda. He would kill them both.

Bachman pushed Matilda away and, taking advantage of the gap that had opened up between them, he lashed out, striking her in the side of the head. She staggered into the kitchen counter, shattering a small glass bowl as she fell to the floor, unconscious.

Still in the line of fire.

Milton couldn’t shoot.

The effort of striking her had temporarily unbalanced Bachman.

Milton took advantage.

He charged.

Ziggy Penn heard someone screaming, terribly loud, and wondered who it was — until he realised that it was him. It felt as if someone had slid a red-hot poker into his knee, the burning point probing and prodding into the ligaments, scorching soft flesh, rubbing up against bone. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the curtain of white from his vision, and, when he was able to see again, he saw Matilda on the floor. She was lying on her side, close enough for him to reach out and touch, her eyes closed and a vivid purple welt discolouring her temple.

The pain crescendoed and darkness welled up, threatening to wash over him. It was all he could do to lift his head. He saw Milton vault over him, tackling Bachman around the waist and driving him backwards. The pair of them, locked together, stumbled across the room and, as they lost their balance and started to fall, Milton pushed again and propelled both of them through the wide French doors, onto the balcony and into the night beyond.

Ziggy’s strength abandoned him and he faded into unconsciousness.