Headhunters

Chapter Fifty-Five

Bachman stumbled over the step that led down to the balcony beyond. Milton’s arms were still wrapped around his waist and he followed him outside, driving him all the way across the space to the glass parapet that guarded the drop to the terrace below. They crashed against the glass and Milton pushed harder, the sudden boost to their momentum sending them both over the chrome rail and into the drop beyond.

It was a fall of six feet to the stone terrace. Bachman struck the ground first. Milton was atop him and he managed to bring up his elbow in the moments before impact, pressing it so that the point buried itself into Bachman’s gut. The impact drove the air from his lungs and winded him.

Milton was not dislodged by their landing. He reached up, put his fingers around Bachman’s neck and squeezed. He tried to wriggle into a better position, a little higher so that he could press down on Bachman’s larynx, but Bachman was too strong. Milton tried to manoeuvre his legs so that he could pin Bachman’s legs against his torso, but, before he could, Bachman broke free with his right and crashed his closed fist into Milton’s nose and mouth. Milton held on, tried to push down harder, but Bachman punched harder and harder. Blood poured from Milton’s nose and from a fresh laceration where his upper lip had been driven into his teeth.

Milton released his grip, rolled off and scrambled to his feet. He hopped back, opening up a little space between the two of them, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Bachman gasped for breath. Glass from the broken windowpane from the balcony above had scattered across the terrace, and a shard the size of a quarter had lodged itself in his cheek. He reached up and, looking straight at Milton, pulled it out. Blood immediately poured out of the cleft that was left behind, running down his chin and dripping onto his shoulder. Bachman didn’t take his eyes off Milton as he tossed the glass aside.

Milton’s breath was ragged, and his nose and lip stung, but he took the opportunity to assess his surroundings. The terrace was made of stone and surrounded by a glass parapet that was twenty feet behind Bachman. To the left, a flight of stone steps descended to a second terrace and, as Milton recalled from his journey up the cliff, that terrace was joined by a second stair to a final terrace where Meir Shavit was able to access the natural plunge pool. Milton heard the crash of waves on the cliffs below. The parapet that penned in this terrace guarded a drop of fifty or sixty feet to the surface of the sea. The darkness of the sky on the horizon was demarked by the deep blue of the sea and, in that moment, Milton knew what he was going to have to do.

“Come on, Avi,” Milton said. “You can do better than that.”

Bachman reached up to his face and dabbed his fingers against the open wound, which was still bleeding freely. He held his hand before him and glanced down at the daubs of red. He looked back up at Milton and smiled. “Look at us.”

“It didn’t have to be like this.”

“You’re out of your depth, John, and you know it.”

“Stop talking. Do what you need to do.”

Matilda came around on the floor of the kitchen. It took her a moment to remember where she was and how she had come to be there. The whole right-hand side of her face throbbed and it came back to her: Bachman had knocked her out.

She was lying face down, and the tile was cold against her cheek. She placed her palms on either side of her shoulders and pushed, raising her head to look around.

Ziggy was on the floor an arm’s length away from her. He wasn’t moving. She dragged herself across to him, turning him over so that she could look down into his face. His mouth gaped open and, for a moment, she thought that he was dead. She ducked her head so that her face was just above his and felt his breath on her skin. He coughed, and then coughed again, but he did not awake. She pushed herself onto her knees and, fighting a buffeting wave of dizziness, she looked down at the wound in his leg. Blood had soaked into the beige fabric of his cargo pants and she saw the tiny hole in the material, perfectly smooth around the edges, where the bullet had struck.

She heard voices and looked up. The French doors that opened out onto the balcony had been badly damaged; one of the large panes was missing from the frame and fragments of glass were scattered all around.

The voices were coming from outside.

She looked back into the room. The old man, Shavit, was still taped to the chair. He was struggling with the bonds, unable to free himself.

He looked at her. “Get me out of here. I can help.”

She shook her head to clear the wooziness.

“They’ll kill each other. I can stop them.”

Shavit wasn’t going anywhere, and, although Ziggy needed help, she knew that Milton needed it more urgently.

The shotgun Milton had been holding had been dropped on the floor.

She picked it up. She had fired shotguns before and was confident that she would be able to use this one if the moment required it. She held it carefully, aimed down, and hurried out onto the balcony.

Milton settled into a defensive posture, his arms raised vertically on either side of his face and his head ducked down between them, presenting as small a target as possible. He knew he was outmatched. He always had been. Bachman was a machine and there was not even the slightest possibility that Milton would be able to defeat him one-on-one like this. But Milton had survived for a long time in a business where longevity was rare. He was resourceful, he was ruthless, and he was not afraid to change the environment and circumstances of an encounter if it improved his odds of walking away.

Bachman, his face a bloody mask, took a step toward him, his fists clenching and unclenching. He pivoted on his left leg and sent out a right-footed kick that Milton deflected by dropping his left arm, absorbing the jarring impact against his triceps. Bachman closed, firing out a left fist and then a right. Milton blocked the first punch with his right forearm, but he was too slow to raise his left arm after defending against Bachman’s kick, and the second punch connected with his cheekbone. The blow did not look as if it was thrown with much force, but it was deceptive. Krav Maga was a fearsomely efficient fighting style, and Bachman’s mastery of it meant that he was able to deliver powerful blows with minimal backswing. Bachman’s knuckles cracked into Milton’s face and a blaze of pain spasmed all the way down his neck.

He brought up his guard and opened and closed his mouth as he probed whether his cheekbone had been broken. Perhaps. It was too painful to be sure.

“Come on, John. This is too easy.”

Milton fired out a combination that Bachman blocked with ease. He hadn’t intended to strike him, just to distract his attention from what he really wanted to achieve. And it worked. Bachman mirrored Milton as he started to circle away from him, the two maintaining the same distance between each other as Milton moved around. He fired in another combination, two left hands around a harder right, and Bachman brushed them away again. Milton moved around again. Bachman followed. By the time Milton was finished, their positions had been reversed. Now he was facing the villa, his back to the parapet. Bachman was facing out to sea.

Milton started to back away.

“This is it, John.”

Milton kept going, one step at a time, closing on the parapet, Bachman following.

“You ready?”

Milton lowered his guard and gestured for Bachman to come on.

He rushed him.

Matilda looked down from the balcony.

She saw that Milton’s back was up against the parapet that guarded the steep drop to the surface of the ocean at the foot of the cliffs below.

Avi Bachman was facing him.

They were both bloodied. Bachman seemed to have been wounded in the side of his face, crimson slipping down the side of his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. Milton was bleeding from the nose and mouth. He was favouring one side of his body.

Neither had seen her.

The two men closed. Bachman’s fists lashed out, a right and then a left. Milton blocked the first with his arms, but not the second; it thudded into his ribs, jackknifing him over the impact, the sound of his breath audible as it was punched out of his lungs.

He stumbled farther back.

Bachman was relentless. He followed Milton, firing out two jabs that both found their mark. Milton tripped, falling backwards, putting out his right arm to support himself.

Bachman kept coming on.

It was hopeless. Milton had no chance against him.

She heard Milton shout something. Bachman responded with a braying laugh.

She had to do something. She raised the shotgun and started for the steps that led down to the terrace, taking them quickly and turning the corner so that she could see them both. The terrace was wide and the combatants were on the opposite side to her. Bachman’s position had changed a little; he was still facing away from her, but he had moved a few steps to the left so that he was closer to being side on.

Milton saw her.

“No!” he yelled.

Bachman turned, just enough to catch her in his peripheral vision, but not enough to allow Milton an opening.

Matilda levelled the shotgun. She knew that they were too close together. If she fired, Milton would take just as much of the spread as Bachman. She would kill them both.

She took a step.

“Stay back, Matty,” Milton called.

She stopped.

“This is me and him. You need to get away from here.”

“It doesn’t matter what she does,” Bachman said.

“You’ve got to go now,” Milton urged.

“I’ll find her if she runs. I want you to know, John — you’re first, but she’s next.”

Matilda’s hands were shaking.

She raised the shotgun and slid her finger inside the trigger guard.