Revenger

87

Trent Peck the Third slid down the wall beside his front door, leaving half the contents of his skull smeared across the creamy paintwork as he went.

Novak did not stop to look. She stepped straight over the corpse towards Jack Grantham, who had turned round to see what was happening.

Grantham was a desk officer, not a field agent. He had no way of defending himself when she flicked out her right arm, with all the speed and accuracy of a striking cobra, and punched the hot tip of her pistol’s suppressor straight into his Adam’s apple. He bent double, clutching at his throat as he desperately gasped for air, and was completely defenceless as she kicked him very hard in the balls with her carbon-fibre-tipped ankle boots. Grantham fell to the floor beside Peck’s body.

He would be out of action for several minutes, but it never hurt to make sure, so she kicked him hard in the side of the head, and while he was still dazed patted down his jacket till she found his phone, took it out and slipped it in the small bag she had slung diagonally across her body. There was a zip-up inside pocket in the bag. It contained a number of plastic cuffs that were really just oversized cable ties, twisted into a figure of eight that could be pulled tight around a pair of wrists or ankles. Two of the cuffs left Grantham’s arms and legs immobilized. There might come a time when he would have to die, but he was still too useful a negotiating tool to dispose of just yet.

Now for the main attraction.

‘Alexandra… my darling… where are you?’ she called out. ‘Please won’t you come out to play?’

Her words faded away into absolute silence. There was nothing at all to hear except the distant sound of traffic from the road and a radio playing in a downstairs flat.

‘Very well, then,’ Novak said. ‘If you won’t come out, I’ll just have to come and find you.’

Alix was sure that Novak would hear the fearful pounding of her heart. She was crouched behind the kitchen island that stood at one corner of the huge living area. In her hand she was clutching the longest, most vicious-looking knife she’d been able to find in the butcher’s block beside the cooker. Peck was the kind of man who almost never cooked, but still equipped himself like a Michelin-starred chef. His knives were Henckels Professionals: perfectly balanced, razor-sharp and capable of filleting a live human being just as easily as a joint of meat.

The island was set at right angles to the double-door that led from the hall into the living area. Alix was planning to let Novak come far enough into the room so her back was exposed, and then try to get to her before she could turn to defend herself. It was a long shot. But it was the only chance she had.

She heard the sound of doors being opened as Novak methodically worked her way through the three bedrooms, each with its own en suite bathroom, and the large built-in cupboards on either side of the hall. Now she was coming closer.

The drumming of her pulse in Alix’s ears felt almost deafening as Novak opened the doors into the living area. Alix dared not lift her head above the island to look where Novak was going, so she had to judge by the sound of the other woman’s footsteps on the parquet floor as she came into the room and seemed to turn right, away from the kitchen, across the lounge where Peck’s armchairs and sofas were arranged. There was a door on to an open terrace at the far end of the lounge. Perhaps that was where Novak was heading. She probably thought Alix was hiding out there, or had even tried to make her escape across the roof.

Alix closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning all her strength and courage. Then she got on to all fours, pushed with every ounce of strength in her legs and hurled herself across the floor towards the glossy black bullseye of Celina Novak’s back.

Novak had been caught out once before. It wasn’t going to happen again. She spun round at the first scuffing sound of Petrova’s feet on the hardwood floor. There was actually time for her to have raised her gun, aimed and fired, but that would have been too easy and much too fast. Novak wasn’t interested in killing Petrova. She wanted to make her suffer, pay her back with interest for the pain she had caused. So she threw her gun to one side, freeing up both her hands as Petrova raced towards her, crouching low to present the smallest possible target, and only straightening up as Petrova came within a couple of paces and drove her knife upwards in an underhand stab aimed straight at Novak’s guts.

Novak met the oncoming blade in the classic cross-block defence that she and Petrova had both been taught when they were still little more than teenage girls. She crossed her forearms over one another and then pushed downwards, away from her body to trap Petrova’s knife-hand in the ‘V’ of her crossed arms, catching it at the wrist. It took every ounce of Novak’s strength to hold Petrova there, but she succeeded in stopping the thrust, and the knife came to a sudden halt just millimetres away from the shiny fabric that covered Novak’s stomach.

Alix had anticipated the cross-block, and allowed for its obvious shortcoming: both Novak’s arms were now occupied. She couldn’t afford to let either of them even relax, still less move, or Alix would be able to complete her thrust and stab the knife deep into Novak’s guts. But Alix still had one hand free.

She swung her left arm round, grabbed hold of a fistful of Novak’s hair and pulled hard.

Novak shrieked as her head was yanked sideways. Her arms gave way a little and Alix let her shoulders swing round, so that the pull of her left hand was matched by the punch of her right as it drove the needle point of the knife right up against Novak’s jacket.

Another fraction of a second and Alix would have completed the thrust and finished the job she’d started back at the Goldsmiths’ Hall.

But then Novak’s scream turned to an exultant yell of delight. Her head snapped back to the vertical and Alix found herself with nothing in her hand but a glossy bunch of extensions that had been pulled from their moorings amidst Novak’s natural hair.

Alix was taken totally by surprise. She was distracted as her mind tried to come to terms with what had happened. Her muscles relaxed. Her guard was down. Novak felt the change in her opponent and in that instant she attacked again.

Novak grabbed Petrova’s knife-hand with both of hers, gripping it as tight as possible and jabbing her nails deep into her skin.

She pushed the trapped hand towards Petrova’s wrist, so that the back of her hand was at right angles to her arm. The pressure and pain of that unnatural angle made Petrova’s arm give way and her elbow retreat.

Novak kept moving, forcing Petrova to bend and turn her body so that suddenly the hand clutching the knife was being forced up behind her back, her shoulder was screaming in agony and it was her turn to cry out in protest.

The fingernails pressing into the flesh of Alix’s hand and wrist were like little daggers stabbing her, and the pain was so intense that she was hardly conscious of her fingers losing their grip on the knife. It clattered to the floor, and as it hit the ground Novak stamped her boot down into the back of Alix’s knee, and then as her body crumpled, hit her with a karate blow to the back of her neck.

Alix didn’t feel a thing as she hit the floor. She was lost in the deep, dark void of unconsciousness.

Novak took a few moments to enjoy the sight of her most bitter enemy lying beaten at her feet. Then she walked across the floor to pick up her gun and put it in her bag.

On her search of the apartment, Novak had noticed that Trent Peck the Third had installed a large brass bed in his room, the kind whose frame is absolutely perfect for tying up or cuffing a sex-partner, just to add a little spice to lovers’ games. Novak picked up Petrova’s unconscious body and began dragging it across the floor, thanking the late Mr Peck as she went for choosing such a nice, slippery surface. She continued down the hall, past Peck and the unconscious Jack Grantham and into the master bedroom. That was covered with soft, thick carpet, which made it considerably harder to shift Petrova. The blonde bitch had obviously become fat and lazy in the contentment of her relationship with Carver, because she seemed to weigh as much as a baby elephant.

Novak was breathing heavily and her back was aching as she finally hefted Petrova on to the bed; the top half of her, at any rate. She was just able to stretch one of Petrova’s arms far enough to secure it to one of the brass rails at the back of the bed frame with another one of the plastic cuffs. Then she shifted a bit more of Petrova’s flabby backside on to the mattress, and that was enough to enable the other arm to be tied nice and tight. From there it was a relatively simple business to heave her legs up on to the bed. Novak was about to tie them too when a thought occurred to her.

She walked back to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until she found a heavy pair of kitchen scissors. Then she returned to the bedroom and used the scissors to cut right up the front of Petrova’s top, from hem to collar, so that it opened up, exposing her torso and bra beneath.

Novak kept cutting. She went across the shoulders and down each sleeve so that Petrova’s shoulders and arms were visible. Then she grabbed the top in both her hands and tugged until the whole thing slid out from under Petrova. Next she cut off her bra. Then she pulled down her trousers and knickers.

Only when Petrova was completely naked did Novak finally tie her ankles to the foot of the bed. She cast an appreciative eye over the helpless body spread out before her. There was one last touch. She needed a means of closing Petrova’s mouth, one that would leave most of her face still accessible, and in a man’s apartment — particularly an American’s — she knew just what that would be.

There was a cupboard in the hall filled with cleaning equipment, tools and general domestic hardware. Novak had opened it just a few minutes earlier while searching for Petrova. She returned there and, sure enough, soon found what she was looking for: a roll of duct tape. She took it into the kitchen, took a pair of cook’s scissors from a drawer and cut a strip about 15cm long. Then she went back to the bedroom and stuck it over Petrova’s limp, unconscious lips. And, as she did, Celina Novak pondered on exactly how she would send sweet, adorable, innocent little Alix Petrova silently screaming to her grave.