‘She’s not armed,’ said Clifford out loud in the conference room. There was a brittle, tense atmosphere in the room, each of them riveted by a spectacle that they had helped to create, a spectacle in which they were so invested, thinking, This was what got the old man’s juices flowing, and now they could see why. The game.

‘She’s not armed,’ Clifford repeated indignantly to Monroe, as though it were somehow Monroe’s responsibility. ‘How the hell is she going to pull the switch on him if she’s not armed?’

‘She’s very resourceful,’ said Monroe, almost to himself.

Down in the park, Sergei said to Heidi, ‘OK, you’re clean. I’ll get you out of here.’

He was trying to sound reassuring, even while wondering how he might best capitalise on his hostage. Was it even prudent to take one? Perhaps he should just put a bullet in her now. After all, she might simply be a liability. On the other hand, he could use her as a human shield . . .

All of which thoughts served to distract him from her, so that he missed the fact that her head had moved quickly from left to right to check that there were no other competitors in the vicinity. How she almost imperceptibly tensed.

And then struck. Launching herself from her left foot, climbing almost impossibly high at the same time, she looped her right leg around his neck, bringing her left up to join it, snatching him into a scissor hold, yanking him to the concrete, and then, as he writhed, rotating from the hips to bring pressure to bear on his neck. Pressure that was impossible to withstand.

That killed him.

He made a sound. A death rattle. His gun discharged. And in the final few seconds of life, he had time to marvel at the skill of the woman who had bested him and realise with regret how completely he had been duped.

Chapter 54

CHAPTER 54

From his vantage point, Scolar watched the action unfold. Had it been Trent then he might have needed to step in. He pondered this new development. After all, his understanding of the situation was that combat would be conducted using firearms.

‘Well,’ said Clifford Levine in the conference room, showing an even-more-than-usually-pronounced lack of tact. ‘That went very well.’

In response, Montana Norton glowered. Her fists slammed down onto the tabletop and she stood up, unsure where to direct her anger. Towards her boyfriend – soon to be very ex-boyfriend – for having fixed her up with the games’ worst competitor? Towards her ex-husband for being the one who had inflicted the loss? With her mother, just for being her mother?

All that she could hope for now was that either Ross or Clifford went on to win. Otherwise . . . if her mother won? It absolutely did not bear thinking about.