“There’s been no circulation in her legs,” he said. “Step away from the chair—two steps to your right—so I can help her up.”

The Killer stepped back.

Still covering him with the gun, Ricci moved toward the chair, slipped an arm around Julia, and eased her to a standing position, not letting her stumble, holding her erect with his own strength, gradually feeling her legs take over. Above the gag, her face remained composed.

“You can make it on your own now,” Ricci said to her. Then he tilted his head back toward the door, raised his voice. “Glenn . . . you hear me?”

From outside the door: “Yeah. Hearing you fine. Sounds like they’ve got things under control downstairs.”

“Good,” Ricci said. “I’m sending Julia out. Stay away, don’t come near the door. Don’t let anybody else get close to it, either. No matter what, got me?”

“Ricci—”

“Got me?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” Glenn said, then. “Yeah, man. I do.”

Ricci backed toward the door, his gun on the Killer, his free hand on Julia, steadying her, guiding her along with him. He reached behind him again, opened the door just wide enough for her to pass through and nodded for her to leave.

She hesitated, looking at him.

“Go,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

Julia held her gaze on him for another moment. Then she nodded and went through the opening.

Ricci slammed the door shut behind her.

“We’re almost ready,” he said. His weapon pointed at the Killer. “Better slide that chair across to me.”

It was pushed forward. Ricci swept it around his body and leaned it against the door, wedging its back under the doorknob. Then he set his gun down on a small table he’d seen out the corner of his left eye.

Outside the door, he could hear Thibodeau’s voice shouting up from downstairs, then Glenn answering him, telling him Ricci had gotten Julia out, that she was free of any threat. There were some more words exchanged between them, followed by the tread of heavy ascending footsteps.

Ricci saw something like a smile on the Killer’s face as he dropped his knife to the floor, and then pushed it aside with his foot.

“Now,” the Killer said, “we take our chances.”

Ricci nodded.

“Now,” he said.

Kuhl and Ricci advanced on each other, sidling for position as they moved into the center of the room.

His fists clenched, his sinewy arms raised to protect his head, Ricci bounced a little on his knees to loosen them up. His opponent had a good three inches on him, a longer reach. Probably twenty or thirty more pounds of muscle slabbed over his broad frame. He would have to get in close and tight, rely on speed to overcome those advantages.

Kuhl shifted now, feinted toward him. Ricci didn’t buy it. His hands still blocking, he wove around him, found an opening under the massive arms, came in low with a right uppercut meant for the chin.