Cartiere padded silently down the steps, fanning the barrel of the Mini-Uzi before him. Stratton walked half a step behind, brandishing his automatic. Zoe brought up the rear.

Molotov pressed himself into the recess of a door to one of the hotel’s rooms. Across the hall, the driver likewise tried to force himself out of sight in the narrow recess. Both had their Czech-made machine pistols at the ready, safeties off.

“Hear them?” Molotov whispered.

“How do you know it’s them?” the driver whispered back.

“Instinct,” Molotov said. “Why else are they whispering? Why haven’t they come down the stairs yet? They’ve been there an awfully long time. They’re being cautious. They heard our footsteps. It has to be.”

Cartiere spotted the two men in the corridor just as his feet had begun to leave the last step of the stairs leading onto the second floor. He was a surprisingly fast man for someone of his size, and would have survived had he not hesitated in midstride to hold back Stratton and Zoe with his arm.

“Get back!” Cartiere yelled, as he brought the MiniUzi’s muzzle to bear on the man standing on the right side of the hallway. He saw the man raise his own weapon, then, out of the corner of his eye, saw another gun in another recessed doorway. Fire and duck; fire and duck; he heard his old drill sergeant screaming at them.

Cartiere squeezed the trigger on the Mini-Uzi, firing a burst that caught the man full across the face and hammered his head against the door. From his position a few feet away, Molotov felt the warm wet splatter of blood against the side of his face as he stepped into the hallway and trained his Czech machine pistol on the large man’s torso. Cartiere stiffened as the slugs slapped into his beefy chest and stomach. But Molotov’s look of grim satisfaction faded as the large man continued to turn toward him, seemingly unaffected by the gaping wound that turned his shirt bright red.

“Die, damn you,” Molotov muttered as his clip ran out. The large man faltered; the muzzle of his gun wavered. But still he stood, and shook his head violently, like a bull waiting for the matador to finish off what the picadors had started.

In horror, Molotov watched the muzzle of the man’s gun steady on a line of sight that included Molotov’s chest. The KGB colonel-cum-Mafia mobster dropped the Czech machine pistol and leaped to one side just as slugs filled the air where he had been standing. Molotov whipped out his automatic and squeezed off three quick rounds at the huge man’s head.

Oh my God! Oh my God! Rich’s been shot! Zoe stood rooted in horror, her hand closed tight around the banister. She watched as Stratton moved forward against the wall, trying to reach Cartiere. She watched Cartiere quiver under the impact of the slugs, waver for a moment, then aim his gun and fire.

The next instant she saw two bullets take out the left side of Cartiere’s face, leaving a third to rip away the left side of his neck and lay bare the flesh and arteries underneath. Bright red blood fountained from his neck and painted a brilliant crimson rooster tail on the wall as he toppled onto the floor. Shrill, discordant brass and strings filled Zoe’s head as she stifled a scream.