He tried to sit up, feeling every flicker of pain from his ribcage as a white-hot flame. He made it to his elbows before the effort grew too great. The only comfort he had was that the would-be kidnappers were aiming their Glocks at someone else for a change.

He flopped his head over to see who they were trying to threaten now.

She was a nun, fully robed, white veil framing her broad, serious face. A silver crucifix dangled around her neck, and a rosary and a holster hung at her waist. She had the biggest automatic pistol Petrovitch had ever seen clasped in her righteous right hand.

3

More frightening than the gun she was holding was her attitude of utter invulnerability. She stood like a soldier, right arm braced around the wrist by the left hand, sighting with her dominant eye, stance open and finger tickling the trigger.

She knew with absolute certainty they would never dare shoot a nun.

“Turn around, walk away,” she said. “You’ve lost this time.”

Of course, she could only aim at one of them at a time, and she did so without mercy. The target of her intentions started to crumble.

“We just want the girl,” said the man. “Just the girl.”

“No,” said the nun. The girl in question took a step back behind the nun’s skirts and played with her necklace.

“She can’t get both of us,” said the other man, and took an exploratory step forward.

“I wouldn’t bet my life on it,” said the nun. “More to the point, you shouldn’t bet your life on it. I don’t carry this cannon around for show.”

“If I can interrupt,” said Petrovitch from the floor. He swallowed around the knot of acid pain in his throat. “You don’t have time for this. You see that pendant in your target’s hand? It’s a panic button. I’m guessing she’s had her thumb jammed on it for the last few minutes, and the signal it’s giving off is stationary. Which means the cavalry are going to be no more than, what, thirty seconds away?”

He would have said more, but his vision flashed white again, and he momentarily lost muscle control. The back of his head banged against the floorboards.

He heard, “What the hell’s the matter with him?” and “What are we going to do?”

They weren’t smart. They weren’t even up to the standards of Petrovitch’s old boss. He struggled to his elbows again, blinking at their stupidity. “Really. You’d better go now. Go.”

The surge of electricity through his heart took him down again. For the fourth time. It had never done that before. The sparks in his sight looked like angels against the vaulted roof space.

“Chyort,” he whispered, then he noticed that no one had moved. He gathered what was left of his strength and hissed “Run!”