Catherine sucked in a deep breath and peeked through the peephole in the front door. Two Russians from the New Jersey farm stood facing the door.

She drew back. She was shaking again and she knew she was about to erupt into tears. She had to fight it; stay strong. Otherwise, they would find her huddled there in the hallway sobbing when they broke through the door.

She examined the door. It was a typical New York apartment. Three sliding locks and a dead bolt. It would take even those two burly men a minute to break through.

Catherine swallowed hard, turned, and ran back into the living room. No place to hide here. There was just the floor-to-ceiling picture window framing the East River and Queens beyond. Cowering behind the curtains wouldn’t be such a good idea.

There didn’t seem to be anything to use for a weapon, either. No fireplace poker or baseball bat. Nothing.

Something heavy slammed dully against the front door. The latches held, but they would not be able to keep the Russians out for long. They didn’t seem too concerned about making noise or a mess.

Goldman was near panic as she looked around wildly for anything with which to defend herself. She needed a weapon, something to enable her to hold the Russian thugs off long enough for the FBI agents to get up to the thirty-ninth floor.

Another hard crash against the door. The molding around the door frame began to splinter.

Catherine remembered something. The cutlery drawer in the kitchen. Might be something in there. She ran into the little kitchen alcove and threw open the drawer by the stove. Nothing in there but some plastic forks and carry-out condiment packages. She yanked open another drawer. Empty. She found a few knives in the third drawer. The paring knife was dull, but it was the longest blade in the drawer. It would have to do.

There was a third desperate, forceful crash at the door. The frame was on the verge of giving way. She didn’t have much time. God, the FBI should have been up here by now. She didn’t remember the elevator being so slow when she had ridden up.

Catherine looked around her again. She couldn’t stand and wait for them there, in the middle of the kitchen, with no hope of escape. Even with the knife, she couldn’t hope to hold off two ruthless, experienced brutes like these guys. They would be armed, too. She ran across the living room and into the bedroom at the far end of the apartment. The front door crashed open an instant after she shoved the bedroom door closed behind her. She stopped to engage the flimsy door lock.