Goldman screamed and lunged at the big Russian, burying the knife up to its hilt in the fleshy part of his outstretched forearm. He dropped the Glock to the concrete and twisted away, pulling the knife from Goldman’s grasp. Blood was already spurting from the wound as he stood there and looked at the knife in wonder. Then over at the shivering woman, as if he could not imagine anyone like her daring to try to defend herself against him.

Bogatinoff cocked his head sideways, but it was not the pain of the knife buried in his arm that had distracted him. It was the sound of running feet and muted shouting coming from the front doorway of the apartment. Bogatinoff looked back at her again, his eyes burning.

He reached and grabbed her by the throat with his good arm, lifting her feet off the floor of the tiny patio. Even using one hand, his viselike grip cut off her breath. Goldman’s vision started to dim, the blackness spreading in from the edges of her sight as she struggled to breathe, to pull away his fingers from her neck.

She knew it was too late. He could flip her over the edge of the patio wall. He would have silenced her, saved whatever their plot was, avenged the death of his partner. Even as she felt the blackness claim her senses, Catherine Goldman knew it was too late.

Somewhere behind her she faintly heard what sounded like someone screaming “FBI!” but she couldn’t be sure. The blood roaring through her ears drowned out the sound, so she couldn’t tell how close they might be.

She was desperate now, searching for the strength to pry the Russian’s hands from around her throat. She thought she heard a couple of pops. The darkness in her head was spreading, taking over her field of vision. She expected to feel herself falling, plummeting down toward the street.

Goldman felt the Russian loosen his grip, felt herself being dropped. It was a blessedly short fall. The concrete floor of the balcony reached up and slammed into her face. At least the fingers around her throat were gone. At least she wasn’t tumbling over and over into free space.

She raised her head, shaking it to clear the fog, and looked up just in time to see the big Russian spin around as if some big hand had slapped him hard.

He disappeared over the railing.

She struggled for breath, tried to pull herself to her feet as she fought back against the blackness.

Goldman felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, ready to defend herself with her fingernails and feet if she had to.

“You all right, Miss Goldman?” someone asked. It was a strong voice, yet soft and reassuring.

Catherine struggled to answer. Her throat felt as if it was swollen shut. She forced out a guttural sound that sounded something close to “Yes.”