The elevator stopped. No light from the shaft reflected off the walls. Merrill got down low. He was thinking he could have left open the telephone connection to Scott Waller. Scott’s talking would have distracted Chino long enough to give Merrill a momentary advantage. Did Chino have night vision glasses? He wasn’t trying to be quiet. Was he trying to tell Merrill of all people that he was not afraid? Did he expect to be believed?

“Merrill!” Chino was still in the corridor outside the elevator. “Talk to me, Commander! Do you think I’m going to tolerate any more games?”

A long burst of automatic-weapons fire lit up the room.

Amy was fighting for her life. As soon as Chino had said goodbye, Gregory pushed the cigarette lighter in again. His eyes had a different look in the gloom of the car’s interior, like a nasty child who saw a chance to get away with something. He was stone mad.

Amy pressed herself against the door and twisted around to be able to kick him. Gregory laughed, as if to dare her to try something. She waited until the lighter popped out again before making a move, and then, in that same instant, as his eyes flicked almost involuntarily toward the lighter, she kicked hard with both feet at the hand reaching for it.

She mashed his hand against the gear selector. He yelled and slammed his foot on the brake as Amy pulled her right leg back and kicked out a second time, bending one of Gregory’s fingers back as the braking action turned her over and swept her down toward the floor. The brakes were squealing and the tires skidding and the car slewing around counterclockwise as she aimed another kick at him. She could see by the fear in his eyes that the car was out of control. Her back was on the floor as she brought her foot up at his face. The nightgown fell up around her hips and instinctively she wriggled to cover herself as the car bounced onto a curb and her blackened silk shoe dug into Gregory’s throat. He felt almost weightless as the car slammed into a wall. Her arms were wrenched around against the armrest as she burned her back skidding on the floor. Gregory flew upward toward the windshield and crashed into it and then flopped back into the seat, out cold.

The car’s fan ground noisily against the car’s radiator. Gregory’s eyes were closed, blood dripping steadily from his nose. Amy was struck — even if she were free of the handcuffs, she would have trouble pulling herself out of the footwell without help. And Gregory would be getting an eyeful of a kind, if he were conscious. The blood splashed on her thigh. She looked up again.

One eye was open. Gregory smiled.