Grigor also heard the gaining growl of the engine, but he hadn’t expected it. There was a skipped second before he reacted. Musil had taken advantage of it and planted his feet and brought his chin down against Grigor’s arm.

The bend of Musil’s neck left just enough space between the arm and his windpipe to allow for a single breath. The sudden downward motion of his head caused the bore of the silencer to slip out of his ear. He made the most of the opening and brought both hands up, bending his elbows like he was grabbing a pull-up bar. Then he locked one hand around Grigor’s arm and the other around his wrist and turned slightly into him, his hip against his body, sidestepping to give himself a little more space.

The move joggled Grigor’s balance. His arm was still hooked around Musil’s throat, but his choke hold loosened another hair. Musil had breathed and driven his right fist hard into his groin. As Grigor sank down an inch or so, he followed through with the same arm, jabbing its elbow up into the hollow of his ribs.

Grigor had stumbled back a half step, already recovering, raising the Glock in his fist, aiming past Musil at Raysa and Jani.

Three seconds.

Then the sunroom window exploded inward.

Carmody launched over the shrubbery with the bike almost vertical, the spin of its rear wheel shaving buds off the topmost branches in a flying flutter of green. He crashed through the window, sailing into the house airborne. Shards of glass spilled down from the upper sash in a noisy jangle. Spears of wood blew out around him as the muntins cracked and snapped and mixed with the cascade of shattered window glass.

An instant later Carmody came down in the middle of the sunroom, still up on his back tire, hitting the floor with a jolt. Musil and Grigor were to his left, the two captive girls in the lawn chairs to his right. Leaning deep in their direction, Carmody let go of the handlebars and launched sideways off his saddle just as the bike’s front wheel came down to the floor.

The Motorrad bounced, leaned, overbalanced and pancaked. Carmody pulled in his arms and tucked his knees up to his chest as he hit the floor, rolling toward the girls on his back and shoulders, almost bowling into their chairs. Flat on its side, spinning end over end, the Motorrad skidded toward the wall like a hockey puck, plowing into it, smashing partway through into the next room.