Carmody came up out of the roll in a crouch, facing the wreckage of the thin partition wall. As he reached under his jacket for his Sig, he had a split second to notice the gaping hole left by the motorcycle’s impact. The bike’s front fork was on the other side of the wall under a heap of gritty debris. The rear tire was sticking out into the sunroom, still spinning slowly amid chunks of timber and plasterboard.

A split second. Then the Sig was out of its holster, Carmody swiveling ninety degrees on his knees toward Musil and Grigor.

They were tussling about ten feet away. Musil had his back to Carmody, his long hair flying wildly around his head. Free of Grigor’s chokehold, he had locked his hands around his gun arm, grabbing it above the wrist, trying to pin his body so he couldn’t move it, trying to tear the Glock free of his hand. Taller than Musil by a head, Grigor was turned toward Carmody and the girls.

Then his eyes landed on Carmody’s weapon. He reacted instantly, levering his arm upward even as Musil continued to grip it with both hands, aiming the gun over Musil’s shoulder at Carmody.

No. Not at him. He saw Grigor’s level stare and knew.

The girls.

He snapped the Sig up in his hand, aiming at Grigor’s face.

Carmody was quick. Air Force doctors had scored his fast-twitch reflexes at plus-seventy above normal. Olympic athletes doped to reach plus-thirty. Statistics about the upper ranges only went to plus-fifty. One in a hundred million people scored that high. His plus-seventy was off the charts.

Grigor might have been quicker. He read the trajectory of Carmody’s gun coming up in his hand and once again moved like lightning. With his free hand, he grabbed Musil’s shirt and shoved him hard toward Carmody. Musil stumbled backward over drifts of wood and glass, his body directly in front of Carmody. He held his fire.

Grigor used the advantage. His eyes on Carmody now, he triggered the Glock twice before he turned toward the door to the living room.

The first bullet missed. The second round tore through Carmody’s jacket into his left triceps. His arm hot, he saw that Musil had flailed out of the way, and fired back. But Grigor was already through the door. The shot hit the wall that had been behind him a moment ago.

Musil scrambled over to Carmody.

“You’re hit,” he said.

Carmody boosted himself to his feet. “Go to your kids.”

“You can’t follow him. You’re hit.”

Carmody waved him toward the girls with his free hand.

“Go!” he shouted, and turned toward the ragged hole the Motorrad had plowed into the wall, lunging around the bike and through the opening in pursuit.