As they grew nearer to the boundary of Regent’s Park, the noise of traffic and the smell of exhaust drifted toward them. They were in the heart of London, a greensward established almost two centuries before and preserved, lovingly, every year since. Would the carefully trimmed grass end up soaked with his blood?

They approached the concrete bunker, and Janson placed a finger on his lips. “Not a sound,” he said. The Beretta remained loosely gripped in his hand.

Now he stooped down, and signaled her to do the same. Atop the low brick structure, the marksman was, he could now see, in prone position, the fore end of his rifle supported by his left hand. No sniper ever let the barrel rest on anything; it distorted the resonance, affecting the shot. He was a picture of complete concentration, peering through the scope, using his left elbow as a pivot as he moved the field of view slightly. His shoulders were level, the rifle butt close to his shoulder pocket. The rifle itself rested in the V of his left thumb and forefinger, its weight resting on the palm. Perfect position.

“Victor!” the woman called out suddenly.

The gunman jerked at the sound, swiveled his rifle around, and squeezed off a shot, wildly. Janson leaped to one side, lifting the woman with him. Then he somersaulted toward the bunker and, with a lightning-fast motion, seized the gun by the barrel and jerked it out of the marksman’s grasp. As the man hurriedly reached for his side arm, Janson swung the scoped rifle like a bat, connecting with the man’s head. He slumped forward, prone as before but now unconscious.

The woman propelled herself with all her coiled force toward Janson’s gun hand. She wanted the Beretta—it would change everything. At the last fraction of a second, Janson dodged her outstretched arms. She seized his wet jacket instead, and hammered her knee toward his groin. As he torqued his pelvis back defensively, she flexed her wrist into a slap block, and sent the Beretta flying through the air.

Both took a few steps back.

The woman assumed the classic military stance: her left arm was out and perpendicular to her body, a barrier to a rush. A blade struck at the arm would hit only skin and glance off bone; the major muscles, arteries, and tendons were on the side facing inward, protected from attack. Her right arm was extended straight down, and held a small knife; it had been boot-holstered, and he had not even seen her draw it. She was good, faster and more agile than he was.

If he lunged forward, her posture made it clear, she would peel his arm with her blade: an effective counter. And straight from the manual.