She pulled roughly on Felicia’s left shoulder to pivot her to the right. When she was facing the door, her arms stretched painfully beyond their limits, she first felt the closeness of her captor’s shoulders, and then the coldness of the clippers against her flesh as the tiny jaws slipped between the flesh of her wrists.

Snip.

She was completely free and she knew without doubt that she was seconds away from death. The instant her hands belonged to her again, Felicia knew it was time to act; just as she knew that her window to do so could be measured in seconds, not minutes.

Her first kick caught Gun Bitch in the stomach, triggering a cry that was equal parts pain and surprise. But the punch that landed squarely on her captor’s nose launched a shriek that was all pain and a fountain that was all blood.

The car slowed instantly, as if the driver himself had been the recipient of Felicia’s attack. That instant of inattention opened another window of opportunity. She lunged for the door handle and pulled, introducing a hurricane of wind and road noise.

Clearly still blinded by the blow to her nose, Gun Bitch swiveled her weapon in the direction of the noise and issued a command in a language that Felicia did not understand, yet whose meaning was universal: “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Felicia punched the woman’s wrist, connecting squarely with the tendons on the soft underside and sending the pistol spiraling into the lap of her co-captive, who grunted reflexively on impact.

The vehicle slowed even more as the driver pivoted to see what was going on, but when Gun Bitch barked another order, he whipped back around to face front and acceleration forces kicked in again.

Felicia dove for the racing pavement.

Middleton knew that the urgency in Tesla’s tone had been driven by the presence of a corpse in the middle of his flat. His wrecked flat.

The body was a concern, of course, but Middleton had seen way too many of them over the years to get overly spun-up about one more. With a dead body, you got analytical. You could take your time. Someone dead today would still be dead a week from now, so the urgency was gone. The spattered blood and brains were literally and figuratively custodial matters—troubling annoyances to be cleaned up later with a little time, patience and detergent.

Far more troubling to him was the shattered violin on the floor. Resting as it was, scattered among the flotsam of overturned furniture and broken trinkets, Middleton knew in an instant why the concert had been postponed. It wasn’t a missing pianist or a technical problem. It was the missing star of the show.

“Who took Felicia?” Tesla wondered.

Middleton muttered, “Whoever left a dead man in my foyer.”