Stride charged, just as Blake curled his hand around the butt of the pistol.
With a flash of light and a deafening noise, Blake fired. Stride felt a searing pain streak across his leg, and he half dove, half collapsed across Blake. He heard a snap and realized it was Blake’s wrist breaking as Stride’s shoulder fell across his arm. Blake choked back a cry of pain, and the gun dropped from his hand. Stride twisted around, lunging for the gun, but Blake bucked like a bronco and threw Stride off his back. Blake picked up the gun again; he could barely hold it now. Stride rolled away and then stood up. Blake was still prone on the ground, trying to raise the gun, and Stride kicked his broken wrist hard with the side of his foot, causing a new bellow of pain from Blake and sending the gun spinning toward the pool.
Stride reached down and yanked Blake to his feet. The killer’s body was like rubber, and his face looked bruised and dazed. Stride recoiled to send a fist across Blake’s jaw, then realized he had been suckered as Blake brought a knee viciously up into Stride’s groin. As hot pain raced through his body, Stride staggered back and saw Blake’s left forearm slicing backhand toward his head. He tried to dodge the blow, but it connected hard on his cheek and sent him reeling, stumbling to his knees.
Serena saw Stride’s gun lying on the ground a few feet from the roof wall, near the twisted remnants of the ladder. As Blake spun around, he followed her eyes, and he saw it, too. They both ran. Serena didn’t have her wind back completely, and she realized that Blake was faster, that he would get there first. She turned and dove for him, trying to take him down. Blake saw her coming and swerved, then leaped to clear her body. His foot became tangled in her legs. Blake pulled free, but he lost his balance, stumbled, and fell.
She saw that Jonny was on his feet again. He was running for the gun, too.
Then Serena felt a powerful arm snake around her neck and yank her up to her knees, sealing off her windpipe in a crushing grip. She fought and couldn’t breathe. Blake had her locked in a stranglehold.
“Stride!” Blake shouted.
She saw Jonny freeze. It felt as if her eyes were bulging out of her head.
“I’ll kill her.”
She wanted to tell him to go for the gun. Fuck Blake. Put an end to this. But she couldn’t make a sound; all she could do was watch the world start to spin and darken. Her limbs felt as powerless as a marionette’s. She wondered if it had been like this for Amira, dying here.
She heard Blake’s labored breathing. His arm didn’t let loose. He was killing her, choking her second by second. The blood began roaring in her brain, and her nerve ends exploded like firecrackers, causing a headache that made her skull feel as if it would burst open.
Her eyes met Jonny’s. He floated in her vision and did somersaults. Go for the gun, Jonny.
Stride took a step toward the gun.
“I’ll kill her,” Blake repeated.
Serena felt his other arm slide over the top of her head and grab her hair. He was going to twist her neck and snap her spine. Then through the blackness that was falling down on her, Serena realized that Blake could barely hold her head with his other hand. Snap. His wrist was broken. Fragile. Vulnerable.
She hoped she could stretch her bound arms over her head. She told her limbs what to do, and somewhere between the confused impulses shooting from her brain, her arms obeyed. She reached up to the top of her head with her bound hands and took hold of Blake’s wrist and clamped down on the bone as hard as she could.
Blake screamed. Serena jerked on his wrist. For just an instant, Blake’s other arm came loose, and Serena wriggled free, gasping for air, feeling blood rush back to her head. She stumbled, unable to keep her balance.
Five feet away, Jonny ran for the gun. So did Blake.
Blake was closer to the gun, but Stride was on him before he could reach for it. He threw Blake against the parapet so hard the killer slammed into it and bounced off. Stride was waiting and threw a sledgehammer punch directly into Blake’s face that snapped his head back. Blood sprayed from his mouth. The killer staggered back into the wall, and Stride followed, hitting him again.
Stride felt a stinging, bone-deep pain in his hand. He realized he had probably broken a couple of fingers.
Blake crumpled to his knees, and his head slumped forward. He teetered and then collapsed on the ground, not moving. Stride took a deep breath and reached around behind his back to snag his handcuffs.
He looked down. Something was wrong.
Behind him, Serena saw it, too, and shouted, “Where’s the gun?”
Stride realized he didn’t see his gun anymore. Blake had deliberately pivoted his body to fall on top of it. Stride saw Blake’s arm moving and saw the man pushing himself off the ground, the gun in his other hand.
Blake aimed the gun, not at Stride, not at Serena, but at himself.
He pressed it to the side of his head. He could barely keep it steady.
“Drop it, Blake,” Stride told him.
Blake dragged himself to his feet. He staggered back to the wall. Stride and Serena edged closer from two sides.
“Give us the gun,” Serena said.
Blake gave them a bloody smile. He put his bad hand around one of the onion domes atop the parapet and braced himself, grimacing in pain, as he pulled a leg up onto the wall. The gun wobbled in his grip. He pulled his other leg up, too, and stood, precariously balanced on the slim stone edge of the wall. Blake swayed, the wind toying with him.
He took the gun away from his head and casually tossed it off the top of the building.
Stride took a step forward, but Blake held up his hand, stopping him. Blake shook his head. He took a long look at the ground below.
“Amira,” he said.
Blake leaned into the wind. He spread his arms wide.
“Don’t do it, brother.”
The sharp voice from the terrace stopped him in the moment before he let go. Blake looked around and steathed himself on the wall. So did Stride and Serena. Stride couldn’t believe what he saw.
It was Claire.
She was standing by the pool, with Serena’s gun in her outstretched hands. She was pointing it at Boni’s head.
FIFTY
Claire, what the hell are you doing?” Serena demanded.
Claire didn’t look back. She stared down the sights of the gun at her father and walked toward him step by step, slowly, until the gun was an inch from his eyes. Serena saw Claire’s whole body trembling. There was hatred in her face and a world of hurt gushing out like oil from a well.
Boni didn’t even seem to notice the gun. His blue eyes and her blue eyes were locked in a duel. Claire was crying, and she struggled to keep the gun level.
“Now you know what it felt like for me,” she said. “Powerless.”
“What do you want, Claire?”
“Tell Blake the truth,” she said. “You owe him that.”
“I don’t owe him anything,” Boni snapped.
Claire shook her head. “You murdered Amira, didn’t you? Because she had the fucking gall to try to get out from under your thumb. Because she didn’t want to be owned and controlled anymore.”
“I loved Amira,” Boni told her.
“Everything you love gets hurt,” Claire retorted.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“It was forty years ago,” she insisted. “No one can touch you now.”
“You may as well kill me, Claire, if that’s what you want. I’m not going to say anything about Amira.”
“Is that what you want? You want me to pull the trigger?”
‘For God’s sake, stop this,” Serena pleaded with her. She started to move toward them, and Boni held up one hand to stop her.
“It’s all right, Detective,” Boni said. He focused on Claire. “Kill me if you want, sweetheart. I just wish you wouldn’t throw away your own life to do it.”