A nagging instinct told her that all hell was about to break loose. She looked back and saw Cerny give her another wave.

To enter she punched a numeric code on one of those keypads that all Paris apartments now had-the days of the concièrge who lived next to the door and let people in who rang were long gone-and pushed the door open.

Quiet as the grave, she thought as she stepped inside, and if I’m not careful, only once removed from one.

She pushed her way in and the light clicked on. The doors closed behind her. There was coolness to the stairway. She waited a moment and then realized why. Someone had left the window open on the first floor landing, one flight up.

Probably Maurice. But where was Maurice?

She paused for a moment, her senses alert to possible danger. Then she continued to the steps. An open window had allowed some rain to fall inside and the effect was soothing. It had been stuffy earlier in the stairwell.

She started up the steps. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the plaster walls and the wooden stairs. Lord, she was tired. Her brain buzzed with the events of the day.

She arrived on the first floor landing.

The floor was damp from the rain and she made a note to speak to Maurice. She could give him some friendly advice on home maintenance.

Well, no matter. The building was quiet.

Too quiet?

On the landing one flight up, she pushed the window shut and locked it. There was water on the floor. Someone was going to slip. She had been told that Maurice kept towels and mops in the closets on the landing. She decided to do her good deed for the day. She would drop a towel and quickly glide it over the floor with her foot, lest the next resident slip on this mess.

She stepped to the closet.

The door was stuck.

Her gaze gravitated downward. She caught the faint outline of crimson that was flowing from under the closet door.

She yanked the door open. Maurice, or what remained of him, slumped forward from a crouched lying position to a sprawling one. Her eyes riveted on the hole in his head just between the eyes. Then, she quickly took in the two bullet wounds to the chest. The gunshot wounds to the body were probably the first ones, followed by the head wound, which was the coup de grâce.

The bullet had passed through his skull and exited from the rear and into the wall, bringing some inevitable blood, fragments of bone, and brain splatter with it. His face was smashed in from the force of the bullet, which was probably point blank. From the size of the hole, it was clear that the bullet had been high powered.

Suddenly, the lights went off. Her first impression was that she had taken too long to climb the stairs and that the lights, as they did in European hallways, had turned off automatically. But then she realized someone had manually cut the power.

Meaning, someone was waiting for her. She had walked into a trap. Her left hand went fast for her gun, snapping the safety catch to “fire.”

In the darkness, the door to her own apartment opened one flight above. She heard the heavy footsteps of a man rush outward. Simultaneously, the blue doors down below opened and she heard someone else rush in.

Cerny? Rizzo?

She was in the middle, trapped in the darkness. Was the intruder below her savior or assassin? From above there was a flash and a brutally loud retort. A bullet crashed into the woodwork of the steps a few feet from her. Then there was a second shot at her and then a third.

Her hand whipped upward as she ducked away from where she had stood. She went into a low crouch, pointed her weapon upwards, and pulled the trigger. Either God guided her hand or just plain dumb luck prevailed.

Or maybe it was her years of training, because the agonized profane scream from the top of the stairs, followed by a torrent of obscenity in Russian-not Ukrainian but Russian!-told her that she had hit her target.

Alex heard the man’s body slump toward the wall. Then in the darkness she saw the erratic wavering flash of his pistol and heard the ear-splitting “bang” as he fired twice rapidly again and still tried to kill her.

The bullets shattered against the wall above her. One hit several feet above her head. The other passed so close to her right ear that she felt it go by. The impact sprayed powdered wood and concrete from the wall.

She steadied her own weapon. She could see a silhouette in the darkness and fired twice at the midpoint of it. She hit the target, heard the impact of the bullets and then heard the tumbling crashing sound of the man’s body on the stairs. All this rose above the sound of other heavy footsteps rushing upward from below.

She shifted her position, standing now. She leaned flat, her back to the wall.

“Rizzo? Cerny?” she asked.

Mistake. The response was the repetitive flash and loud bang of an automatic weapon and more shots impacting against the wall behind her.

She lowered her own weapon, fired toward her second assailant, and scored another hit. She heard a howl of pain and the clunk of his weapon hitting the floor, followed by the heavier thud of his body, followed by groans and cursing.

She heard the weapon rattle across the wooden floor and drop down two or three steps. She moved toward her only possible escape. She raced down the stairs and tried to step past the fallen body. The man who had tried to kill her cursed profanely and grabbed at her. Clearly she had not hit him in a vital spot.

He slashed at her body. With a powerful arm, he brought her down.

She fell hard to a knee. He cursed her in Russian. He had one strong hand on the shoulder of her jacket. His other hand, wet with blood, pushed at her throat. She threw an elbow at him and made contact. But he still fought, cursing in Russian that he would kill her. She could tell that the other hand was grasping for his gun.

She swung downward again with an elbow and smashed at him with the hand that held her gun. Both blows landed hard, catching him on the side of the face, then on the side of the skull. She felt his grip on her weaken. She swung hard again with the hand that held her weapon. It cracked across his forehead.

His grip on her shoulder weakened. She followed with the same elbow crashing downward, pile-driver style, onto the top of his skull.

She fought and pulled away. She struggled to her feet. In the dim light from the outside, she then saw him access his gun. Alex had no choice. She pushed her Glock to the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The bang was enormous, and she could feel the spray of blood as his body tumbled away and sprawled backward.

She felt sickened but kept moving.

She found her way to the door, swung it open, and found the street blocked by another huge man. For an inexplicable second they glared each other in the eye.

“Kaspar,” she said, recognizing him from Kiev.

“Alex LaDuca,” he said calmly.

Once again, Alex was faster. She brought her knee up and caught him hard between the legs. He bellowed and reached for his weapon. She hit him again, chopped at his hand to freeze it. She knew he had a huge advantage in physical force. If she gave him the slightest chance to overpower her, she was dead. In turn, she knew she had the advantage of speed and surprise: he hadn’t expected her to survive the trap inside the building. She kicked him in the shins, then the kneecap. Somehow she thought of Robert and the carnage in Kiev as she was fighting.

Where was Rizzo? Where was Cerny?

Kaspar staggered. He slumped slightly.

She smashed him across the back of the neck, and with all the strength that remained in her, she shoved at him. He staggered backward into a car but rebounded like a tiger. He kicked at her and got lucky, catching her in the wrist, sending her Glock flying from her hand. Her wrist was hit so hard that it felt frozen. Her fingers wouldn’t move. Kaspar lunged at her gun. She chopped him hard behind the neck then followed with a kick to the ribs. Momentarily he blocked her access to her own gun.