“Jonathan…my God!” Simone uttered the words weakly, retreating a step.

The blond man bent over Jonathan and picked up Emma’s calfskin bag and the brown-paper-wrapped package. “Los,” he said to his partner, with a tilt of the head.

If they had left then, Jonathan would have done nothing. His face throbbed terribly. His vision was blurred; his mouth brassy with the taste of blood. He’d had his share of brawls and dustups. He knew when to push back and when not to.

But then the crewcut man shoved Simone to the ground. She cried out. And something in that cry summoned all the terrors of the past twenty-four hours-the onset of the storm, Emma’s fall, the discovery of her body in the crevasse-making them barbed and raw, and somehow more painful than ever.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet running toward the blond-haired man. Only one thing mattered: he’d stolen Emma’s belongings and Jonathan wanted them back.

With a cry, he hurled himself onto the thief’s back. Throwing an arm around his neck, he grabbed him in a headlock and tried to bring him down to the ground. Immediately, an elbow pounded Jonathan’s ribs. A roundhouse to the jaw followed a second later. Jonathan collapsed to the ground, winded and shaken.

The blond man tossed the black bag into the car. He regarded Jonathan with a victor’s disdain and let go a low sweeping kick aimed for the face.

But this time Jonathan saw it coming. Deflecting the boot with one hand, he grasped the man’s foot and wrenched it violently, snapping the ankle and toppling his assailant. The man had hardly hit the ground before Jonathan was on him, pounding him about the eyes and nose with a blunt fist. Cartilage gave way. Blood squirted from his nostrils.

By now, the other thug was halfway round the hood of the car. He was half a foot shorter, with sloping shoulders and a lineman’s grotesque neck. He came at Jonathan like a bull across the ring. Dragging himself to his feet, Jonathan raised his hands in a boxer’s stance.

The attacker neared and Jonathan threw a jab, then another. The assailant knocked both aside easily. Taking hold of Jonathan’s parka, he flung him onto the hood of the sedan, pinning an arm with one hand and seizing his throat with the other. Fingers dug into Jonathan’s neck, collapsing his larynx.

With his free hand, Jonathan struck the man repeatedly, but the blows landed weakly and with little effect. Wrapping his fingers around the automobile antenna, he struggled to pull himself clear of the assailant. The antenna snapped, and he held it limply in his hand.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed overhead. Simone raised her hand high in the air and beat the man with a chunk of cobblestone. “Stop!” she cried. “Let him go!”

The attacker loosed a hand and clubbed Simone across the face. She tumbled to the ground, her head striking the pavement with a resonant thud. A second later, the hand was back at Jonathan’s throat, the grip stronger than ever.

Jonathan’s field of vision shrunk to the face glowering inches from his own. The odor of beer, onions, and cigarettes assaulted his nostrils. The attacker slid him down the hood and brought his other hand to Jonathan’s neck, fingers taking hold like steel claws. The pressure increased and Jonathan felt his esophagus giving way.

It came to him that it was no longer just a question of escaping, but of surviving. He would have to kill the man on top of him. His consciousness ebbed and he thought of Emma. He saw her broken form lying in the ice. Alone. Abandoned. He knew that it was his fault and that he couldn’t leave her there. Someone had to bring her down from the mountain.

The thought galvanized him.

His fingers tightened around the antenna. He searched the man’s face-eyes, nose, mouth-looking for the proper spot. Summoning the last of his strength, he sat up. In the same motion, he brought the antenna to the attacker’s head in a vicious, stabbing arc.

Instantly, the hands weakened.

Jonathan rammed the antenna home.

The attacker staggered from the car, sunglasses dangling from one ear. Turning in a circle, he frantically gulped down air. One half of the antenna protruded from the man’s ear. Repeatedly, he tried to grasp the rod, but his fingers went wide every time.

Dazed, Jonathan slid off the hood of the car, his eyes never straying from his assailant. A clinical voice informed him that after piercing the eardrum, the antenna had entered the cerebellum, where it had scrambled the motor reflexes, the autonomic nervous system, and God only knew what else.

The attacker sank down to his knees. His chin fell to his chest. Eyes open, he went as still as a toy whose batteries had run out.

Simone pushed herself to her feet. The side of her face was red and swollen. “Is he dead?”

Jonathan placed his fingers on the assailant’s neck. He nodded. He stood, kicked loose a chunk of ice, and pressed it to her cheek.

“Who is he?” Simone asked.

“No idea. I’ve never seen either of them before in my life.”

The attacker’s jacket had fallen open. A silver badge was visible on his belt, and next to it, a pistol. Jonathan knelt to examine the badge. Engraved across the top were the words “Graubünden Kantonspolizei.” His stomach dropped. He slipped his hand into the man’s jacket and came up with an ID case. Sergeant Oskar Studer. The photograph matched.

“A cop.” Jonathan tossed the ID to Simone.

“Go,” she whispered. “Get out of here.”

“I can’t leave. I have to tell the police what happened.”

“They are the police.”

Jonathan had trouble accepting the notion. “What were they doing? They didn’t even say anything.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Simone. “I grew up in a country where you couldn’t trust the police. They took my father. They took my uncle. Never an explanation. I know what the authorities are capable of.”

“Be serious. This isn’t Egypt.”

Simone looked at him as if he were a jackass. “And so? Is that badge fake?”

“I don’t know…I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s not right. I can’t run away. The guy’s dead. I killed him. I just can’t do-”

“You! Amerikaner. Stay where you are.” Ten feet away, the heavyset blond man rose on all fours. If his carriage was unsteady, the voice was anything but. One hand held a pistol and he was pointing it in their direction.

Amerikaner, thought Jonathan, incredulously. He’d never seen this man before. How could he possibly know anything about him?

The blond man leveled his gun and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Gazing confusedly at the pistol, he struggled to free the safety.

Jonathan looked from Simone to the corpse in the road to the bloodied man fighting to his feet and pointing a pistol at him. “Get in the car!” he shouted. “Move! Now!”

The driver’s door was open. He flung himself into the car and started the engine. Simone landed in the passenger’s seat and slammed the door, her eyes wild.

A millisecond later, the rear window exploded, pelting their backs and necks with glass.

Simone screamed.

Jonathan threw the car into reverse and rammed his foot on the accelerator. The automobile struck the gunman and there was a solid thwack as he hit the pavement.

Jonathan braked, and shoved the gearshift into first. He let out the clutch too quickly and the car lurched before accelerating down the street.

In a minute, they were out of town doing a hundred eighty kilometers along the highway.