Annie, standing right behind Max, felt him stiffen and then push forward. He shoved the bookcase open and sprang into the room beyond, gun raised, looking down the barrel as he scanned the bedroom.
Over Max’s shoulder Annie saw Alberto and his two men surging into the room through the main door. There was the fireworks smell of cordite in the air and a man was lying on the floor near the bed with most of his chest shot away, a gun near him on the carpet, and blood all over the place. Annie looked in horror at the face of the dead man. But it wasn’t Redmond. It was his sidekick, Mitchell.
Then she looked at the old man sitting up in the bed. Constantine was holding a big smoking Magnum in his shaking, age-spotted hand, and his face was twisted in triumph.
‘Fucker came in here and thought he’d get the draw on me?’ he asked the assembled company. ‘No chance. I always keep this right under my pillow.’ He shook the gun in his hand. Looked around at Alberto, the two men with him. Then he turned his head and saw Max.
‘Nico! You old bastard, I’ve been looking for you,’ he said with a happy grin, looking straight at Max. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Alberto moved quickly forward and took the gun from his father’s hand. He looked sharply at Max. ‘So Redmond didn’t come alone. He had company.’
Twisted and clever, that was Redmond. Annie knew it. Cold as ice and sick with it. He’d let his accomplice barge in the front door, let him take the hit. And himself . . . ? Suddenly it was all clear.
She started to turn, but it was too late. Annie felt something cold, metallic, press into the skin of her neck. ‘He’s here . . .’ she managed to get out.
Then from behind her, there came a voice. It whispered in soft southern Irish, very close beside her ear.
‘Yes, Mrs Carter. He certainly is,’ said Redmond.
And then she felt the pressure of the knife harden, nearly cutting off her air, and knew that this time there would be no second chances, no reprieves. She was about to die.