Her gun was on the couch. But the killer hit Sawyer before he could regain his feet. The two of them went down in a crash. Ilse glimpsed the knife slash once, twice. Tom let out a strangled scream of pain.
At the same time, as if frozen, she saw the blood pooling down the side of the tub. If she didn't hurry, Rachelle would die. She was bleeding out.
Ilse's instincts flared, her desire to protect overwhelmed, but if she went for her gun, she wouldn't be able to get a clean shot. Sawyer and the killer were now scrambling for the knife.
If she went for Sawyer, Alexandra would die. But if she went for the victim, Sawyer was already being overwhelmed. He'd been surprised by the tripwire. Surprised by the knife.
She felt a jolt of terror but broke into motion. Sometimes, though she liked to survey her options first, she had to act like Sawyer. Sometimes, all the situation demanded was action. And so she hurtled towards the serial killer, striking him from behind.
The strange scent of chemicals was stronger now as she neared the kitchen.
She frowned but couldn't quite place it. The killer screeched, lashing out. His knife was buried in Sawyer's arm. The tall man was growling. But at the same time, his eyes were fluttering where his head struck the ground. For a moment, it looked like he would be fine, but with a howl, the serial killer grabbed the water bowl and brought it crashing down on Sawyer's skull.
Small fragments scattered. Sawyer went limp. He was bleeding now too. For the moment, though, the knife was buried in his shoulder. Which meant the killer was unarmed.
Ilse wrapped her arm around the man's neck, squeezing tight.
She didn't train for nothing. She'd never been a fan of boxing, or other sorts of combat. Jujitsu was designed to help a smaller opponent overcome a larger one. And while she wasn't as trained as Sawyer in the field, she could tell, nearly instantly, that the killer wasn't a practitioner. Still, he was much larger than her, and furious.
As her grip tightened around his neck, he howled, reaching down to try to snap her fingers.
She readjusted, latching her legs around his waist, digging her heels into his crotch, and holding herself fast. He flung himself backwards, slamming her against the floor, his full body weight knocking the air from her lungs.
She held on for dear life, dazed. Sawyer was gurgling, unconscious but bleeding. The bathroom was no longer visible, but Ilse knew the woman was bleeding out.
She cursed, squeezing as tightly as she could.
The killer was reaching for his knife, trying to pull it from Sawyer's shoulder. The scent of chemicals was strong on the air. The small puppy whimpered, its bell tinkling.
Ilse pulled her elbow in, tightening around her wrist, cranking the man's neck, digging her heels. Just like she'd been trained. But the killer had a demonic strength. He raged, ripping at her arms, and flung her bodily against the wall. She still managed to hang on, but he was flailing about now, tossing her like a bull trying to buck a rider.
Her teeth rattled; she was dazed. Her back was bruised. She felt one of her fingers bend beneath his onslaught and had to release the grip. For a moment, they both scrambled, desperately. He tried to rise, but she tried to catch him with her legs instead. Her posture shifted, and instead of a choke, she gripped his head in a triangle. She used her legs now, holding him against the wall where he'd flung her. Everything was a tangle of arms and limbs and blood and screaming.
The killer let out a horrible roar. He had his knife now, but Ilse cursed, ducking as he slammed the blade against the carpet. She had been training hard. She knew her way around the martial art. And somehow now, the combination of real-life training, mixed with technical prowess, was giving her the upper hand. If only briefly. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, and realize the poodle was now biting her. The tinkling bell reverberated in her ear.
As the knife came down again, she adjusted her grip once more. Instead of going for his neck, she went for his arm. She trapped it, in an arm bar, pulling herself flat, and grabbing the wrist that was holding the knife. He missed her again. Now, using the momentum of his arm, she yanked back with her hands on his wrist, stretching her body flat across his chest, holding his arms and bucking her hips to bend his elbow.
It snapped.
The man howled in pain, his arm dangling limply and broken.
The scent of chemicals was strong. The poodle was now biting at her hand, so she shoved the dog away, and the beast snarled.
The killer was trying to rise, whimpering in pain. For a moment, she considered breaking his other arm. She got to her feet first. He tried to push up with his bad hand but collapsed under the weight.
She moved in, quick, refusing to give up the advantage.
She liked to protect. Like to heal. But with men like this, there was no protection. She wrapped her arm around his neck, squeezing tight, holding firm.
He choked, gagging.
She yanked her arm back, even tighter. His fingers scrambled towards her elbow. But his broken arm flopped uselessly.
Even behind him, breathing heavily, bleeding from her shoulder, she could see his cheeks reddening, could see his fingers scrambling uselessly, weakened now.
The urgency of the moment wasn't lost on her. Sawyer was still bleeding. The chemical smell was overwhelming. Alexandra was in the bathroom, her wrists cut.
Ilse dropped, bringing the killer down on his own tripwire. She pressed his body against it, trapping him as she strangled him.
"Good plan," she whispered in his ear. "Maybe you should've just taken a pill."
She felt delirious. But she knew she wanted to taunt him. He deserved far worse. At last, choking him, he went still. Limp.
She shoved off him now, leaving him half draped over his own wire. He didn't move, motionless. Sawyer was still unconscious, fragments of a porcelain bowl around his head. The dog was barking loudly, and Ilse flung open the front door.
What was that horrible chemical smell?
Ilse didn't have time. She pushed away, sprinting down the hall, avoiding the wire, grabbed a towel from the rack, and flung herself at the woman in the bathtub. A horrible contraption was attached to her wrists. Two cuffs with razors sharp interior edges.
Cursing, Ilse relaxed the tension of the wire, pulled open the handcuffs with her own key, and slid them off. Blood splashed everywhere, stained the tub, stained the floor.
She'd lost so much blood.
Ilse's fingers trembled, her heart pounding as she flung the spent handcuffs into the corner. With the towel, she wrapped tightly around the cuts on the woman's wrists.
"It's going to be okay," Ilse whispered fiercely beneath her breath. She wasn't sure the victim could hear her. She wasn't sure it mattered that anyone heard her but herself. "I'm going to get you out. You're going to live. Please. Live."
Ilse grabbed a bathrobe from behind the door, throwing it over the woman for the sake of decency while dragging her towards the hall. They needed to get her to a hospital. They didn't have time to wait for an ambulance.
"Sawyer," she screamed over her shoulder. "Sawyer!"
But her partner was still unconscious.
At the same time, she heard the faintest sound of laughter.
Her spine prickled. She glanced back, frozen.
The killer was sitting up, propped by the door, grinning and laughing. In one hand, he held something plastic.
She stared, dragging his latest victim along with her, breathing heavily, perspiration across her forehead.
"So clever," the man was saying. He chuckled.
"Shut up," she snapped. "Or I'll give you another arm like that."
He held the item in his good hand. His other arm hung limply, useless. Broken. In between grimaces of pain, though, he continued to laugh. A loud, grating, cackling sound.
His hand was shaking badly where it pressed against his chest. He was stained in Sawyer's blood. His face was pale with pain. And yet he laughed even more.
"Shut up," she repeated. She still held the victim in her arms. She considered lowering her, if only to subdue the killer.
What was that in his hand?
And then she realized.
A lighter. Why was he holding a lighter?
He met her gaze, still grinning.
"Smell that?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from where he'd been strangled.
Ilse blinked. And then she realized. The chemical smell wasn't chloroform. It was gas. Coming from the direction of the kitchen.
She looked over sharply, and realized all the burners had been turned on without a flame. Gas had been flooding the apartment for who knew how long.
The killer winked at her. He laughed again, then raised his lighter, flicked the flame, and tossed it into the kitchen.