When he turned his head, Olaf moved. The man had enormous recuperative powers. He came at Durell with a quick rush, his head down like a charging bull. But Olaf was not aiming at Durell. He drove for the apartment door instead, moving at incredible speed. Durell spun, lifted his gun, then checked himself. A shot in this apartment would bring all of the Stockholm police down around his head. The damage would be irreparable. And Olaf knew it. The door slammed in his face. Durell yanked at it a second later, leaped out into the private foyer. The elevator was still there. The doors hissed shut in his face. The indicator spun downward. There was no hope of chasing him. He stood for a moment, swearing softly. Anger built up in him. He turned on his heel and walked back to Sigrid’s bedroom. She had stopped screaming. She was dressed in a soft gray jersey that clung to her beautiful body. She looked almost more naked than before.
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