Chapel crawled to the edge of the counter. Beyond he could see some chairs and a table. No sign of Stephen. He risked poking his head out just a little further. Two gunshots in quick succession dug up long runnels through the linoleum tile Chapel crouched on. He jumped back as quickly as he could, knowing if he was going to be hit there was no way he could move fast enough. He pushed his back up against the island and sat down on the floor, trying to avoid the steadily growing puddle of the cook’s blood. Strands of uncooked pasta floated in the red pool. Jesus, he thought. He’d really managed to compromise things in a hurry. He couldn’t have been free for more than ten minutes. And now a woman was dead . . . he hadn’t even brought a weapon to Favorov’s house. His mission had been purely about talking to the man, finding out a vital piece of information. Now he was a prisoner in the house, pinned down by gunfire.
