Page 120 of The Grave Artist

Someone else, betraying her?

She glanced around the massive room, the doorways, the windows.

He gave a cold laugh. “Don’t bother. You can’t outrun a bullet.”

She was tempted to say sarcastically, “Oh, that was a clever line,” but she had to maintain the aura of helplessness.

“Just so you don’t do anything that would be stupid for you and irritating for me, sit down in that chair.”

“Yes, sure. Whatever you say. Just don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t have your sister’s balls, do you?”

She wiped her eyes. “She’s a cop. I’m a student.”

“Sit.” He walked closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder to shove her down.

Which was when the “helpless” girl struck.

The scared attitude was fake, as was the phony crying, which Sweeney might have noticed if he’d bothered to look closely. For a professional hit man he wasn’t at the top of his game.

The sobbing young girl turned suddenly into an athlete who had been trained, by her sister, in the devastating Russian martial art of Systema.

She swung in close, grabbed his collar and slammed her sole into his knee. He cried out in pain. Systema is a form of grappling. It has none of the elegance of karate or tae kwon do but is far more utilitarian. It was created during the Mongol occupation of Russia so that soldiers could learn it fast. The system is also known by the Russian words for “know yourself.”

He swung a fist, which caught her on the shoulder. She staggered back, pain coursing through her upper body.

But when, enraged, he came toward her it was with a decided limp.

Selina balanced her weight and, as he drew closer, she seemed to go once more for the leg, but when he shied away she slammed the heel of her palm into his nose.

“Don’t ever use a fist. You’re more likely to break your own bones than inflict any damage on the opponent.”

Sweeney staggered back, wiping at the blood on his face, groaning in pain. “You fucking bitch ... That’s it. I’ve had it!”

Well, I haven’t, Selina thought and picked up a small statue, then tossed it at his head. It sailed past and smashed into the window, cracking the glass.

Sweeney charged forward, the gun up.

“No, no, okay ... okay!” Selina held her arm up as if that would deflect bullets.

“The chair.”

Glaring, she walked to it and sat.

Sweeney looked at the blood on his fingers, from a sweep of his face. And bent his knee, wincing.

As she sat staring at him, she said, “I know what’s going on.”

“Do you?”

“You killed my dad.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

“My father was a financial adviser. He found something suspicious with one of his clients’ accounts.” She lifted her head and looked around. “Christopher Fisher.”

The expression that crossed his face told her she was on the mark. “Smart little thing, aren’t you?”