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The motion of Bosch’s entrance caught Novak’s eye, and he started to turn. Bosch fired the Taser he was holding, and two electrode darts hit Novak in the chest at the same moment he launched the coffee from the carafe at Bosch. Bosch twisted to the side and avoided the hot liquid, but the move jerked the Taser wires and the electrodes came loose before delivering the weapon’s full five-second charge.

Bosch reached to his hip and drew the Glock.

“Don’t fucking move!” he yelled.

Novak was either confused or stupefied by the incomplete charge from the Taser. He threw the empty carafe at Bosch but his motor skills were impaired and the carafe sailed wide and shattered against the wall. Bosch saw him reaching for the gun that was on the counter. He rushed forward and threw his body into Novak, taking him to the floor and sending the gun he had been reaching for clattering across the tiles. Bosch brought the butt of his own gun down hard on the back of Novak’s head.

He raised the gun, ready to hit him again, but saw that Novak was already unconscious.

“Dumb fuck,” Bosch said.

He was unsure if he was referring to himself or Novak. He grabbed the zip tie he had tucked into the back of his pants and bound Novak’s wrists.

Bosch got up off the floor and looked around until he spotted Novak’s gun over by the refrigerator. He picked it up and put it on the counter. He noticed the mug Novak had been filling with coffee had not spilled and was about half full. Bosch picked up the mug and drank down most of the hot liquid in one gulp. He needed the charge after forcing himself to stay awake and vigilant all night.

Bosch grabbed the sat phone off the counter and stuffed it into a jacket pocket.

He then went to the sink and drank the rest of the coffee. He felt a slight pain in his new knee and wondered if he had damaged it when he twisted out of the way of the flying coffee. He raised his leg and swung his foot back and forth a few times. The pain seemed to retreat.

Once he emptied the cup, he filled it with water from the tap, walked over to where Novak was lying on his side, and poured the water on his face. Novak stirred and groaned.

“Let’s go, Novak,” Bosch said. “Time to rise and shine.”

Novak opened his eyes, and panic set in as he realized his hands were bound.

“What the fuck is this?” he yelled.

“I think you know what this is,” Bosch said. “Get up.”

“I can’t. Cut me loose.”

“Sure you can. Get up. Let’s go.”

Bosch reached down, grabbed him by an arm, and started pulling him up.

“Up,” he said.

Novak tried to get up but his feet slipped on the wet floor and he tumbled into a cabinet door and fell down.

“Goddamn it!” he yelled.

“Get on your knees first and then one leg up at a time,” Bosch said.

“I’m an old man. You have to cut me loose or I can’t do it.”

“That is not happening. If I have to drag you up by your arms, you’re not going to like it.”

“Fuck you, Bosch.”

He didn’t move. Bosch grabbed the zip tie by the length of plastic between the wrist loops. He started to pull Novak’s arms up behind his back, eliciting a howl of pain.

“Okay, let me do it,” Novak said.

“Then do it,” Bosch ordered. “Now.”

Novak managed to get up but was unsteady on his feet and started to stumble. When Bosch moved in to stop him from falling, Novak was waiting for it and swung his leg into a roundhouse kick that swept Bosch’s legs out from under him. Bosch went down hard on his back.

“Kickboxing 101, Bosch.”