Suicide Squeeze

40

The deafening kuchugga-chug-chug-chug-chug of Otis’s shotgun shook the hotel, a buckshot blizzard, shredding wallpaper and plaster, shattering light fixtures. The weapon sang, a Wagnerian shotgun opera, the sound track to hell.

The two guards, sharp-eyed Japanese in bright Armani suits, had gone for their guns upon seeing the elevator doors open. Otis sprayed them with buckshot, blood flying and landing on the walls in Rorschach splats. Doors opened, men flooding the halls without regard for their own lives like all good minions. Four men, no, six.

Otis emptied the barrel magazine, the weapon ejecting the shells, which collected in a smoking pile at his feet. He shredded skull and bone, the hallway transforming into a crucible of blood, until finally he was still pointing the shotgun but nothing was coming out. He’d spent the ammo, and four more men spilled out of rooms, firing automatics.

The bullets felt like hard-thrown stones against Otis’s Kevlar vests. A chunk of lead caught him in the fleshy part of the thigh, a burning knot of flesh and blood and pain. Otis grunted, dropped the shotgun.

He took a half dozen more shots in the Kevlar, another bullet whizzing too close past his ear. He drew the twin Glocks, opened fire. They sounded like pissed-off firecrackers compared to the shotgun. Otis fired six shots, missed everything, realized he wasn’t using the scattergun anymore and actually had to aim.

Another bullet grazed his shoulder. It stung.

Otis aimed, squeezed the trigger three times, killed one of the men, and swung the pistols in a deliberate arc, dropped two more. The last man saw he was alone, turned and ran. Otis filled his back with lead.

The hallway was suddenly silent except for the faint moan of the wounded. Smoke hung in the air, the smell of sweat and death.

Otis slapped two new magazines into the Glocks, stepped over the bodies crisscrossing the hall. His every step sank into the pile carpeting, squished with blood.

Itchi watched Toshi disappear around the corner and exhaled relief. He knew he was supposed to be brave, but running toward gunfire was very low on his list of things to do.

The shots down the hall were louder now, a rapid series of little bombs, a small war. The roar of gunfire was so loud, it was no surprise Itchi didn’t hear the ding of the elevator behind him, the doors sliding open. Did not, in fact, realize anything was amiss until he felt the cold barrel of the gun pressed to the back of his head.

Damn.

“Drop your guns,” said the man behind him.

Itchi had only one. He dropped it.

“Kick it down the hall.”

Itchi kicked his gun. It slid out of reach.

“Now step away and turn around.”

Itchi did it, looked at the man. Samson. The man looked haggard, determined, and nervous all at the same time. He licked his lips, shook the gun at Itchi.

“I don’t want to kill anybody.”

Itchi nodded. By fortunate coincidence, he didn’t want to get killed.

“Get on the elevator,” Samson said. “Get the hell out of here.”

He edged past Samson, hopped aboard the elevator. The doors began to close. He saw Samson turn and head away down the hall. His thoughts raced in the two seconds it took the elevator door to shut. Guilt and honor and duty, the feelings Itchi had thought safely suppressed. Itchi’s only job was to protect Kurisaka, and he’d botched it. Inattention. Stupidity. The bungling gaijin had come upon him from behind. Itchi had put up no resistance. He was a coward.

Itchi slapped the DOOR OPEN button, drew the short dagger on his belt with the other hand. The doors slid open, Samson still visible only a little farther down the hall, the gunfire racket still erupting beyond. Itchi sprinted down the hall, his feet barely touching the ground, dagger up and ready to strike.

When Itchi was six feet from Samson’s back, he leapt. Just as Samson turned, brought his pistol around. Samson’s face was a mask of terror and surprise.

Itchi wondered how he looked to Samson.