Suicide Squeeze

41

If not for the narcotic boost, Joellen Becker would have been winded by the third floor. Instead, she sprinted two steps at a time, up through the hotel’s stairway, her hard boots echoing off the cement walls.

Her plan was simple. The behemoth Otis, using Satan’s own shotgun, would simply cut a path through Kurisaka’s men. Most likely, Otis would be killed in the process. No matter. Otis’s rampage might draw any guards away from the service elevator, giving Samson a clear path. Or perhaps not. Samson’s survival was of little concern to Becker. He could even keep the DiMaggio card should he actually win through. To Joellen Becker, the most important thing was that the two men cause as much of a diversion and draw as much fire as possible.

She didn’t consider she’d duped them, not completely. Otis had his chance at revenge. Samson could chase a baseball card for which there was no longer a buyer. It was what they wanted. Go for it, guys. Have fun.

Joellen Becker had bigger plans. While searching the mercenary Web sites and checking with her old NSA contacts, the name Ahira Kurisaka had sent up a red flag. She’d dug a little deeper and found there was a big fat price on his head. Five hundred million yen. (That’s 4.8 million American!) Kurisaka had enemies, and they were willing to pay big to make him go bye-bye forever. She’d withheld that tidbit of information from Samson.

She was two floors from the top when she heard a mob of footfalls rumbling down the stairs toward her. Fuck. Somehow, they knew she was coming. It didn’t matter how. She’d have to fight her way up. She’d hoped to avoid as much combat as possible, ideally popping a quick slug into the back of Kurisaka’s head and beating feet down the stairs again before anyone tried to kill her.

But when Becker saw the three Japanese men running toward her, she realized what was happening. These men were not coming for her. They were running away. Panicked. Otis must’ve given them hell.

When the three saw her, it took a moment for them to recognize a threat. They lifted their pistols, one even managed to get off a shot, the bullet kicking up tiny chunks of cement a foot over Becker’s head.

Becker drew the six-shooters, the nickel flashing in the stairwell’s fluorescent light. She squeezed each trigger three times, the cylinders turning in B-movie slow motion as she charged up the last flight of stairs.

Two of the men took the bullets in the chest, fell forward, lifeless bodies rolling down the stairs. Becker leapt over them, pressed forward, firing twice more at the final man. He took a slug in each leg, went down hard.

Becker reached the landing, stood over the man with the ruined legs, pointed one of the six-shooters at his forehead. The man trembled, turned pale. Either from the loss of blood or from the flat, emotionless expression on Becker’s face. Probably both.

“How many more men up there?” Becker asked.

The man shook his head.

“Where’s Kurisaka?”

He shook his head again. “No… speak.” He groped for words. “No… English.”

“I almost specialized in Asian languages,” Becker told him. “I took French and Italian instead. Unlucky for you.”

She pulled the trigger.