Suicide Squeeze

42

Conner Samson screamed, flinched away from the guy jumping him. Conner threw up his arm-sheer reflex-and the guy sliced him from wrist to elbow. The wound burned, blood-sticky and hot. His own blood. Fear and adrenaline. Conner pushed the Glock at his attacker, jerked the trigger five times fast.

Impossibly, from only three feet away, every shot missed.

The guy bowled into Conner and they both went over. Conner landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He gulped for air. The guy was on top of him, dagger raised. The Glock was right in the guy’s gut. Even Conner couldn’t miss. He pulled the trigger twice.

His attacker convulsed, eyes going wide. He froze a moment, then very slowly tilted sideways. Conner pushed him off, scooted away. He looked into the dead man’s eyes. I did that. He was alive. Then I fired the gun, and now he’s dead. Conner felt dizzy, shook it off. He looked at his gun. Blood on the barrel. He wiped it on the dead man’s pants and returned it to its holster.

Conner picked himself up, ran down the hall, looking at the room numbers until he found Kurisaka’s suite. The DiMaggio card, in theory, lay within. Had Otis’s diversion worked? Here we go.

He took the specially shaped charge from his utility belt, a black disk the size of a silver dollar, a small switch right in the middle. He peeled off the paper, adhesive underneath, and slapped the charge onto the door right next to the knob like Becker had shown him. He flipped the switch, backed away five feet. His instinct was to run all the way back up the hall, but he needed to be ready to rush inside.

The charge went off after five seconds, a loud bang, which made Conner jump even though he’d been expecting it. He ran into the suite, bracing himself for a possible hail of gunfire or a knife in the gut. But as Becker had predicted, none of Kurisaka’s henchmen waited within.

He reached for the light switch, flipped it off. Closed the door behind him. He already had another, smaller disk in his hand, tossed it into the darkened room. He turned his head, shut his eyes tight, but still saw and felt the hot flash through his eyelids. He looked back, put on the special night-vision goggles.

The world turned green. Conner turned to see a quivering green blob lumbering toward him. It took him a second to realize it was a man, a giant fat man who filled his vision. The blob’s eyes were specter black. Conner stepped aside, and the blob rumbled past him, fell over a chair, and cursed in Japanese.

He knows I’m here, but he can’t see me. Conner knew Kurisaka would be here, but he hadn’t expected a charging elephant.

Conner drew his Glocks, searched the room quickly. He wanted to find the DiMaggio card fast and get the fuck out of there. He saw a metal attaché case on the table, set down the Glocks, and flipped it open. The DiMaggio card sat in its hard plastic shell in the center of the padded case. Bingo. He closed the case, grabbed it by the handle.

White-hot light stabbed Conner’s eyes. He flinched, clawed the night-vision goggles off his face. Someone must’ve switched the room light back on, overloaded the goggles. Conner blinked, spots in front of his eyes. He flailed, bumped into furniture. He blinked again, his eyes clearing just in time to see the giant fist coming at his face.

The big man hit him right between the eyes. Conner flipped backwards over the table, landed in a tangle on the other side. It felt like he’d been hit by a pickup truck. Somehow he hung on to the case. Shouting in Japanese. Bells ringing in his ears.

Conner stood, half-falling, half-backing away from the monster moving around the table to get at him again. He saw a door, ran for it, went through, and shut it behind him. A bathroom. He flipped the lock. Pounding on the door, almost shaking the thing out of its frame. If that guy put his full weight into it, the door wouldn’t last long. He checked his shoulder holsters. Empty. He’d set the pistols on the table when he’d checked the attaché case. He looked down at the case in his hand. All things considered, he’d rather have had the pistols. He thought about the little automatic he was supposed to strap to his ankle.

Goddamsonofabitchmotherfuckingshit-

The door shook with impact. That guy wanted through. Now.

Think, dumb-ass.

He checked his utility belt, various items of dubious value. Two more of the shaped charges he’d used to blow the door lock. A miniature first-aid kit he’d use on himself later if he survived. A little camera. Forty feet of tough nylon line with a miniature grappling hook. A granola energy bar. Who designed these fucking things? What did they think the wearer would encounter? No time. Focus on the problem.

Conner thumbed the microphone at his throat. “Becker. Dammit, Becker, where are you? I need some help here, and I mean right fucking now!”

The pounding on the bathroom door increased, the hinges groaning. The door wouldn’t last another minute.