The Nowhere Man

37 More Animal Than Human

When Evan eased through the misted glass door into the spa area, he heard René’s voice squawking through a radio: “—don’t know where he is. Keep David locked down until—”

After throwing the dead bolt on the doors behind him, Evan peered around the corner and down the corridor of Jacuzzis and saunas that led to the lap pool fringed with artificial grass at the end. David leaned drunkenly against the last door in the row, slugging overproof Bacardi from the bottle as two narcos paced on the fake grass and conferred over their radios. One held a less-lethal shotgun, the other a Kalashnikov. The guy behind the cuerno de chivo was so hefty that rolls of fat bulged at the base of his neck. He wore a thin chinstrap beard and a gold pendant necklace with big diamond letters spelling out CALACA.

Skeleton.

These narcos were big on irony.

Evan set the stock against his shoulder, preparing for the turn. Taking a corner was both art and math. Jack used to call it “cutting the pie.”

Before he could move, Calaca looked up, spotting Evan, and started as if he’d been stabbed. “Marco, allá—”

Shotgun raised, Evan whirled into the corridor and moved briskly toward them, letting the first round fly. It sailed inches past David’s nose, striking Calaca’s forehead with a dull thud. The fat man staggered back, heels of his hands pressed to his skull, and tumbled into the pool. The AK-47 flew off his upflung arm, clattering onto the concrete across the water.

Marco swung his shotgun over, but Evan’s next round blew it out of his hands, sending it skittering over toward the pool.

Evan never slowed.

David fell back against the glass wall of the Korean mist room as Evan hurtled past, closing on Marco and whipping the shotgun stock up, clipping the narco under the chin. Marco reeled back into a reverse flip, his rising feet knocking the shotgun from Evan’s hands. Evan had an instant to marvel at just how badly he’d underestimated Marco’s fighting skills before Marco rotated back around onto his feet. He bounced low to cushion his landing, snapping off a quick left at Evan’s face, crushing his eye.

Evan blinked through the sting, his eye watering. Marco pressed his advantage, unleashing a flurry of punches. Caging his head with his forearms, Evan backpedaled in the narrow corridor, getting a little space as Marco hammered at him with bare-knuckle blasts. Finally he managed to shove Marco off, and they faced each other, panting. Beside them in the corridor, David recoiled into the wall as if hoping to transport himself straight through it.

Glancing over, Evan saw Calaca standing in the middle of the pool, having just regained his feet. He started to slosh toward his AK-47 at the far side of the pool.

Evan couldn’t let him get to that weapon.

Evan’s shotgun lay on the tile next to Marco’s feet, the barrel pointed toward the pool. Evan dove for it, snatching it up and getting off a shot just before Marco drove a heel into his kidneys.

The beanbag round flew across the spa and smacked into Calaca’s shoulder. The fat man went down again, gurgling water. Evan tried to bring the shotgun with him as he rolled onto his back, but Marco kicked it free. It glanced off Evan’s cheek, then cracked off the thick glass enclosure of the rain shower.

Evan threw himself up onto his feet. Marco feinted at him a few times, trying to create a reaction opening, but Evan didn’t take the bait.

Evan’s lower back throbbed where he’d been kicked. His eye watered from the blow. Swelling pressed his cheek upward, a raw-numb tingling.

Marco was a much better fighter than Evan. If they kept this up, he’d take Evan apart piece by piece.

Evan had to land a single destruction blow quickly, take out a limb, and press on from there. He didn’t dare glance at the pool, but he heard Calaca surface again. Soon enough the fat man would reach that Kalashnikov.

Marco’s eyes ticked to Evan’s swollen cheek, broadcasting his next move. His feet set, his shoulders swiveling as he shot out another jab. Evan threw a pencak silat double-hand glancing parry—slap-slap—to an arm trap, grabbing Marco’s wrist and immobilizing the arm. With the heel of his hand, he shattered the elbow, blowing the arm out in the wrong direction. He tried to hold a chicken-wing control, but Marco flailed free, his broken arm dangling limply at his side.

Over in the pool, Calaca forged through the water, taking another unsteady step toward his AK-47. Evan had to slow him down again.

Marco bared his teeth, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Evan weighed the odds, knew he’d pay either way. Turning his back on Marco, he snatched up the shotgun and fired off another round at Calaca. The beanbag ricocheted off the fat-padded base of the man’s skull, knocking him back underwater.

Evan braced himself, knowing that the strike would come, and sure enough, Marco’s side kick hammered him into the wall. He heard himself grunt as if listening from afar. Marco’s next kick was aimed not at Evan but at the shotgun, jamming Evan’s finger in the trigger guard and sending the gun flying. It crashed off the wall barely a foot from David’s face and fell to the tile.

Evan and Marco parted in the corridor, took some space. Marco cradled his broken arm across his stomach. Evan only had to watch his feet now. They circled each other, breathing hard. Marco set for a roundhouse, starting to throw his right leg. Evan thrust his lead foot forward into a jeet kune do oblique jam, striking Marco’s inner thigh at the junction of his hip. The counterstrike caused a crazy stop-motion effect, halting the kick before it started, Marco’s bent leg hinging away in reverse — a slammed door wobbling back from the frame.

Behind him Evan heard Calaca rise from the depths again, heard him paddle toward the AK. Evan let his eyes dart toward his dropped shotgun, but Marco moved swiftly, sweeping it across the slick tile with his instep. The gun plopped into a Jacuzzi.

Evan watched Calaca’s thick hand grab the far lip of the pool and pull his body to the edge. There was nothing Evan could do now until he got through Marco.

Marco had only one move, and Evan waited for him to take it.

He kept his eyes on Marco’s rear leg.

Again Marco tried for the roundhouse. This time Evan let it come. Ducking, he tucked his head behind his elbow and pointed the tip of his ulna at the incoming knee. It struck the patella precisely, shattering the kneecap. Marco screamed, skipping back on his good leg.

Evan had his first chance to square up. He got off a graceless shotokan front kick, a pure-force delivery of the ball of his foot to the middle of Marco’s chest. Marco flew back, banging through the glass door behind him and into the sauna. He landed in a crumpled heap across the sauna by the cedar bench.

David remained flattened against the wall of the corridor like a piece of art, frozen, still clutching the Bacardi 151 bottle. Evan grabbed the rum from his hand and hurled it through the open door into the sauna. The bottle shattered against the heater, flame already chasing the high-proof spray. Fire rained down on Marco. He gave a shriek that sounded more animal than human.

Evan swung the sauna door shut, snatched a Jacuzzi net skimmer from its mount, and rammed it under the handle, seating the end against the opposite wall of the corridor. The door was pinned shut, Marco trapped inside.

Evan picked up Marco’s shotgun and started toward the pool. Behind him the muffled screams in the sauna reached a pitch he felt in his bones.

Seemingly dazed, Calaca was still in the pool, hunched over the lip, straining to reach the AK-47, which remained just out of reach. Evan stepped onto the artificial turf, his boots crunching audibly. Calaca turned, and Evan hit him in the collarbone with a baton round, the impact punctuated by the splintering of the thin bone. To his credit, the guy kept his feet, but barely, sagging against the concrete edge. One beefy arm slapped the concrete behind him as he held his head and torso above the surface.

With wide eyes Calaca peered back over his meaty shoulder. Then he turned to grab again for his gun. His fingertips edged it farther away. Grunting against the pain, he drew back for another lunge.

Evan reached the paisley-shaped bar with its decorative Christmas lights arrayed across the surface. He smashed a few of the colorful oversize bulbs against the sustainably farmed rain-forest wood, then tore the string free.

“Espera,” Calaca said. He was shivering in the water, clinging to the concrete edge, his grooved skull glistening with droplets. “Por favor—”

Evan slung the string of broken lights over and into the pool.

The effect was half explosion, half sound effect, a massive foomp that knocked Calaca upright. His body jolted a few times and then sank below the surface. A moment later he bobbed up, floating on his back, arms in a Christlike spread, his gold necklace glittering in a tuft of chest hair that had escaped the collar.

Two dogs, eight guards, two snipers, one doctor, and Dex.

In the corridor David remained where Evan had left him, frozen against the wall, arms raised. In the barred sauna across the space, flames continued to crackle, but Marco’s screams had ceased.

As Evan approached, David held out his hands, shrinking away. “Please don’t kill me. I’m a victim, too. I’m—”

Evan grabbed his jacket, ripping the slender remote free from the inner pocket, taking the fabric along with it. The force of the motion spun David around, and Evan kicked him into the Korean mist room. He vanished into a billowy sheet of white haze, landing with a satisfying crash.

Up the corridor a Kalashnikov coughed out a burst and pebbled glass flew into sight, raining across the tile.

René’s men breaching the spa door.

Evan jogged back over the fake turf, upgrading his less-lethal shotgun to Calaca’s AK-47. On the bar the tray of snacks was gone, replaced by a basket of apples. Evan pocketed two. One of the guard’s heavy jackets was looped over the back of a lounge chair.

He grabbed it as he ran by, heading for the elevator.

The car was there and waiting, and he slid inside just as the cavalry spilled into view, weapons raised. Evan and René’s men had a half second to stare at one another.

Evan gave a little shrug as the doors rolled shut.

The elevator whirred its way slowly to the basement.

Arming sweat off his brow, he aimed the barrel of the Kalashnikov between the bumpers, waiting for them to part. They did.

He had expected almost anything.

But not this.