Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Where were the cops? Why wasn’t anyone moving in? It seemed as though someone in a better position should have tried to defuse the situation. But even as he thought it, he could see men edging in from behind, trying to approach unseen. He did his best not to look at them, but Vanderveen seemed to sense their attention anyway.

“Back! Get back or I cut her throat! You want that on your conscience?”

Vanderveen’s would-be assailants retreated immediately, raising their hands. Kealey had been ready for them; he was sure the distraction would cause Vanderveen to turn, thereby giving him a shot, but it hadn’t happened. The other man seemed to be in perfect control, despite the fact that he was trapped in a busy intersection with police on the way and Kealey waiting for his slightest mistake. He didn’t appear to be fazed at all by the hopeless nature of his situation; in a matter of minutes, he would either be dead or in handcuffs. In truth, though, only one of those was a real possibility. Kealey tightened his finger on the trigger, waiting for Vanderveen to make his final mistake.

Vanderveen was doing his best to keep behind the woman, knowing that Kealey wouldn’t need much of a target. For a split second, he marveled at his own actions, amazed at the fatalistic nature of the choice he’d made in the car. He had raced into this situation knowing there was almost no possibility of escape, yet he didn’t regret it at all. It seemed right that it should come down to this: the two of them face-to-face in Midtown Manhattan. He still had the gun in his pocket and knew he should have used it right from the start. The knife had proved irresistible, though. What better way to remind Ryan of what he had lost? And what better way to set the stage for a loss even more profound, more horrific than the one he had suffered before?

Every fiber of his being was sparked into life by this incredible showdown; he had never felt more alive, more powerful. More elemental. But at the same time, he was suffused by a bitter, blinding rage. Kealey had stopped him yet again, ruining what should have been his crowning achievement. His hatred of the other man could not be more intense if it had been instilled from birth, and it was the main reason he’d driven to the hotel instead of just killing the woman and leaving the city. It wasn’t enough to take her life. He wanted, needed Kealey to see it happen.

Vanderveen pressed his face into the nape of Kharmai’s neck and breathed deeply, catching the mingled scents of vanilla, sweat, and fear. An unusual combination, but not unpleasant… at least not to him. Carefully, using her hair to conceal as much of his face as possible, he raised his lips to her ear and said, “Naomi, are you ready to die?”

She didn’t respond; she didn’t even moan. In that strange moment, he was intensely proud of her. He pulled her even tighter, letting his lips touch the lobe of her ear. He was aware of her heart thudding, her body shaking, her breath coming in short, quick spurts. And yet, despite her obvious terror, she didn’t scream… She didn’t even whimper.

What an incredible woman. If he had chosen a different path, a different life, he might well have selected a girl like this to share it with. For a brief moment in time, it seemed as if they had somehow fused, as if their bodies were one.

But she belonged to Ryan, and for that, he couldn’t forgive her.

He reversed his grip on the knife, placed the tip at the hinge of her jaw, and pushed it in.

Kealey heard words come out of his mouth when he saw what was happening, but he couldn’t be sure of what he was saying, his screams drowned out by those of the onlookers. He fired instantly, knowing that it no longer made a difference; Vanderveen had changed everything by putting the knife in, and Kealey knew instinctively that the other man wouldn’t stop until Naomi was dead. His first shot missed completely, but he got lucky with the second, as Naomi wrenched her body to the left, trying to get away from the knife. Vanderveen followed her before regaining control, exposing his right shoulder for less than a second. Kealey’s round ripped into his arm just above the elbow, tunneling the length of his bicep before exiting at an angle near his shoulder, catching the edge of his neck.

Vanderveen jerked back, but somehow managed to bring Naomi’s body back in front of his own. The knife was still moving up, and there was so much blood… impossible amounts of blood. Kealey was still squeezing the trigger, swearing and screaming all at once, but nothing was happening. He dropped the mag and reached for another, slamming it in, racking the slide. The movements were like second nature: mechanical, yet strangely fluid. Despite the speed with which he’d reloaded, precious seconds had been wasted, time which Vanderveen had used to continue his grisly work. Kealey leveled the gun, but the moment was gone. He’d been running forward and was now just 30 feet from the struggling pair. He moved to the right, looking for a shot.

Naomi screamed in agony as the blade crossed under her ear, nicking her jawbone before sliding up to her right cheek. She felt the razor edge cutting deep as it moved over her skin, angling up to her cheekbone. Rationally, she knew what was happening, but her mind was somehow detached, unwilling to accept what was taking place. She couldn’t focus on anything but the searing, ripping, mind-bending pain; everything she knew was mired in feeling. If she’d been able to hear, her whole world would have been noise: the few people still in the area screaming in horrified disbelief, Ryan’s shots and screams carrying over the din, and the sound of fast-approaching sirens covering everything. But since she couldn’t hear, she could only feel: the hot blood streaming down the side of her neck, the hooked tip of the knife caught under her cheekbone, Vanderveen’s wrenching attempts to pull it free. She felt his body jerk once behind her as Kealey’s second round found its target, but Vanderveen was still holding the knife, still trying to get it up to her eye, so she knew he had not suffered a disabling wound.

Her hands, still cuffed, had jerked up the second she felt the knife begin to penetrate. She was grabbing his wrists, trying to pull them down and away, but part of her mind — the small part that hadn’t shut down completely — was telling her that if she succeeded, the knife would come down along with his hands, and then he’d be able to cut her again.

She wriggled frantically, trying to pull away, but it just wasn’t working. Then she tried to drop down to the pavement, but he seemed to expect it, and his left arm only tightened around her throat, cutting off the last of her breath. Her throat was clogged with blood, her vision blurring. She felt herself start to weaken, to give up the fight. He was just too strong. Way too strong… stronger than she would have believed. Finally, he managed to pull the knife out of her face, and she braced herself, waiting for the final, fatal cut.

It had taken Joe Ruggeri a little under 2 minutes to run the full length of six city blocks. Amazingly, he had yet to see any units respond, even though he’d called it in when he was still back on West Fifty-Fourth. There had been two more shots just a few seconds earlier, and the screams were impossibly loud as he crossed Forty-ninth. Suddenly, everything seemed clear; he could spot the back of the overturned truck and two men; one was lying on the ground, his hands wrapped round his throat. The other was 20 feet north of the truck, moving to his right — Ruggeri’s left — his hands wrapped round the grip of a semiautomatic pistol. His eyes were wide, and he appeared to be shouting at someone that Ruggeri couldn’t see.

Traffic had come to a complete halt on Seventh. Everyone north of Fifty-first was still honking angrily, but the motorists farther south — those to his immediate left — could tell that something was wrong. Some had abandoned their vehicles entirely, while others were standing in the middle of the street, watching from a distance, eyes wide. Ruggeri ran out to the middle of the street, keeping low behind a series of cars. He looked up over the hood of a yellow RAV4, took in the scene, then ducked down again, his gun in two hands between his knees.