Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Otis had graduated high school with average grades, hadn’t paid much attention to most of the stuff he’d read in English class, Hemingway stories and The Red Badge of Courage. He’d forgotten most of it. One thing stuck with him crystal clear. Hamlet. The ghost of Hamlet’s father had made a big impression on a seventeen-year-old Otis. The ghost defined certain responsibilities. You don’t forget your family. You don’t turn a blind eye when somebody does them wrong. He’d been surprised how applicable these lessons had been later in life.

His high school English teacher had asked the question: Was the ghost real or a manifestation of Hamlet’s guilt? What did it matter? Otis thought. Hamlet was fucked up either way.

Rocky Big had been family, and Otis didn’t want to risk any ghosts.

A hiss of static in his ear. Otis opened his eyes.

“You’re up, Otis,” Becker said in his earpiece. “Good hunting.”

Joellen Becker typed rapidly on the laptop in her dark car. She’d parked near the garage entrance, where she planned to enter the hotel as soon as she’d set a few things in motion. Otis was on his way, so she only had a few minutes.

The hotel’s system codes had been ridiculously easy to obtain even on short notice, an appropriate bribe with an underpaid hotel employee. She tapped a few keys and shut down all the hotel’s outside telephone lines and the rest of the alarm systems. It wouldn’t take long for somebody to realize they could still call the police on a cell phone. If she’d still been with her old special ops unit, she would have been able to jam those calls with high-tech equipment.

She’d already taken a handful of special pills twenty minutes before. A vitamin blend, alcohol neutralizer, hangover remedy. Now she rolled up her sleeve, found a fat vein, and inserted the hypodermic needle, pushed the plunger, felt the narcotic boost, the special mix she’d used only once before on a covert mission when she’d had to go without sleep for thirty-six hours. She felt the surge. Like she could fly or take on the world.

She set one more program in motion before shutting down her laptop. For months Becker had been tapping into computerized security systems, hotels, apartment complexes, homes, and businesses. Anything that had a silent alarm connected to the Pensacola Police. There had been no reason for her to do so except to keep her hacking skills sharp. But secretly she’d been hoping the computer file would come in handy. She started the timer. In exactly five minutes, every alarm would ring at once. It would delay the authorities just long enough for Becker to make her getaway after she’d accomplished her mission.

Joellen Becker strapped on her pistols, zipped her leather jacket over her Kevlar vest, left the car behind, took five steps toward the hotel, and stopped. She felt overwhelmed by a sentimental urge and tried to fight it. She didn’t fight too hard or for too long and finally lost, went back to the car, shrugged out of the shoulder rig and popped the trunk. She dropped her automatics inside and took out the leather holsters with her father’s six-shooters, strapped them around her waist.

They hung low, felt so stupidly good that she giggled.

Otis walked into the hotel lobby, a blanket thrown over the automatic shotgun. He stepped up to the front desk. The guy behind it was prim and efficient. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m going up to visit some friends.”

“It’s after hours,” the clerk said. “I’ll need to call up first. What’s the guest’s name?”

“Jack Shit.”

“Sir?”

“Sorry about this.” Otis’s big fist came out of nowhere, smacked the clerk between the eyes. The clerk folded, collapsed behind the desk.

Otis found the elevator. He went up, his gut sinking, jaw set. He dropped the blanket, gripped the full-auto shotgun with white knuckles. Becker had called the shotgun an impractical prototype, a silly weapon not good for much.

Except for what Otis was about to do.

The floors slipped by. Soon he’d be at the top. Otis felt nervous. It was a feeling he’d almost forgotten, didn’t quite know what to do with. He usually made other people nervous. He swallowed, throat rough. Sweat in his armpits, on his neck and upper lip. He heard his own breathing, felt his own heartbeat, saw the elevator doors open.

He stepped out of the elevator, shotgun out front like the hood ornament of death, and pulled the trigger.

Toshi paced the halls one last time before going to bed. He wanted to make sure everything was secure. It was unlikely any of Cousin Ahira’s enemies would make an attempt on his life here in Pensacola, but Toshi was a professional and left nothing to chance.

He found Itchi at his post near the service elevator. “A quiet night?”

“All is well,” Itchi said.

Toshi nodded. “We leave for Tokyo in the morning.”

Itchi said, “It will be good to go home.”

“Yes. The hard part is over. Mr. Kurisaka has his prize. Nothing to do now but pass one more quiet evening.”

Gunfire erupted down the hall. Screams.

Toshi cursed, ran for the commotion as he drew his automatic from its holster. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Itchi following close behind. He slammed on the brakes, and Itchi ran into him, almost knocking him over.

“What are you doing?” barked Toshi.

“The shots-”

“Back to your post! We’ll call if we need you.”

Itchi bowed. “Hai!”

Toshi ran again at full speed, thumbing the safety off the automatic. He was eager and ready to do harm.

The deafening kuchugga-chug-chug-chug-chugof 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.