Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

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.

Toshi knew violence. It was his bread and butter. But the carnage in the hotel corridor astonished him. Kurisaka’s men lay in steaming piles, blood soaking the floor and walls. Half his mind processed the slaughter in a split second. The other half of Toshi’s brain appraised the gargantuan black man rapidly advancing with a set of outstretched pistols. He was as huge as Kurisaka, round belly, big features. But not as soft or clumsy. He came at Toshi like an athlete, fast and sure of himself, and opened fire.

To a trained killer like Toshi, the entire clash unfolded in slow motion. Toshi charged too, ducked as he ran, raised his automatic, scanned his target, even as the big man’s first three shots passed close over his head. Toshi recognized the man’s Kevlar instantly, altered his aim from chest to head, squeezed the trigger.

It took only a single shot. The big man’s left eye exploded with a wet splat, blood thick, squirting like a ketchup packet squeezed too hard. The bullet exploded from the back of his skull, bone and flesh and goo flying, a horror-movie, special-effects nightmare.

Toshi watched him, fascinated. The giant didn’t fall immediately. He stood up ramrod straight, head twitching, mouth opening and closing. He took four halting steps back, lurching stiffly like a windup robot. Parts of his body refused to believe in death. There was a long, slow exhale.

Then he toppled over backward, hit with a floor-shaking impact, arms and legs sprawled wide. Toshi picked his way over and around the bodies of Kurisaka’s men. They had not been Yakuza, but they were tough men, good fighters. And this big black man had been a mighty warrior also. It had been a good death. Toshi stood over him, studied the ruined face. Who was he? What had been his part in this? One of the assassins, perhaps, who wished to claim the bounty on Kurisaka.

In the end, he was just another of the many dead.

Joellen Becker emerged from the stairwell and smelled it immediately, the stink of blood and gunpowder and bowels loosened in the final death throes. She looked both directions up and down the hall. At the far end, a man in black stood over Fat Otis’s prone form. Otis had done his job well. She’d handle the lone survivor before moving on to execute Kurisaka.

Samson’s voice in her earpiece: “Becker. Dammit, Becker-where are you? I need some help here, and I mean right fucking now!”

Becker ripped out the earpiece, tossed it away. You’re on your own, sport.

She drew the six-shooters again, stalked the hall toward her target, deliberate steps. Go in quick. All business. She thumbed back the hammers, the cylinders clicking and turning. Arms up and straight. She took a dozen steps toward him, fixing him in her sights, before squeezing the triggers.

He’d already turned his head, spotted her. He was catlike, leapt to the side. The six-shooters thundered, slugs flying past him. She saw the shoulder material of his jacket rip, dust and thread flying, and she wondered if she’d even drawn blood. She fired the six-shooters until they spun on empty. Click click click.

He returned fire from his crouch, off-balance but on target. Three shots slammed into the Kevlar beneath Becker’s leather jacket, almost knocked the wind out of her. She dove on the carpet, more shots passing over her.

She looked up, saw him ejecting the spent clip. If he reloaded, she didn’t have a chance.

Becker launched herself up from the carpet and into a full sprint in one smooth motion. She pumped her legs and arms as the clip fell, bounced off the carpet. Becker was within four feet of him as he pulled out another clip. She planted herself. He slapped the new clip home.

She spun, a roundhouse kick.

He lifted the pistol, squeezed the trigger.

Becker’s boot connected with the gun, the shot going off into the ceiling, plaster and dust. The gun flew away. She aimed another punch for the man’s nose. Put him down quick. Get on to Kurisaka.

He caught her fist, twisted her arm. She grunted, jerked away, a flurry of fists to his gut and head. He blocked, counterpunched. She blocked the one aimed for her chin, but took a hard hit in the kidney. Becker winced, stepped back to regroup, but he wouldn’t let her. He pressed the attack. A kick followed by another punch. She sidestepped the kick by a fraction of an inch, ducked the punch.

This bastard is good.

She dropped to the floor, attempted a leg sweep. She knew he’d dodge it. She popped up again, jabbed three times fast with her tight little fist. She connected on the bridge of his nose all three times, his head snapping back, eyes round and surprised.

He staggered back out of her reach, wiped his nose and looked at the blood. A thin smile. “Not bad for a woman.” Thick accent but clear enough.

They dove for each other, collided in a frenzy of punches, kicks, and blocks. He ducked, twisted. She lost track of him. Then the sudden blur of a fist, the impact spinning her head around.

Becker’s turn to stagger back. She spit a tooth. It landed on the carpet between them. Blood on her lips and chin.

He charged her, and she punched. He caught her punch under his arm, held on tight, and wrenched. She heard more than felt the snap . He let go, and Becker scooted away from him, her right arm dangling useless and limp at her side. Now the pain. Even through the special drugs, she felt it throb the length of her arm. Oh, God. Oh, no. She willed the pain down to something manageable, fought off a wave of nausea.