Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Becker punched with her other arm, but her opponent batted it aside. He spun and kicked the broken arm. She screamed, the pain an electric assault on her system. Dark spots hovered in front of her eyes. She backed away quickly, trying to remember how far the stairwell was behind her. Maybe she could run, get away. Becker knew she was kidding herself.

Another blow to the side of her head, and she went to one knee. A kick and she was facedown on the carpet. She tried to push herself up, felt the man grab a fistful of her hair and jerk her head back, heard the snick of his switchblade and didn’t have to guess what it was. An odd moment of clarity.

Even as it was happening, she could not quite believe it.

Becker felt the cold steel on her throat, then a white-hot instant of pain, then nothing at all.

Bitch!

Conner tried again: “Becker, dammit, I’m in a world of shit here. Where the hell are you?” No answer, and he didn’t have time to wonder why. Another jarring impact against the bathroom door, the top hinge almost pounded apart. The giant on the other side was coming through, and the door would soon be so many splinters. Now or never. Conner had to do something.

Even something incredibly stupid.

He tied the grappling-hook end of the nylon line around the pedestal sink. He clipped the other end to his utility belt, made sure it was tight and secure.

Slam against the door again, wood cracking, shouts on the other side.

Conner peeled the backing off one of the explosive charges, slapped it against the center of the window, flipped the switch.

The man on the other side of the door screamed pure rage, threw himself against the door again. The top hinge popped, clanged on the tile floor. Conner put his back against the door, braced his feet against the bathtub. It was like trying to hold back an avalanche.

The window exploded, glass shattering outward, raining the sidewalk with glittering shards twelve stories below. Wind gusted and whistled through the bathroom. Conner grabbed the attaché case, bolted for the window.

Conner had seen Bruce Willis do something like this in Die Hard . Conner would have paid a million dollars for a stuntman to take his place. He took a deep breath and jumped headfirst through the window.

A sensation of wind, clothes flapping, eyes crunched to slits. For a split second, Conner swore he was floating upward, arms and legs outstretched, the lights of Pensacola sprawling and tumbling in the night. Then the nylon line jerked tight, almost snapping his back, like God yanking his leash in midair. The city lights blurred, the line flinging him into the glass two floors down. His head smacked. Bells. He struggled for breath, grabbed the line with his free hand, and righted himself. It was a long way down. Conner decided not to look. Anyway, there wasn’t time.

He slapped the last explosive disk against the window, flipped the switch, and kicked out as hard as he could. He swung out and away from the window, then a slight pause before the return swing. Conner flew toward the window, and the charge detonated, the glass window exploding inward a split second before he swung through into the hotel room.

The woman within began screaming immediately.

Suddenly the line connected to Conner’s utility belt went slack. A porcelain streak sped past the window. The pedestal sink. An image of the sink pulling him out the window flashed through Conner’s brain. He yelped, fumbled at his belt, unhooking the line just as it was ripped out of his hands.

The woman still screamed. She threw a lamp. Conner ducked, ran for the door, worked the locks, and escaped into the hall. He ran for the elevators, but saw the stairs and took those instead. He flew down them three at a time, an iron grip on the metal attaché case. He slipped on the last flight, slid down the stairs on his back. He groaned to his feet, hobbled out the exit, into the parking garage.

There were another dozen people, half-dressed, rushing for cars.

Outside, the beginnings of a madhouse. An ambulance in front of the hotel’s main entrance, a fire truck just pulling up, EMS swarming among panicked hotel guests. A bellboy gesticulating at a policeman. Red and blue flashing and high-pitched sirens a few blocks away signaled more cops on the way.

Conner didn’t know if it was possible to look inconspicuous, didn’t know if it was worth trying. He threaded his way through the Chicken Little frenzy of running people, found Fat Otis’s Lincoln, and climbed in the passenger side. He sat low, willing himself invisible, and clutched the attaché case, Joe DiMaggio, the American icon he’d just repossessed.

He watched the entrance of the hotel, eyes darted between the front doors and the parking garage. Come on, Otis, buddy. Come on. Where are you? Let’s get the fuck out of here-oh please will you just hurry your fucking ass up and come on come on come on!

Conner knew, in the way people always seem to know the worst, some kind of tragic clairvoyance, that Otis wasn’t coming. He thumbed the throat microphone. “Becker, if you can hear me, I’m out of here. Okay? Time to go.”

He waited.

Only the static hiss of dead air in his earpiece.

Conner scooted into the driver’s seat, ducked under the steering column. It was easier with the old cars. Some of the new models couldn’t be hot-wired. The repo business was getting tougher. His hands shook, but soon he had the wires out and spliced, started the engine on the first try. He sat up in the seat.

About a billion more police had arrived, they were fanning out, widening the perimeter around the hotel entrance. Conner wouldn’t be able to hang out any longer. He looked once more for Otis, but when the SWAT van arrived, Conner figured that was it. Time to go.

He pulled out of the parking spot, drove a dozen feet when a uniformed cop stood in front of him, held up a hand.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Conner rolled down the window, all smiles. His heart beat like it was trying to escape from his chest. “What is it, Officer? A fire?”

The cop ignored the question. “Not through here. Turn it around.”

Conner made a three-point turn, tried to keep it smooth. He pulled away, resisted the urge to stomp on the gas. Soon he was away from the hotel, the flashing lights, the racket of sirens, and the jabbering crowd. Conner felt light-headed, stomach woozy. Had he lost too much blood, or was he just exhausted, nerve-fried?

He thought of Otis and felt numb. Was the big guy still alive? Conner’s gut told him no. He made no plans to avenge his friend’s death. He didn’t even want to know, didn’t care about the details. He would claim not to know Fat Otis if the police ever came asking.

Conner hoped Otis would understand.

Ahira Kurisaka stood naked in his hotel bathroom, the wind on his sweaty skin raising goose bumps. He’d exerted himself almost to the point of collapse. Knocking down the door, ripping the pedestal sink from the floor, and heaving it out the window was all more exercise than he’d had in a long time. He stood at the windowsill, sucking air and looking at the gathering police vehicles below.

Someone cleared his throat. Kurisaka turned, looked down at Toshi standing in the bathroom’s ruined doorway. The Yakuza killer looked bruised and bloodied. His jacket was torn. But the man stood at attention, waited for Kurisaka to speak.

“Tell me what’s happened,” Kurisaka said.

“An attempt on your life, Cousin,” Toshi said. “I personally dispatched two of the killers, which is why I was not at your side when the third man broke into your suite. I apologize for the dereliction.”

“No,” Kurisaka said. “Not an assassination attempt, not this time. They took the DiMaggio card. Your killers were a diversion.”