Barry Eisler - Requiem for an Assassin

“Stay there,” I said. “We might need heat again.” I jumped onto the deck and moved to the stairs.

The screaming had stopped. I paused at the edge of the entrance, glanced down, and pulled my head back. With my eyes adjusted to the glare outside, I couldn’t see what was below. I pulled off the shades and jammed them in a pocket.

Another quick peek. Nothing. Still no screaming.

There were only six stairs. I leaped over all of them and landed in a squat on the deck below. I pivoted, the gun out, tracking for danger. Still nothing. I was in a narrow corridor. There were three doors, all closed, all on my right, all with small windows.

I moved up next to the first of them and snuck a quick peek through the window, then away. Nothing.

I checked the second one the same way. Again, nothing.

I checked the third. Dox, lying on his back, in shackles. A bald guy, his face covered in blood, holding a knife, staggering toward him.

I grabbed the knob. It was locked. Fuck.

I stepped to the side, closed one eye to ensure that if I got hit with debris I’d only be half-blinded, brought up the HK, and fired three rapid shots into the door jamb inside the knob. The HK whispered and kicked in my hands. Wood splinters exploded past me.

I stepped back and launched a front kick just to the side of the knob. The door blasted inward. The bald guy spun to face me. I put two rounds in his chest. He staggered back to the wall and crumbled to the deck.

There was no one else in the room but Dox. I knelt beside him, the gun up, facing the door. “How many others on the boat?” I said. “Do you know?”

“One other,” he grunted. “One other.”

“Hilger?”

“No. Someone else. I think he’s locked in one of the…”

From two doors down came the staccato crack of a half-dozen rapid pistol shots. The guy Dox was talking about, in one of the rooms I’d passed. The windows were small, and I’d been moving quickly. I must have missed him.

There was no cover in the room. I moved up stealthily along the wall, keeping the HK aimed at the door, waiting.

Nothing happened. Whoever he was, he was smart. The defender in a fixed position has a significant advantage over the aggressor who comes looking for him. He knew it, and he was waiting for me to pass him on the way out.

Fuck, I didn’t have time to play it this way. Club security, cops…we had to get out of here.

“Give me five seconds of heat,” I whispered into the earpiece. “Exactly five seconds.”

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Dox mumbled from behind me.

“Three, two, one,” I heard Boaz say, and then my skin was on fire.

An involuntary scream tore loose from my throat, with Dox offering a chorus from the deck behind me. I fought the illusion that the gun was red-hot and battled the overwhelming urge to drop it. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. Whoever was down the hall, the only advantage I had was that I knew what this was, and that it would last only five seconds.

It seemed like a lot longer. But then it was gone, as suddenly as it had started. I gritted my teeth and charged into the hallway.

There-the first door I had passed. It was open, the wood around the jamb torn up by pistol shots. I sprinted down to the edge of the frame and stopped.

“Again-three seconds,” I whispered.

“Three, two, one,” I heard again, and again my nerve endings exploded in fire. I shook with pain, with the effort of not screaming. From inside the room, I heard a long wail. Then, so suddenly it seemed a miracle, the pain was gone. I took a deep breath and spun into the room.

There he was, on the right, splayed on the floor. I brought the HK around.

Whoever he was, he was as quick as I’ve ever seen. He snapped the gun forward and simultaneously rolled to his left. I felt something slam into my chest and heard the double crack of successive pistol shots. I staggered back into the wall and returned fire. My first two shots landed short, but they made him flinch. I walked the muzzle up an inch and kept firing. Again, I was short, but the second two rounds ricocheted along the deck and into his body. He curled up and I kept firing, three times more, two to his torso, the last in his head. He dropped his gun and lay still.

I could barely breathe. Gritting my teeth, I dropped the empty magazine, slammed in a spare, and released the slide. I pressed my left palm to my chest, then brought it to my eyes, fully expecting it to be covered with blood. But it wasn’t. The Dragon Skin. I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me, but it seemed that was all.

I picked up and pocketed the empty mag and staggered back down the hallway. Dox had gotten to his knees, but hadn’t managed any further than that. Amazingly, the bald guy was holding onto the cot, halfway to standing. I brought up the HK.

“Don’t,” Dox said. “Don’t, don’t, don’t do that.”

I turned my head, but kept the muzzle of the gun on the bald guy. “What?” I said.

“Don’t you kill him,” Dox said, coming shakily to his feet. “Give me the gun.”

“There’s no time…”

“Give me the fucking gun!” he screamed.

You have to know when to argue with people, and when not to. This was clearly a “not to” situation.

Dox staggered toward me, and I leaped forward and grabbed his arm before he could fall. I placed the gun in his manacled hands and walked him over to the bald guy. The bald guy watched us coming. His arms shook, and he lost his hold on the cot. He sank to his knees, then slumped to his side, panting and trembling.

Dox stood directly over him. He aimed the gun.

“Just so you know,” he said, “even if I had time, I wouldn’t do to you what you were going to do to me.”

The bald guy started to say something. Dox didn’t wait to hear what. Without another word, he emptied the full magazine into the bald guy’s face. Twelve muffled shots, each fading into the next. Bone and brain matter flew.

He stood for a second, swaying slightly, looking down at what he had done. Then he handed me the smoking pistol. He buckled, and I grabbed his arm to support him.

“Good,” he said. “That was worth ten thousand dollars in therapy right there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare mag.”

He nodded. “I figured you did.”

I swapped in a fresh magazine, then pulled out an extra baseball hat and jammed it on his head. I eased a pair of shades over his eyes. “You look good,” I said.

“Just get me out of here, man.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I put on my own shades, took his arm, and helped him down the corridor. “We’re on our way,” I said, into the earpiece. “Just the two of us. Get out the bolt cutters, be ready.”

“Hurry,” Boaz said. “We have a lot of attention.”

I holstered the HK and kept us going. I didn’t know the nature of Dox’s injuries, but he was having a hard time moving, even beyond the limits of the shackles. It took a full minute to get him up the stairs.

Crossing the deck, I saw Boaz was right. There were people staring at us from half a dozen boats. Several groups on foot had stopped and were watching to see what the commotion was. Come on, I thought. Come on, come on…

Boaz reached out and helped Dox hop onto the pier. The chains were heavy, but there’s not much that will stand up to four feet of bolt cutters. Boaz moved in and, three well-placed snaps later, Dox had the use of his hands and feet again. The manacles themselves we could worry about later.

Boaz had already packed up the heater. He shouldered the gear while I scanned the crowd for danger, so far seeing nothing worse than gawkers. Then we set off toward the main pier, hurrying now, Dox’s giant arms around our shoulders, his chains clanking as we moved.