Barry Eisler - Rain Storm aka Choke Point

Belghazi said, “How are you going to move this merchandise off Hong Kong without my help, hmm?”

The bodyguard nodded almost sympathetically, as though he regretted putting his putative employer in such an embarrassing position. “We have made our own arrangements for the Alazans. Everything is taken care of.”

Hilger said, “Achille, what are ‘Alazans,’ please? Are there missiles in that crate?”

Belghazi shrugged. He said, “Jim, don’t ask me questions you don’t want answered, all right?”

“You told me this was another small arms shipment,” Hilger said, more to himself than to Belghazi. I could imagine the workings of his mind: Five million sounded like way too much. I should have known right there something was rotten in Denmark. Damn it, these guys are trying to move some very bad shit. I’ve been had .

The bodyguard turned his head to the Russians and, keeping his eyes on Belghazi, said, “We don’t want the money. You can keep it, it’s yours. It’s the same amount we would have paid you, if you had trusted us. Maybe you will be able to trust us next time, because now we have ‘done business,’ as you say.”

“We keep money?” one of the Russians said.

The man nodded. “All we want is the Alazans. And, for next time, your goodwill.”

I wondered if the man was telling the truth. He might have been bluffing, holding out hope for the Russians as a way of persuading them to acquiesce in what was happening. Even if he was sincere at the moment, though, the Russians would have been fools to trust him. The psychology of a criminal who suddenly realizes his total dominion over another human life is rarely stable. His ambitions grow, his original aims change. A nervous armed robber, seeing his victims cowering before him, realizes that not only can he rob these people, he can do anything to them, and what started as a simple armed robbery escalates to sadism, often to rape. So if this went on for another minute or so, I could imagine the bodyguard thinking, Why shouldn’t I take that five million? It’s for a worthy cause.. . at which point he might also decide that it would be best not to leave witnesses, or anyone who might bear a grudge.

Hilger was watching the bodyguard carefully, his expression somehow dubious, and I thought he might be as acquainted with these less savory aspects of human psychology as I. In which case, I doubted he would remain passive for too much longer.

Also, he had seemed distinctly unhappy to learn that this shipment contained something other than small arms. I wondered if he had decided to try to do something about that.

The Russians started talking to each other, and I realized I had been right: they were using Russian. But again I wasn’t sure of the accent. Were they Ukrainians? Belorussians? Or of some other group in the region?

I watched through the binoculars, amazed. With just a little luck, this really could go perfectly. The bodyguard executes the six men. Dox drops him as he goes to get in the van. Or they all start shooting at each other, and Dox and I take out the “survivors.” I grab the duffel bag and we drive off.

But even as I imagined it, I knew it was too good to be true. Because I saw a new complication: a silver Toyota Camry, approaching from the south end of the access road. Now what ? I thought.

The bodyguard glanced over at the approaching car, then back to the men in front of him. He didn’t seem surprised; in fact, I thought I saw a little relief in his expression. I had a feeling the occupants of the car were his compatriots, perhaps having been signaled by the bodyguard through some electronic means that it was time for them to make their appearance.

Hilger was watching closely. I imagined him thinking: He can’t start shooting now because it’s six against one. He couldn’t drop us all before someone rushed him. But if the men in that car are with him, when they get here we’re all dead .

He was going to make his move before then. I could feel it.

“Well, gentlemen,” one of the Russians said, “we brought Alazans, no? They are yours now. So this… not our problem.”

Smart. He wasn’t going to wait for that car, either. He picked up the duffel bag and nodded to his companion. They started walking to their car.

The bodyguard stepped back a few paces to maintain his ability to watch all the players, but he made no move to interfere with the Russians’ departure. The one with the bag started to smile. Then his head exploded.

Maybe the bodyguard was willing to see that five million go. But Dox wasn’t.

The bodyguard’s mouth dropped open. And in that instant of his surprise and distraction, Hilger dropped down to one knee, drew a pistol free from an ankle holster, and shot him in the stomach. The man staggered backward and twisted around. Hilger shot again, and again. The bodyguard dove to the side of the car and I couldn’t tell if Hilger’s subsequent shots had hit home.

Apparently not. I saw muzzle fire come from under the car, from the bodyguard’s position.

The second Russian grabbed the bag and started to dash for the Lexus. He took exactly two steps before Dox quietly blew his head off.

Belghazi jumped into the back of the van. I heard the doors slam behind him.

Hilger moved to the front of the van and pointed his pistol at the driver-side window. I thought, Shit, he’s going to drop Belghazi, his own asset. Remind me not to cross this guy unless I really need to .

The Toyota screeched into the turnaround. I heard shots and saw muzzle flashes from the passenger-side window, explosions of dust in the dirt around Hilger and Belghazi’s other men. The two Arabs dove behind the van. Hilger, still on one knee, turned from the van, took his gun hand in his free hand and coolly fired a half dozen shots, all of which hit the car. Either he hit the driver or the man panicked under the hail of gunfire, because a second later the car swerved and smashed into the concrete abutment on its right. It spun a hundred and eighty degrees and screeched backward along the abutment, its side throwing sparks into the air. A second after it had come to a stop, the driver-side door opened and a man jumped out. Another Arab. He knelt behind the door and started firing a pistol in Hilger’s direction.

Hilger dove to the side of the van, seeking cover there. But there was none to be had. The van’s engine roared to life, and it lurched forward. Belghazi must have scuttled forward, into the driver’s seat. Hilger shot at its side, but apparently without effect.

I switched back to Dox’s channel. “Take the shot!” I hissed.

“He’s keeping down, I don’t have a shot,” I heard Dox say. Amid the gunfire and confusion, his voice was almost supernaturally calm. He was in his sniping zone.

“Then take out the tires!” I said.

A second passed. The van was pulling even with my position. I was going to have to try to take out the tires myself. From this distance and with only a pistol, I wasn’t optimistic about my chances. And my fire would alert everyone to my position.

But there was no need. The front passenger tire exploded and the van lurched to the left. The rear followed a second later, and the van swerved hard to the right. It crashed through the container port’s chain-link fence and slammed into a stack of containers about ten meters beyond. The containers, stacked five high, tumbled down on the roof, coming to rest behind the van and to the sides.

“Lost the shot,” I heard Dox say. “Can’t see past those containers.”

“Cover me,” I said. I doubted that anyone caught up in the firefight would notice me stealing across the road thirty meters north of their position, but I wanted backup just in case. I eased to my feet and scrambled down the embankment, my pistol out. I crossed the street in a crouch and ducked through the hole the van had punched in the fence.