Killing Rain by Barry Eisler Read Free Book Online

escalators. Our friend is getting lunch ten feet in front of the escalator. Guard is staying with them. Come up and move to your left right away and he won’t see you. Then stay at the periphery until you ID the players. I don’t want him to recognize you from the hotel.”
    “Roger that.”
    A minute later, I saw Dox enter. He circled wide as I had suggested, keeping the crowd between himself and the principals. I saw his eyes move past me without stopping.
    I realized that Manny hadn’t taken a restroom break since church. I was thinking that at some point, maybe after lunch, he was going to heed a call of nature. The bodyguard would be watching for anyone moving in after him. But it wouldn’t occur to him that some antisocial someone might be in there already.
    I felt a small wave of adrenaline coming ashore.
    “Hey,” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    “There’s a men’s room on this floor. I’m going to wait inside it. I have a feeling our friend is going to go after he finishes his lunch. With luck, he’ll come alone.”
    “I’ll watch your back, partner.”
    “Good.”
    Restrooms are nice because they’re one of the last urban places where you can’t find a security camera. I would wait inside, come up behind him, break his neck, and be out the door before he hit the floor. There were no cameras in the vicinity of the restroom, so my entrance and exit would go unrecorded. No one would check on Manny for at least two minutes, and probably more like five, giving Dox and me plenty of time to slip away unnoticed. Not quite the level of naturalness that the Israelis were hoping for, or that I would have liked to be paid for, but I thought it would do. The police can be as lazy as anyone else, and for anyone disinclined to fill out a lot of paperwork, a broken neck would be easier to file under “slip and fall” or “accident” than would a bullet hole in the forehead. The main thing was that no one would be able to attribute it to my client.
    I imagined Manny’s family, waiting for him to return. Two minutes becomes three, three becomes four. Someone makes a joke about how Daddy must have fallen in. The woman goes to the door and calls for him. There’s no answer. She feels confused, possibly a little concerned. She pokes her head inside and sees Manny on the floor, his head at an impossible angle. She screams. The boy comes running. He stops at his mother’s leg and looks through the door she’s holding open. The image carves itself into his brain and never, ever leaves him.
    I heard Dox’s voice in the earpiece: “You all right, partner?”
    I looked around the food court. “Yeah, fine. Why?”
    “You looked a little spooked there, for a while. Thought maybe you saw something I didn’t.”
    “I’m all right.”
    “Well, you’ve got company, coming up from behind you. I was afraid you hadn’t noticed.”
    “What kind of company?”
    “The kind that’s wearing a big bulge under the back of a suit jacket.”
    “Bodyguard?”
    “That’s right.”
    I wondered how he had managed to get a gun inside. He must have been licensed. Manny had been coming to Manila for a long time and was probably well connected.
    “Tell me if I need to turn, let him know I see him coming.”
    “I think you’re okay. His hands are empty. But he’s definitely coming to check you out.”
    I knew what had likely drawn the man’s attention. It wasn’t something I did. It was something I am.
    No one can completely obscure the signs of a profound acquaintance with violence. The obvious ones are the hard cases. These are men who’ve lived through the shit and have no ability, and certainly no inclination, to hide the predacious air such survival conveys. This type, which includes gangbangers, ex-cons, and a certain breed of former soldier, gives off the strongest, most distinctive vibe, and is the easiest to detect.
    There’s another type, too, as intimate, if not more so, with violence as the first, but better aware of