Killing Rain by Barry Eisler Read Free Book Online Page B

the other, sinks against the connecting wall. Two Filipino teenagers were zipping up when I came in and left a moment later.
    I went into the corner stall and closed the door.
    “I’m in,” I said. “Tell me when he’s moving.”
    “Roger that.”
    I waited ten minutes. Then: “They’re getting up. Looks like he’s saying good-bye to the woman and the boy. Yeah, they’re heading down the escalator.”
    They were splitting up. Good.
    “Bodyguard’s staying, though. No surprise there.”
    “No, no surprise.”
    A moment passed. Then: “He’s coming toward your position. I think your hunch was good.”
    I felt another adrenaline wave roll in, bigger than the first. “With the bodyguard?”
    “No, he’s hanging back. Okay, our man is walking down the corridor to the restroom right now. Ten more seconds and he’s inside.”
    “Good.”
    I heard the bathroom door open. I took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled all of it through my mouth, its passage smooth and silent in counterpart to the thudding of my heart.
    I looked through the gap alongside the stall door and saw Manny. He walked over to a urinal. His back was to me.
    I opened the stall door. I took two silent steps forward.
    Dox, in my ear: “Shit, partner, the woman and the boy are back. The boy’s heading toward you. Must have told his mom he needs to take a leak.”
    Shit. Shit.
    I started back into the stall. I heard no sound, but adrenaline was closing down my hearing and there must have been some noise of which I was unaware, because Manny turned his head and looked at me.
    In the moment before the kill, I never look at the target’s face. My gaze tends to focus on the torso, the movement of shoulders, hips, and hands. Doing so offers the advantage of spotting defensive movement, and of avoiding having to see the target’s eyes, his expression, his fucking humanity.
    But this time I looked. Maybe it was morbid curiosity. Maybe it was misplaced instinct, something that would have been noble in other circumstances, a desire to face the consequences of my deeds. Regardless, I looked.
    Our eyes met. In his I saw earnestness, perhaps some surprise. No recognition. Not yet any fear.
    The door opened. It was the boy.
    And then I froze.
    There’s no other way to put it. My thoughts were clear. Likewise, my perception. But I couldn’t move my body. I seemed rooted to the spot. I thought, absurdly, Move! Move!
    Nothing happened.
    I felt beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. Still I couldn’t move.
    Manny looked at me, his surprise fading into concern, then to fear, then to resolution. He pulled himself back into his pants, and his right hand dipped into his front pants pocket. The word knife ! flashed in my mind, but still my limbs were locked.
    But it must have been some sort of panic button, not a knife. Because a second later, I heard Dox in my ear: “Shit, partner, something’s up. The bodyguard’s heading in fast.”
    I couldn’t answer. I heard him say, “Are you there, man? Say something!” Then, “Fuck, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I guess you can’t answer. All right, I’m coming in.”
    Manny started backing toward the door. He turned and swept the boy up in his arms. A moment later, the door flew open and the bodyguard burst inside, nearly running into the two of them. He saw my face and pulled up short, recognizing me, realizing he’d been wrong to dismiss me earlier, knowing now that he should have listened to his gut.
    He shoved Manny and the boy to his right and reached behind and under his own jacket. Sweat was running down my face but I still couldn’t move a muscle.
    The door burst inward again and Dox barreled into the room. The bodyguard turned, his gun coming out.
    And then, finally, when I saw that he was going to get the drop on Dox, my paralysis broke. Roaring something unintelligible, I took two steps forward and grabbed the gun with both hands as it came out and around. My decades of gripping and