Page 84 of Assassin Anonymous

When the third and final bang-flash combo goes off, I swing around the doorway with the air pistols raised. The members of the strike team are yelling and struggling to get their goggles off. I squeeze off the nine shots I have left, not so much worrying about hitting the men and women in the hallway. I just need to crack open as many of the pellets as possible.

I duck back into the stairwell and pull down the gas mask and hear coughing.

“Lights, lights,” someone yells, choking through snot and phlegm. “Hit the lights!”

The first thing they see when the lights come on, if they can even see yet, is me moving down the hallway, the baton raised, placing the weapon onto knees and elbows and helmets. At this point it’s like a ballet. I see every angle, how to move from one swing into the next, hitting the targets that are going to inflict the most damage you can get without killing someone. A few of them squeeze off shots, their guns thundering in the tight space, slamming into the walls and sending up puffs of drywall, but they can’t get a bead on me.

My old friend adrenaline does its job, screwing with time. I’m moving so fast it feels like forever. And by the time I reach the end of the hallway I’m the only person standing. I’m feeling pretty good about it until another guy in tac gear comes around the corner and unloads two slugs into my chest.

Suddenly I’m airborne and I land hard on my back. I tuck my chin so I don’t smash my head against the floor, then slap at the searing pain on my chest to make sure the bullets didn’t go through. Worked fine, and that’s why I go to Lulu.

The shooter moves in, holding the gun out, and I blast him in the face with the optical distractor. He shields his eyes, which gives me enough time to roll out of the line of fire, get to my feet, and throw a sharp hook into his side, where his vest doesn’t cover. Then I snap the blunt end of the baton against his forehead.

The numbers on all the elevators are increasing, so I pull the fire alarm. The emergency lights flash, a high-pitched whine ringing out through the space, and the numbers stop growing. This is too easy. I take a moment to reload the air pistols, then turn the corner into the office area. After turning a few more corners I find a double set of wide oak doors. I’m moving toward them when a figure steps out from an alcove.

The Neck.

His face is bruised, but probably not nearly as much as his ego. He’s furious, and he points a thick finger at me and says, “Time for some payback, motherfu—”

I grab the finger and twist it toward the ceiling and he throws his head back and yelps. I use the leverage to bring him to his knees and then use my knee to shut him up.

Back to the doors. I head for them, when something hits my back and sends me flying. I throw myself forward with the momentum and combat roll to my feet, turning to find Ravi. His eyes are red, his face raw. He’s in a loose fighting stance.

“I was trying to protect you, you dumb son of a bitch,” he says. “Now we’re past that.”

I whip up an air pistol and send a shot Ravi’s way, but he ducks forward hard, bending almost to the floor, and the shot goes wide. Before I even get it retrained on him he smashes into me.

My mistake; he was only twelve feet away.

We plunge to the floor and he grabs me by the throat, setting his grip, and headbutts me hard. My vision goes fuzzy and he brings up an elbow to smash me in the head, but I manage to get a knee between us and then lift him up, sending him flying over me. We scramble to our feet, resetting ourselves.

“Didn’t know you could rumble,” I say.

“Don’t send people to do work you aren’t willing to do yourself.”

He snaps a kick at me, and I grab his foot, yanking him back hard, taking him off balance, and then slam my fist onto his knee. Not enough to break it, but enough that he’ll need to ice it tomorrow. I’m expecting him to go down but instead he leans into me, gets some leverage, and brings the other foot up. He goes briefly airborne before slamming his free foot into the side of my head, and I crash into an empty cubicle, landing in an awkward pile.

He disappears from my field of vision and comes back with a roller chair lifted over his head. I bring the baton down hard on his foot. It staggers him, and I roll onto my hands and horse-kick him in the stomach. He falls, dropping the chair on me, which hurts, but it hurts him more.

Before I can get back to my feet he tackles me, and then we’re grappling on the floor. It stops being a clean fight. The two of us struggling for purchase, trying to find a place to slip in and score a shot. The blows land, but I’m too amped up to feel them. Finally I manage to roll on top of him and throw my fist into his jaw a few times.

He drops back, his eyes swirling in their sockets. I climb to my feet and he says, “Whatever happens next is on you, Mark.”

In response, I take the other air pistol from my belt, reload it, and put a pellet into his chest, sending him into another coughing, spasming fit.

Then I reach for the double oak doors.

They open onto a handsome but sparse office that demonstrates money without bragging about it. It’s longer than it is wide, with a desk at the end, perched beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Midtown. There are two chairs in front of the desk, and one behind it, facing away.

I hold up the pistol, wondering what kind of man the Director is. I never met him. I had dreams that one day I would. He’d call me into his office to tell me how good I was at my job. A dumb fantasy, I now realize. Doesn’t matter. I don’t need his approval. The people at the top are all the same: terrified when faced with the consequences of their own actions.

Otherwise they wouldn’t need people like me.

The chair rolls around and I’m greeted by the last person I expected to see.

“Astrid?” I ask.

Her face looks different. Cast-iron eyes, and that smile. Not like any smile I’ve seen on her. Knowing and mischievous. She’s been waiting very patiently for this moment. She’s wearing a black shirt, black pants, and a harness, strapped with enough weaponry to storm the Bastille.

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