Page 21 of Assassin Anonymous

They all look at me in complete and utter confusion. I catch a glimpse of someone lunging from the bed to the bathroom—probably Campbell.

Adrenaline kicks in and time slows down, giving me a few nanoseconds to calculate the odds here. No one seems to be carrying a gun, but there are most definitely a few more knives in the room. Knife fighting in close quarters means you’re going to have a bad day. I need to even things out. Lucky for me I can see the angles, like they were drawn by a divine hand: what goes where to produce the maximum amount of death.

It’s a little like playing pool.

Scumbag, corner pocket.

The biggest threat is the man by the kitchenette. He’s farthest away from me. He could leave the room to alert others, or find a more useful weapon in the melee. So before anyone can get to their feet I flip the stolen knife in my hand and send it sailing across the room and into his chest. It buries to the hilt and he goes down without a sound, trying to pull it out, dead before he gets a good grip.

Four.

As I’m doing this, the other men shout at each other in Mandarin and get to their feet, so I throw a kick into the easy chair closest to me. The man getting up from it falls into a tangle and crashes into the glass coffee table, sending shards of glass spilling across the floor. His head hits the frame at an odd angle and kinks hard to the side. He doesn’t move after that.

Three.

There’s a heavy glass vase on the table next to me, so by the time the closest thug gets to me, I’ve got it in my hand and arcing toward his head. It connects and shatters, water and petals spilling across his face, the shock traveling up my arm. His eyes dim. Good chance I split his skull like an eggshell.

Two.

The final combatants have had enough time to square up. Both of them are young, buzzing with anger and masculinity, ready to prove themselves. The closest is a slight kid with a shaved head, his body covered in tattoos. He takes out a switchblade and clicks it to full length. I move to my left, putting them in a line so I can focus on him first. He waves the knife around like a kid showing off a lollipop. I throw a hard kick into the side of his knee, snapping it. He goes down yelling and I put my hand on the back of his head and throw him face-first to the ground, then stomp the top of his spine. The yelling stops.

One.

This last guy is tall and slim but carved out of granite. He puts his hands out, palms up, and keeps his distance, marching in little steps that suggests he’s trained in Muay Thai. Just as I set my guard, he lunges forward and snaps a kick at my head, which I barely manage to block. He’s fast. I hop back a little to create some space and figure out the best way to engage him, when something slams into my back, throwing me toward the couch.

I somersault onto the remains of the shattered coffee table, slipping on the glass. There was a sixth man. Probably in the bathroom. He yells for the kickboxer to get help. The man nods and runs for the door.

Great.

I push myself to my feet, ignoring the glass slicing into my palms. The sixth man is older than the others. Long gray hair hanging wild around his head, stout but athletic, and a neutral look on his face like he’s waiting in line for coffee.

Which means he’s the only one of these knuckleheads who’s dangerous.

He pulls out a blade—a short tanto, essentially a shrunken-down samurai sword. I reach out blindly behind me, hoping to grab one of the beer bottles that fell from the shattered coffee table. But I end up with a cushion from the easy chairs, which I hold out like a shield.

He looks at it and laughs, advancing on me, so I throw it at his face, which causes him to instinctively put his arms up. I leap over the couch and throw a swift kick into his midsection. He hits the wall and I follow as hard as I can, throwing my shoulder into his stomach as I grab his arm and control the sword, then slip under him and angle it up to slice open his neck.

He makes a drowning sound, and a geyser of hot, sticky blood sprays both of us. A little gets in my mouth, which ignites something dark and animal inside me. My blood converts to steam and I want to tear his flesh off with my teeth.

No time for indulgences, though.

I grab the tanto and stalk into the bathroom, feeling like I should be wearing a black cloak and carrying a scythe. I find a man cowering by the toilet with his hands up. He matches the picture in the brief—tall, forties, silver hair, skin gray from spending too much time in basement labs.

Campbell.

“I’m sorry, please,” he says, his voice quivering. “I can pay.”

It may not be the field of war, but the man on the balcony, the other men in the room, they were Triad. They were in the game. The potential for death in this life assumed. This man wasn’t in the game, but he decided to join. The knowledge he put up for sale could shift geopolitics and end a lot of lives. Painfully.

“Sorry, bud,” I tell him. “The math isn’t in your favor.”

I grab him by the hair and yank his head up. He squeals like a cat. I sever his carotid artery. He grabs his neck, trying to keep the blood inside. It doesn’t work, spilling between his fingers. He chokes and gags and dies.

There’s shouting from somewhere outside the door. The knob on the front door jiggles. It flies open and the kickboxer comes in, now carrying a gun, and there are more men behind him.

My exit plan—strolling through the front door—is no longer an option. Climbing back up to the roof will take too long. They’ll be on the balcony and aiming comfortably at my ass before I’m halfway up.

Only one way out now.

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