A Clean Kill in Tokyo

free. I gripped the doorknob hard and twisted it, flung the door open. It rocketed into the wall, the frosted glass exploding.
    I stumbled into the hallway, running and almost falling. It took me only a second to reach the entrance doors. I hit them hard, not holding anything back, and they burst open at the center. I spilled into the hallway, rolled to my feet, and bolted for the stairwell. When I reached the outer door I wrenched it open and plunged down the stairs four at a time, my hand on the railing for balance. Just as I cleared the first riser I heard the door slam open. They were already after me—not quite the head start I’d hoped for.
    I had to get out of there before reinforcements started pouring in. Shibakoen subway station was on the opposite side of Hibiya-dori. I bolted across the street, trying to flow diagonally into the traffic, tires screeching as I jumped in front of cars.
    Thick crowds of pedestrians were exiting at the top of the steps to the station—a train must have just come in. I glanced back as I hit the entrance and saw two of them sprinting after me.
    I could hear the chimes of another train pulling in. Maybe I could make it. I had no doubt they would shoot me now if they could. In this crowd, no one would know where the shots had come from. I fought frantically for space, ducking past three slow-moving old women who were blocking the stairway, and spun left at the bottom of the stairs. There was a concession stand in front of the ticket windows, and as I dodged past it I grabbed a palm-sized canned coffee. Hundred and ninety grams. Hard metal edges.
    I shoved my way through the wickets and onto the platform. I was too late—the doors had already closed, and the train was starting to move.
    The platform was crowded, but there was a clear passage alongside the train. I maneuvered into it, glanced back and saw one of them pass the wickets and burst through the crowd into the clear space next to the train.
    I turned and measured the distance. About five meters, closing fast.
    I threw the can like a fastball, aiming for center mass. It caught him in the sternum with a thud I could hear even over the noise of the crowd. He went down hard. But his buddy was right behind him, his gun out.
    I spun around. The train was picking up speed.
    I dropped my head and sprinted after it, my breath hammering in and out. I heard a gunshot. Then another.
    Two meters. One.
    I was close enough to reach out and touch the vertical bar at the back corner of the car, but I couldn’t get any closer. For an instant, my speed was perfectly synchronized with the train. Then it started to slip away.
    I gave a wild yell and leaped forward, my fingers outstretched for the bar. For one bad second I thought I’d come up short and felt myself falling—then my hand closed around cold metal.
    My body fell forward and my knees smacked into the back of the train. My feet were dangling just over the tracks. My fingers were slipping off the bar. I looked up, saw a kid in a school uniform staring at me out the back window, his mouth open. Then the train entered the tunnel and I lost my grip.
    I twisted instinctively, getting my left arm under and across my body so I could roll with the impact. Still, I hit the tracks so hard that I actually bounced instead of rolling. There was one enormous shock all down my left side, then a brief sensation of flight. An instant later I felt a dull
whump!
and came to a sudden stop.
    I was on my back, looking up at the ceiling of the subway tunnel. I lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of me. I wiggled my toes, flexed my fingers. Everything seemed to be working.
    Five seconds went by, then another five. I managed to draw in a few hitching breaths.
    What the hell did I land on?
    I grunted and sat up. I was on a large sand pile to the left of the tracks. Beside it were two hard-hatted Japanese construction workers, looking at me, their mouths slightly agape.
    Next to the sand pile was a concrete floor the workers were repairing. They were using the sand to mix concrete. I realized if I had let go of the train even a half second later, I would have landed on concrete instead of sand.
    I slid over to the ground, stood, and began brushing myself off. The shape of my body was imprinted in the sand like something from an over-the-top cartoon.
    The expressions on the construction workers hadn’t changed. They were still looking at me, mouths still agape, and I realized they were in