Killing Rain

there can’t be a single fucking water molecule left on you. . . .
    Finally he tossed the towel into the basket under the sink.
    If you comb your hair now, I thought, or examine your teeth, or adjust your tie, I will kill you.

    But the man decided not to engage in any of these fatal activities. He simply walked out the door.
    Delilah said, “You’re so nice. I’m sorry I was so forward just now.”
    The guard said, “I’m used to forward women. I like them.”
    “Really?” she asked. “Where are you from?”
    “I need his back to me,” I said, emerging from the closet and heading toward the door. “Now.”
    The guard said, “I’m Filipino.”
    “It is,” Delilah said, without changing her tone at all.
    And while the bodyguard was busy trying to process that non sequitur, I stepped out of the bathroom behind him and nailed him in the base of the skull with a hammer-fist, one end of the Surefire leading the way. He grunted and his body shivered, but he didn’t go down. Damn, this guy had a hell of a thick skull. I went to hit him again, but Delilah had already moved in, slapping him with the syringe on the side of the neck, over the carotid. He grunted again and started groping for something under his jacket. I caught his arm to stop him. He tried to turn toward me. Delilah reached in and smoothly retrieved what he had been going for—a Kimber Pro CDP II in a hip holster carry.
    The guy managed to turn all the way around and face me. He reached out as though to grapple with me, but then his feet went out from under him, from the blow or the injection I wasn’t sure. He crashed into me and I caught him under the arms and around the back. I stumbled backward through the bathroom door, grunting with the effort. The guy must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Delilah followed us through, closing the door behind us. I saw her eject the Kimber’s magazine, check its load, and pop it back in. She pulled back the slide a half inch, nodded as though she liked what she saw, and let the slide go.

    “Brace the door,” I said, straining to support the dead weight in my arms. “Don’t want anyone coming in.”
    She pressed her right toes against the door, her heel wedged to the floor, and took a long step back with her other leg. I dragged the guard into the closet and dumped him on top of his erstwhile client. I stepped over them both and closed the door behind me.
    Someone tried the bathroom door. When it didn’t open, the person knocked. Delilah kept her foot in place and said, “We’re cleaning in here, sorry. Please use the restroom on thirteen.”
    Cleaning, I thought. That’s one way to put it.
    The knocking stopped.
    I walked over and said, “Give me the gun.”
    She shook her head. “Just go. I’ll take care of the rest.”
    “Come on, this isn’t what you do.”
    “It’s what I have to do.”
    “Let me finish what I started. With a gun, I can take care of them both.”
    I thought that was what she would want to hear, but she shook her head again.
    “Look,” I said, “where are you going to hide that cannon with what you’re wearing? It’s bigger than your purse.”
    She took a deep breath and said, “You fulfilled your contract with Manny. You’ll be paid. Now just go.”
    “Will you give me the fucking gun? I don’t know how much time we have.”
    She looked at me, and for a second I thought I’d convinced her. But then she opened the door and walked out into the corridor to the stairway. I went out after her. She held the gun low along her right leg.
    I heard Dox in my ear. “What’s the status there, ladies and gentlemen, your conversation is making me nervous.”

    “I’ll handle the rest, Dox,” Delilah said, still heading for the stairs. “You should just go. Now would be a good opportunity.”
    “Come on, Delilah,” he said, “we’re not just going to leave you. You can rely on my partner. I’ve seen his shooting, believe me, he hits things and they don’t get back up.”
    We stopped on the landing between the stairs up to the fifteenth floor and down to the thirteenth. From here, we could only go up to fifteen, down to thirteen, or back along the corridor to the restrooms. For a moment, I thought of just grabbing her and trying to take the gun. But she was keeping her gun side away from me—keeping it away deliberately. I doubted I could disarm her without either harming her or getting shot myself. Neither was an attractive alternative.
    I took