Killing Rain

barrel of the gun to her temple.
    I stopped, pulled the .38, and pointed it at him with a two-handed grip. They were eight meters away. I was still winded from the chase, and the deck of the ferry was rolling with the harbor’s currents. And Al-Jib was holding her like a shield, with only part of his head exposed. I was too far to risk the shot.
    “Drop the gun!” he screamed. “Drop it or by Allah I will put her brains on the floor!”

    “Don’t,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Because then I’ll have to put your brains on the floor, too.”
    “Drop it! Drop it!” he screamed again.
    “Listen,” I said over the wind that was blowing across the deck. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t care. My business was with Manny, and that business is done. As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to leave. But not if you harm the lady. Then I have to kill you, understand?”
    He looked at me, his eyes desperate, but I could tell he was thinking. He couldn’t shoot Delilah. If he did, in the time it took him to bring the gun around to me I would turn him into hamburger.
    “Let’s think this through,” I said. “Let’s find a way to all walk away from here. Why don’t you lower your gun a little. And then I’ll lower mine a little. And then we’ll go from there.”
    He started to relax, just slightly. I thought, Okay.
    “No!” Delilah shouted. “Shoot him!”
    Goddamnit, I would if you would just work with me. . . .
    Al-Jib’s grip around her neck tightened. “Drop the gun!” he screamed again.
    Delilah was staring at me, her eyes full of rage. “Shoot him!” she rasped. “Goddamn you, shoot him!”
    He was choking her, intentionally or unintentionally, I didn’t know. I realized I was losing control of the situation. He was so strung out he might pull the trigger without even meaning to. Or he might shoot just to shut her up. Or he might otherwise miscalculate.
    “Drop the fucking gun!” he screamed again. “Or I swear . . .”
    In one smooth motion, Delilah shrugged her head downward and slapped the gun up with her right hand. It discharged into the ceiling. I was so juiced with adrenaline it sounded like not more than a firecracker.

    Al-Jib started to bring the gun back down. Delilah caught it in both hands. It discharged again.
    I moved in. Delilah was between us, in front of his torso, and they were moving. I was still too far to risk the shot.
    He let go of her neck and used both hands to try to wrestle the gun away from her. It didn’t work. He looked up, saw me heading toward him, and realized he had lost.
    He let go of the gun and started to turn to run. But the muzzle velocity of a bullet from a .38 is eight hundred and fifty feet per second. Since I was now less than twenty feet from him, the round I fired reached him in about one-fortieth of a second, give or take. Which turned out to be slightly faster than he could move out of the way. The bullet caught him in the face. He spun around from the impact and stumbled back toward the railing. I followed him, focusing on his torso, ready to finish him off.
    I heard two more shots from alongside me. They caught Al-Jib in the side. In my peripheral vision I saw Delilah walk past me, holding the Kimber in a two-handed grip, as implacable as the angel of death.
    Al-Jib tried to straighten. Delilah kept moving in. She shot him twice in the head. His hands flew up and he went over the railing, into the dark water below.
    For a long second, I looked at her. I was still holding the gun in a combat grip.
    She stood panting for a moment, returning my look, but not in a focused way. She lowered the Kimber.
    I hesitated for a moment, grappling with the knowledge that she had called Gil. Then something in her eyes, her posture, made the decision for me. I lowered the .38 and stuck it in my waistband.
    I looked toward the bow. The lights of Tsim Sha Tsui were less than a minute away.

    A few wordless seconds passed. Then Delilah handed me the Kimber. “Here,” she said. “I’ve got no place to conceal this, like you said. And we might need it.”
    I stuck the second gun in my waistband and looked at her, trying to find words.
    She said, “I had to. For you, too.”
    “What do you mean, for me?”
    “One day, Al-Jib and his type will detonate a nuclear weapon inside a city. A half-million people are going to die. Innocent people—families, children, babies. When that happens, it won’t be because I could have stopped it but didn’t.