Killing Rain

elevator ride up, explained Manny’s delay in reaching my position. He really had turned paranoid about public restrooms.
    Not without reason.
    The bodyguard was heading right toward me, looking at the closet door. He was going to check it.
    I put my left foot against the doorjamb, grasped the handle, and leaned back so that the door was supporting about a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure. A moment later, I felt a mild pull from the other side. If we’d been in a real tug-of-war, the guy might have been able to budge me, but he wasn’t trying to force the door, just to confirm that it was locked as the sign advertised. It didn’t move a millimeter. I felt him let go, heard him walking back to the entrance. I heard the bathroom door open, heard him say, “It’s clear.”
    I kept my position. Manny might try the door, too.
    I heard a new set of footsteps in the room. Manny’s voice: “Thank you. Just wait outside, if you don’t mind.”
    The man said, “Of course.”
    I heard the door close. Manny’s footsteps, drawing nearer. Then stopping.
    He had seen the closet door. He was wondering whether the bodyguard had checked it.
    Of course he’s checked it, he’d be thinking.
    He’s a bodyguard. Still, no harm confirming . . .
    Sure enough, his footsteps came closer, then stopped again, and I felt another mild tug on the door. Then the pressure eased, and I heard him walking off to my right.
    I eased off the pressure I was keeping on the door and looked through the first hole I had made. Manny was using the urinal farthest from me. He was facing the wall, but his peripheral vision would detect motion when I opened the door. I would have to move fast.
    I took one quick peek through the other hole to confirm that the bodyguard had indeed walked out. He had. It was just Manny and me, the way it was supposed to be.
    It wasn’t like the last time. I thought of nothing that wasn’t operational. Nothing.
    I gave him a little time to finish what he was doing. If I didn’t, he’d wind up pissing on the floor, and maybe on me.
    He started shaking off. I took two quick, silent breaths.
    Go.
    I swung the door open, took a long step past the door, pivoted, and strode directly toward him.
    His head snapped in my direction and his mouth dropped open. His eyes popped wide and his arms started to come up.
    Adrenaline constricts the throat. This is why a person, suddenly terrified, finds himself squeaking in a high-pitched voice, or whispering, or unable even to make a sound. Manny, his recent restroom anxieties suddenly realized, had just gotten a massive dose. So although his bodyguard was just outside the door, he remained silent.
    He started to turn toward me, but it was already too late. I stepped behind him, jammed my left knee in his lower back, and jerked him toward me by the shoulders. His body folded backward around my knee. I put my foot back on the floor and swept my left arm counterclockwise around his neck so that his face was pressed against my lower rib cage and my forearm was braced against the back of his neck. I took my left wrist in my right hand, shoved his lower body forward against the urinal, and jerked up with my forearm. His spine arched to the limit of its natural give, and for a split second our forward momentum froze. Then his neck broke. The crack was loud, but not quite loud enough for the guard to have heard outside that solid mahogany entrance door. His body went rubbery and I slipped my arms under his to stop him from slumping to the floor.
    I dragged him into the closet and closed the door behind us. I patted him down, but he wasn’t armed.
    Shit.
    I thought for a moment. If the bodyguard were right outside the door, and I expected he was, I couldn’t just walk past him. He had checked the bathroom before Manny entered, and it had been empty at the time. Someone new walking out now wouldn’t figure. Anyway, the point wasn’t to get past him, it was to get his gun. If his back was to me, I might manage it despite his size. But if he saw me coming, things might get messy. If there was a commotion, even if I disarmed him and headed directly upstairs for Hilger and Al-Jib, I might already have lost the element of surprise.
    I heard the bathroom door open. I checked through the peephole: a middle-aged Chinese man in a business suit. He looked harmless, and the bodyguard must have decided it was all right for him to pass. He went into one of the stalls and closed the door.
    Another