RainStorm

double set of green doors just ahead and on the left.
    They were propped open; beyond them was a loading area in front
    of a freight elevator. At the top of the escalator I shot ahead, out of
    the field of vision of the men behind me, and ducked left into the
    loading area. I moved left again and hugged the wall, wedged partly
    behind one of the open doors, looking out through the gap at the
    hinged end. From here I would see them as they moved past. I
    tested the door and found it satisfyingly mobile and heavy. If they
    saw me and tried to move inside, I'd slam the door into them and
    attack with the flail as best I could. But it would be better if they
    went past me entirely.
    They did. I watched them moving through the gap in the door.
    When the last had gone by, I took three deep breaths, giving them
    another couple of seconds.
    I moved out. Adrenaline flowed through my gut and limbs.
    There they were, stopped where the corridor ended in a "T," looking
    left and right, trying to make out which way I had gone among
    the thick crowds of shoppers to both sides. They were clustered up
    tight, the guy in the middle slightly ahead of the other two. Probably
    they thought proximity would afford them safety in numbers.
    In fact, they were turning themselves into a single target.
    When I was six meters away, the one in the center and slightly
    ahead of the other two started to turn. Maybe to consult; maybe, if
    he had any sense, to check his back. I increased my pace, hurrying
    now, needing to close the distance before he turned and saw that
    his understanding of who was hunting and who was hunted had
    become suddenly and fatally inaccurate.
    When I was four meters out, the lead guy completed his turn.
    He started to say something to one of his comrades. Then his eyes
    shifted to me. His head froze. His eyes widened. His mouth started
    to open.
    Three meters. I felt a fresh adrenaline dump in my torso, my
    limbs.
    His partners must have seen his face. Their shoulders tensed,
    their heads began to turn.
    Two meters. The guy to my right was closest. He was turning to
    his left, toward whatever had made his partner start to bug out. I
    saw the left side of his face as he came around, slowly, everything
    moving slowly through my adrenalized vision.
    One meter. I stepped in with my left foot, bringing my left
    arm up across my body, partly as defense, partly as counterbalance. I
    let my right hand drift back, the flail uncoiling on the way, then
    whipped my arm around, the palm side of my fist up, my elbow
    leading the way, my hips pivoting in as though I was doing a one-armed
    warm-up with a baseball bat. The weighted end sailed
    around and cracked into the back of his skull with a beautiful bass
    note thud. For a split instant, his body completely relaxed but he
    stayed upright--he was out on his feet. Then he started to slide
    down to the ground.
    The flail swung past him, my body coiling counterclockwise
    with the continued momentum of the blow, the flail wrapping itself
    halfway around my thigh. The guy to my left had now completed
    his turn. I saw him look at me, the universal expression for
    "oh shit" moving across his face, his right hand going for the inside
    of his jacket. Too late. I snapped my hips to the right and backhanded
    the flail around. He saw it coming, but was too focused on
    deploying his weapon and couldn't concentrate on getting out of
    the way. It caught him in the side of the neck--not as solid a shot
    as his buddy had received but good enough for my purposes. I saw
    his eyes lose focus and knew I'd have at least a couple seconds before
    he was back in the game.
    The third guy was smarter, and had more time and space to react.
    While I was dealing with the other two, he had stepped back
    and gotten himself out of swinging range. He was groping inside
    his jacket now, his eyes wide, his movements frantic. The flail was
    passing between us, back to my right side. I saw him pulling something
    out of the jacket with his right hand. I let the flail's momentum
    bring it around and under, releasing my grip at the last instant
    and sending the whole thing sailing toward him like a softball pitch
    aimed at the batter. He saw it coming and jerked partly out of the
    way, but it caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled and managed
    to get out a silenced pistol, a big one, trying at the same time to regain
    his balance. But his motor skills were suffering from a large and
    probably unfamiliar dose of adrenaline,