RainStorm

"You're the
    right guy, right? They told me someone would be waiting for me."
    "Yes, yes," he said again. "I am the right guy."
    So many "yeses" in a row. We'd established the proper momentum.
    A group of three Hong Kong Chinese emerged from the terminal.
    I watched them walk past us as though I was concerned that
    they might hear us, then said, "Let's talk over there." I gestured to
    the external wall of the terminal, where we could stand without
    being seen from inside the building. I walked the few steps over and
    waited. A moment later, he followed.
    Damn, if I could maneuver him just a little more, get him to a
    slightly quieter place, I might even manage to interrogate him.
    That would be ideal, but also far riskier than the relatively straightforward
    approach I had in mind. I considered for a moment, then
    decided it wouldn't be worth it.
    "From the look on your face," I said, "I'm getting the feeling
    that you haven't heard."
    "Heard what? I'm sorry, I'm not understanding you."
    The Hong Kong group was now out of earshot and still walking
    away. The plaza was momentarily empty.
    "Yes, I can see that," I said. "All right, let's just go back to the
    hotel. We'll straighten everything out there."
    That sounded harmless enough. His compatriots would be positioned
    at the hotel. They could explain to him what the hell was
    going on. Besides, he was half a head taller than me, and probably
    outweighed me by forty or fifty pounds. What did he have to
    worry about?
    He nodded.
    "Okay, let's go," I said. I moved as though to walk off toward the
    causeway, then turned back to him. "Good God, is that bird shit on
    your shoulder?" I asked, staring as though in disbelief.
    "Hmm?" he said, his gaze automatically going to the spot I had
    indicated.
    That's the trouble with wearing four-thousand-dollar cashmere
    jackets. You panic at the littlest things.
    As he turned his face back toward me, I shot my left hand behind
    his neck and snapped his head forward and down. At the same
    instant, I swept my right arm past his neck and around it, encircling
    it clockwise, bringing my right forearm under his chin and catching
    it with my left hand. The back of his head was now pinned
    against my chest. I tried to arch back, but the bastard was so big and
    strong that I couldn't get the leverage I needed.
    I felt his hands on my waist, groping, trying frantically to push
    me away. All the muscles of his neck had popped into sharp and
    cable-like relief. We struggled like that for a long couple of seconds.
    Twice I tried to shoot in with my hips, but that was exactly
    the movement he was in mortal fear of at the moment and I
    couldn't get past his massive arms.
    Okay, change of plans. I took a long step back, jerking him forward
    and down. He lost tactile contact with my hips and flailed
    with his arms, trying desperately to reacquire me. Too late. I dropped
    to my back under him and arched into a throw. There was a moment
    of structural resistance, and it seemed that the musculature of
    his neck bulged out even larger. Then I felt his neck snap and his
    body was sailing over me, suddenly limp and lifeless.
    I twisted to my right and he hit the concrete past me and to the
    side with a thud that felt like a small earthquake. I let go and scrambled
    to my feet. He was on his back, his head canted crazily to one
    side, his tongue protruding, the limbs twitching from some last,
    random surge of electrical signals to the muscles.
    This time I didn't bother checking the pockets. I had a feeling I
    wouldn't find anything more useful than what I had already, and
    didn't want to take a chance on being seen with or even near the
    corpse.
    I moved off, across the plaza and down the causeway, my heart
    slamming bass notes through my torso and down to my hands and
    feet. I breathed deeply through my nose, trying not to let my internal
    agitation break through to the surface, where it might be noticed
    and draw attention.
    Someone was leaning over the railing up ahead, smoking a cigarette.
    As I got closer I saw who it was: the spotter from the Mandarin
    Oriental lobby, the one who'd gone all squinty-eyed on me
    that morning. He was looking past me, maybe trying to figure out
    what had happened to his buddy, who should have been trailing in
    my wake. As I got closer he turned his head back to center, just a
    guy hanging out on the causeway, enjoying a cigarette, taking in
    the scenery, watching the traffic cruising up and down the four-lane
    street