RainStorm

us.
    He started to step back into the elevator. His hand reached out
    for the buttons.
    It happened fast. I didn't think about it, didn't think about the
    risk. I leaped into the elevator and body-checked him into the wall.
    His head slammed against the wood paneling and bounced off. He
    got his arms up on the rebound and grabbed at me. I returned the
    favor, catching his shoulders with an inside grip and shooting a
    knee into his balls. He doubled over with a loud grunt. I stepped
    behind him and slipped my left arm around his neck in hadakajime, the inside of my elbow pressing up against his trachea, my biceps
    digging into his carotid. I put the same side hand over my right biceps
    and brought my right hand to the back of his head. I squeezed
    hard. He struggled wildly for less than three seconds, then went
    limp, the blood supply to his brain interrupted.
    Delilah had stepped into the elevator with us. The doors were
    closing--she must have pressed the button. "Five," I said. "Hit five."
    She did as I asked. But had she moved inside to help this guy,
    then hesitated when she saw that it was impossible? I wasn't sure.
    As soon as the doors closed, I released the choke and hoisted his
    limp body onto my shoulder. If we were seen now and we played
    it right, someone might think I was just carrying a friend who'd
    passed out from too much drinking. Not an ideal scenario, but less
    problematic than being seen dragging the guy by his ankles with his
    face blue and contorted.
    "That's him," she said. "The one I overhead in the lobby."
    I nodded. Maybe it was true. Maybe he'd gotten antsy when no
    one was checking in or returning his calls, and had decided to
    move on.
    Second floor. Third. Fourth. No stops along the way.
    The doors opened on five and we filed out and started walking
    down the hallway. Still all clear.
    I felt the guy's limbs begin to move in what I recognized as a series
    of myotonic twitches. It happens sometimes when someone
    emerges from an unconsciousness induced by blood flow interruption.
    I'd seen it many times training judo at the Kodokan and recognized
    the signs. He was waking up. Shit.
    I leaned forward and dumped him on the ground. His arms and
    legs were jerking now, his eyes starting to blink.
    I stood behind him and sat him up. Then I leaned over his left side
    until we were almost chest to chest, wrapped my right arm around his
    neck from front to back, grabbed my right wrist with the other hand,
    and arched up and back. His arms flew up, then spasmed and flopped
    to his sides as the cervical vertebrae separated and his neck broke.
    I took hold of one of his jacket lapels and stepped in front of
    him. Lifting and hauling back on the lapel, I went to my knees,
    snaked my head under his armpit, then stood, shrugging him up by
    degrees until I had him up in a fireman's carry. I reached into my
    pants pocket and pulled out my room key. "Here," I said, flipping
    it to Delilah. "Five-oh-four. Open the door."
    She caught it smoothly and headed off down the hallway.
    I stayed with her. I wanted to see whether that hair had been
    disturbed. I stopped her outside the door and squinted down to see.
    The hair was broken. Which didn't prove anything more than
    her cleared cell phone had; it simply failed to prove that she had
    been lying about someone being in my room.
    My next thought, of course, was bomb. The guy goes in, plants
    it, gets out. No timer, because they didn't know when I was coming
    back. It would be rigged, to the door, a drawer, something like
    that. Backup in case the ambush in Hong Kong failed.
    Delilah must have been thinking the same thing. That, or she
    was doing a good job acting. She was running her fingers lightly
    along the doorjamb, tracking closely with her eyes. I didn't think a
    device, if there was one, would be triggered to the door. First,
    you'd need sophistication to pull it off: mercury switches, vibration
    switches, a way of arming the device electronically afterward for
    safety. Simpler means would require time spent outside the door,
    where the technician could be seen. In all events, working with the
    door would likely mean less time and less privacy than would be
    offered by the many other possibilities inside.
    Still, it paid to check. Triggering a device to the door would ordinarily
    leave some evidence in the jamb, where the bomb maker
    would have placed something that would close a circuit when the
    door was opened.
    Delilah stopped, apparently satisfied,