RainStorm

pastel-colored porticos of
    the Portuguese-style storefronts, incongruous amid the surrounding
    Asian sounds and scents. I followed from about ten meters back.
    Hong Kong pop blared urgently from a storefront. The smells of
    roasted pork and sticky rice wafted on the air. Thick groups of
    shoppers drifted back and forth around us, chatting, laughing, enjoying
    the comfortable closeness of the arcade and the carefree camaraderie
    of the evening.
    We moved off Senado and onto quieter streets. Karate browsed
    among the street stalls--fruit, lingerie, traditional That costumes at
    three for a Hong Kong dollar--but bought nothing. He seemed to
    be heading in the direction of St. Paul's, the site of a once-splendid
    Portuguese church, over the centuries gutted again and again by
    fire, and standing now only as a sad facade, a haunted relic, illuminated
    at night like a bleached skeleton propped at the apex of a
    long series of steep stairs, where it broods in ruined majesty over
    the city that has grown like weeds around it.
    Gradually our surroundings became more residential. We passed
    wide, open doorways. These I checked automatically, but they offered
    no danger, only miscellaneous domestic scenes: four elderly women
    absorbed in a game of mahjong; a group of boys surrounding a television;
    a family at the supper table. We passed an old shrine, its red
    paint peeling in the tropical moisture. Incense from the brazier within
    pervaded my senses with the recollected emotions of childhood.
    Karate reached the corner of the street and turned right. In this
    warren of dim alcoves and alleyways, I could easily lose him if he
    developed distance, and I increased my pace to stay with him. I
    turned the same corner he had gone past a moment earlier--and
    nearly ran right into him.
    He'd turned the corner and stopped--a classic counter surveillance
    move, and hard to beat if you're -working solo. No wonder
    he'd been taking it easy: the tunnel stunt had been a false finish to
    the run, and I'd fallen for it. Shit.
    I felt an adrenaline dump. Audio faded out. Movement slowed
    down.
    Our eyes locked, and for a suspended second we stood totally
    still. I saw his brow begin to furrow. I've seen this guy, I knew he was
    thinking. At the hotel.
    His weight shifted back into a defensive stance. His left hand
    pulled forward the left lapel of his jacket. His right reached toward
    the gap.
    Toward a weapon, no doubt. Shit.
    I stepped in close and grabbed his right lower sleeve with my
    left hand, pulling it away from his body to prevent him from deploying
    whatever he had in his jacket. With my right I took hold
    of his left lapel and thrust it up under his chin. His reaction was
    good: he stepped back with his left leg to regain his balance and
    open up distance, from which he might be able to employ something
    from his karate arsenal. But I wasn't going to give him that
    chance. I caught his right heel with my right foot and used my fist
    in his throat to shove him back in kouchigari, a basic judo throw. His
    balance ruined and his foot trapped, he went straight back, his left
    arm pinwheeling uselessly. I maintained my tight hold on his right
    arm and twisted counterclockwise as we fell, keeping my right elbow
    positioned squarely over his diaphragm, nailing it hard as we
    hit the pavement.
    I scrambled to his right side, raised my right hand high, and shot
    a hammer-fist toward his nose. His reflexes were good, though, despite
    the shock of hitting the ground. He turned his head and deflected
    the blow with his left hand.
    Still, he was out of his element on the ground, and quickly
    made a mistake. Rather than dealing with the immediate threat-- my dominant position and freedom to attack--he went for his
    weapon again. I swam my right arm inside his right and jerked it
    back into a chicken wing. He sensed an opening and tried to sit up,
    but I felt that coming. Using the chicken wing to arrest his forward momentum, I swept my left arm around his head counterclockwise,
    from front to back, locked my hands behind his near shoulder
    blade, and leaned back, the back of my arm pressing down
    against his face. The move bent his neck back to the limit of its natural
    range of motion and took his shoulder half out of its socket,
    but I went no further. I only wanted to make him comply, not kill
    him. At least not yet.
    "Who are you working for?" I said.
    In response, he only struggled. I put some additional pressure on
    his neck, but quickly