RainStorm

relaxed it, lest he conclude that I was trying
    to finish him, in which case I couldn't reasonably expect him to cooperate.
    He got the message and the struggling stopped. Not likely that
    he practiced any kata that involved being held on the ground in a
    neck crank. "Je ne comprends pas," I heard him say, his body tense in
    my grip.
    Bullshit you don't comprehend, pal, I thought. I just heard you watching
    CN fucking N.
    "Pour. . . Pour qui travaillez-vous?" I tried asking.
    "Je ne comprends pas," he said again.
    All right, the hell with it. I squeezed again, harder than before,
    holding the pressure a second longer this time before backing off.
    "Last time," I said in English. "Tell me who you work for or
    you're done."
    "All... all right," I heard him say, his voice muffled by my arm
    across his face. I leaned forward slightly to hear better.
    As I did so, he arched into me and jerked sharply upward with
    his right arm, trying to get clear of the chicken wing, to reach
    whatever he had in his jacket. I shifted to the left and yanked the
    arm back hard. But his move had only been a feint, and as I shifted
    I saw, too late, that his true intention had been to reach for his belt
    with his other hand. Before I could stop him, in one smooth motion
    he had popped a button on the leather and yanked free the
    buckle, which was attached to a double-edged steel blade.
    Fuck. Without thinking I arched savagely back, pressing my left
    forearm hard across the back of his neck and squeezing with the
    strength of both arms. There was a split instant of raw corporeal resistance,
    and then his neck snapped and his body spasmed in my
    arms. The knife clattered to the ground.
    I laid him out on the pavement and quickly patted him down.
    My hands were shaking from the effects of adrenaline. I was suddenly
    aware of my heart, pounding crazily inside me. Damn, that
    had been a nice move. He'd nearly gotten away with it.
    He was traveling light: no wallet, no ID. Just his hotel key in a
    pants pocket and there, in a shoulder holster, what he'd been reaching
    for when he saw me. A Heckler & Koch Mark 23. Attached to
    it, a Knights Armament suppressor, one of the two models H&K
    approves for the Mark 23.
    A belt knife and a silenced H&K. I doubted that he just waltzed
    them through airport security on his way to Macau, although I
    supposed it was possible the security guards were too preoccupied
    with nail clippers and cuticle scissors to notice. Still, my guess was
    that the mysterious Mr. Nuchi had local contacts, and that the
    weapons had been waiting for him or were otherwise procured after
    he had arrived. I filed the thought away for later consideration.
    There was nothing else that could tell me more about who he
    was or who had sent him. Or who he had been on his way to meet.
    I stood and glanced around me. Left, right. Nothing. The street
    was graveyard still.
    I moved off into the shadows, my head reflexively sweeping
    right and left as I walked, searching for danger. I left the weapons,
    having little use for them in the current operation and not wishing
    to contaminate myself with anything connected to what the police
    might find at the crime scene. After a while, my pulse began to slow.
    Who the hell was he? Who had he been on his way to meet? I
    hated the feeling of knowing so little about him. A name-- Nuchi--which might have been an alias. And a probable nationality.
    But no more.
    But I supposed that, overall, it wasn't a bad outcome. I was
    nearly certain that, regardless of who had sent him, Karate had
    been here to take out Belghazi. That was no longer a possibility.
    And things certainly could have turned out worse. If he'd had
    that H&K out when I'd first turned the corner, instead of reaching
    for it afterward, it might have been me lying back there in the dark.
    I stayed on the narrow streets, the dark alleys. My pulse slowed
    more. My hands settled. The buildings to either side seemed to
    grow taller, and the weak light dimmer, until I felt as though I was
    zigzagging along the channel of a steep ravine, a dark urban gorge
    cut through the faded concrete facades by a long-vanished river.
    The rusted fire escapes were escarpments of rock, the hanging
    laundry tangled vines, a lone sodium-arc roof light a yellowed, gibbous
    moon.
    I made my way back to the hotel. By the time I reached the rear
    entrance, my heart rate was normal again. I started thinking ahead,
    thinking about Belghazi.
    Right, Belghazi. The main