Requiem for an Assassin

said.
    This time I was the one to laugh. “You’re right. You want to know where he is? Dox. Take him out.”
    Hilger had spent enough time in the military, and was sufficiently acquainted with Dox’s deadly skills, for the words take him out to have an almost Pavlovian effect. Klaxons were going off in his mind now: Rain must be wearing commo gear, Dox is close by with a scoped rifle, where’s the line of sight, get off the X—
    I spun and rushed him. I was five feet away when the first slug hit my chest. I felt like I’d run into a tree, and the air was driven out of my lungs. He got off two more, both to my torso, and then I had both hands wrapped around the gun. I twisted hard to the left, forcing the muzzle out to his right. He rotated his body to keep his wrist from breaking, and two more shots went off to the side. We struggled with the gun.
    I couldn’t draw breath. It felt like I’d been kicked by a horse, by three horses. Hilger snapped a knee into my groin and pain rocketed through my abdomen. I got a hand around the long suppressor and shoved back and over, toward Hilger’s right shoulder. He couldn’t get out of the way, and he couldn’t let go. His wrist snapped. He howled and I tore the gun away from him.
    I took a step back, and with my last strength blasted a desperate side kick into his knee. He yelled again and collapsed. I fell to my knees a few feet away, fumbling with the pistol, trying to breathe, breathe…
    I bobbled the gun and dropped it in the mud. Hilger, his face a rictus of pain, was struggling with his belt buckle with his left hand. I remembered Saigon, and thought, belt knife.
    Of course, no backup pistol. That’s what I’d seen in the dead guy’s hand.
    Breathe, breathe…
    I groped for the gun. I couldn’t find it. The outer edges of my vision were going dark.
    Hilger twisted the buckle, and suddenly there was a blade in his hand.
    I gritted my teeth, and with all my strength tried to suck air into my lungs. No go. Tiny red dots danced before my eyes. My phony command to Dox had unbalanced Hilger enough to deny him the time and the focus to shoot for my head or pelvic girdle, but the rounds had reverberated through the Dragon Skin to hammer my diaphragm into spasm. The knee to my groin had made it worse. My brain wasn’t getting oxygen, and it was beginning to shut down.
    Hilger slid toward me, the knife in his left hand, his left forearm digging into the mud, pulling himself forward like an injured reptile.
    I rubbed frantically at my diaphragm. A tiny whistle of air made its way into my lungs.
    Hilger slashed with the knife. I fell away from him to my back, getting my feet between us, still rubbing, trying to coax my diaphragm out of spasm. Another snatch of air stole down my throat, like a prisoner dashing across a mine field.
    Another slash. The blade hit my boot. I drew a tiny, hitching breath. Hilger screamed and slashed again. Again he hit a boot.
    I put my hands down to shove away from him, and my right fingers touched cold metal. The gun. I grabbed it and kicked away to create a precious extra two feet, then got it out in front of me with my right hand, my left still massaging my abdomen. I drew an inch of breath. Then another. The red dots disappeared, and the darkness retreated.
    Hilger saw the gun, saw that he couldn’t reach me. His body sagged and he dropped the knife in the mud.
    We sat there like that, neither of us able to move. After a few moments, Hilger laughed and said, “I guess you are bulletproof, after all. Body armor, right?”
    I didn’t answer. I was still working on getting my breath back.
    We sat there like that for almost a minute, neither of us able to move. When I could finally speak, I sighted down the muzzle and said, “Tell me how to disarm it.”
    He smiled. “Then you haven’t yet. You were lying.”
    “I don’t know. Somebody’s been working on it. Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”
    He laughed.
    I thought about calling Boaz. But without Hilger’s cooperation, there was nothing I could do to help him. And a phone call could distract him at a delicate moment. I would have to wait.
    “Who are you working for?” I asked. “AQ? Hamas? Hezbollah?”
    He laughed again.
    “What?” I said.
    “I work for my country.”
    “I don’t get it.”
    He sighed. “Someone has to deny America’s enemies their funding, Rain. How can the country prevail against radical Islam while simultaneously underwriting it?”
    “What