Requiem for an Assassin

tracked them as they bounced off the corridor wall and hit the floor, his mouth wide open in surprise.
    Oh, shit, I thought again. My paranoia had finally taken me over the edge. The setup had been so perfect—he’d been a half-second away from stepping past me, unconcernedly giving me his back. Now his expression was hardening, his arms coming up, his body blading to the left, the old soldier’s instincts kicking in, readying him to fight.
    I wasn’t worried about whether I could handle him; I knew I could. But if I’d lost the element of surprise, if he fought me, there was no way it was going to look natural.
    Decades of experience and underlying instinct took over. I stepped back and in a high voice said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought…I thought you had a knife. Oh, my God, another flashback, I can’t believe this. I was mugged once, and…I’m so sorry.”
    He looked at me, confused and incredulous. No doubt part of his mind was still screaming that I was a threat, but if I were, why had I stepped back instead of pressing the attack? And my manner now was passive, even submissive in the abjectness of my tone and my apologies. Before he had a chance to put it all together, I said, “Here, let me just pick those up for you. I’m so sorry.”
    “No!” he said, his hands still up, palms forward. “No, it’s fine. I’ll get them myself.” He turned and took a step toward where the keys had landed.
    “No, really,” I said, moving with him, the words tumbling out in urgent cadences. “I feel so bad. I can’t believe this happened to me again. It’s so embarrassing. The hospital told me with the medications it wouldn’t, and it’s been three months since the last one so why would I expect a problem? But I guess I should have…”
    “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, now thoroughly convinced I was insane, and no doubt wanting more than ever just to be away from me.
    I didn’t stop my agitated rant for a second. It’s difficult to talk and attack at the same time. The average person needs to get his mind right, focus, concentrate first, even if only for a moment. Accinelli would recognize this, on some level, and would therefore find my mad logorrhea comforting by comparison with what he’d feared a moment before.
    He picked up his keys and shouldered past me. He kept his head turned toward me for an extra-long beat as he moved by, but I showed him my hands, palms forward, my arms held back, to demonstrate my harmlessness, and kept up my blathering.
    Finally, his head turned. At the instant I was in his blind side, I shot in and looped my right arm around his neck, yanking him toward me, getting him back on his heels, off his base. The inside of my elbow centered on his windpipe, just hard enough for positioning, not hard enough to crush anything. I caught my left biceps in my right palm, brought my left hand around to the back of his head, and squeezed. I had learned the technique at the Kodokan as hadaka jime, naked choke, better known in the West as a sleeper hold.
    Accinelli grunted and backed into me, trying to get his weight under him, to find his balance. His left hand scratched at my right forearm but found only the slippery neoprene gauntlet of the bicycle glove. He dropped his keys and reached back with his right, by instinct or long-ago training going for my eyes, but I buried my face in his shoulder and his scrabbling fingers were stymied by the bicycle helmet.
    It was over in less than five seconds. Some people last a bit longer, some a bit shorter, but no one can go very long once the carotids have been closed off and oxygen is no longer reaching the brain. His groping hands abruptly fell away and he slumped in my arms. I leaned back against the wall, supporting some of his weight with my body, and held him there.
    I was very conscious of how much pressure I was using. In the heat of the moment, it would be easy to apply too much, which at a minimum would cause bruises. The purpose of the choke was just to deny his brain oxygen. Anything more than that was unnecessary and would leave signs. I had a lot of experience with hadaka jime from my judo days, and always had a knack for it. I could feel just how firmly to squeeze.
    I remained like that, controlling my breathing, counting off the seconds. Someone might have come down the elevator or in through the door, but the possibility didn’t trouble me. If it happened, I would just drop Accinelli, walk away, and deal