The Kill Room

assumed very deep.
    “A diver’d be good.”
    “Our official divers wouldn’t be available, Captain,” Poitier said regretfully. “Since this, of course, isn’t even an investigation.”
    “Just an island tour.”
    “Yes, exactly.”
    Rhyme wheeled close to the edge and looked down.
    “Careful there,” Thom called.
    “But,” Poitier said, “I dive. I could come back and see if there is anything down there. Borrow some of the underwater lights from our waterside station.”
    “You would do that, Corporal?”
    He too peered into the water. “Yes. Tomorrow, I—”
    What happened next happened fast.
    Finger-snap fast.
    At the sound of clattering suspension and a hissing, badly firing engine, Rhyme, Thom and Poitier turned to look at the dirt road they’d just driven down. They saw the gold Mercury bounding directly toward them, now with only two occupants in it.
    And Rhyme understood. He glanced back, seeing the man in the gray T-shirt , the litterer from the pickup truck, race across the narrow road and tackle Poitier as he was drawing his gun. The weapon went flying. The assailant rose fast and kicked the gasping corporal in the side and head, hard.
    “No!” Rhyme cried.
    The Mercury squealed to a stop and two of the men they’d seen following earlier leapt out—the one with the dreads in the sleeveless yellow shirt and his partner, shorter, wearing the green T. The man in green ripped Thom’s phone from his hand and doubled him over with a blow to the belly.
    “Don’t!” Rhyme shouted—a cry as involuntary as it was pointless.
    The man in the gray T-shirt said to his partners, “Okay, you see anyone else?”
    “No.”
    Of course, that’s why he was on the phone. He hadn’t come here to pitch out trash at all. He’d followed them and used the phone to let the others know their victims had arrived at the killing site.
    Poitier gasped for breath, clutching his side.
    Rhyme said firmly, “We’re police officers from the United States. We work with the FBI. Don’t make this worse on yourself. Just leave now.”
    It was as if he hadn’t spoken.
    The man in gray walked toward Poitier’s pistol, lying in the dust ten feet away.
    “Stop,” Rhyme commanded.
    The man did. He blinked at the criminalist. The other attackers froze. They were looking at the Glock in Rhyme’s hand. The pistol was unsteady, for sure, but from this distance he could easily send a bullet into the torso of the assailant.
    The man lifted his hands slightly, rising. Eyes on the pistol. Back to Rhyme. “Okay, okay, mister. Don’t do with that.”
    “All of you, step back and lie down on the ground, facedown.”
    The two who’d been in the car turned their eyes on the man in gray.
    Nobody moved.
    “I’m not going to tell you again.” Rhyme wondered what the recoil would do to his hand. He supposed there might be some damage to the tendons. But all he needed after the shot was to keep the weapon in his grip. The others would flee after he’d killed their leader.
    Thinking of the Special Task Order. No due process, no trial. Self-defense. Taking a life before your enemy did.
    “You gonna shoot me, sir?” The man was studying him, suddenly defiant.
    Rhyme rarely had a chance to meet adversaries face-to-face. They were usually long gone from the crime scene by the time he saw them, which was usually in court where he was an expert witness for the prosecution. Still, he had no trouble staring down the man in gray.
    His partner, the one in yellow, the one with the impressive muscles, stepped forward but stopped fast when Rhyme spun the gun toward him.
    “Hokay, easy, mon, easy.” Hands raised.
    Rhyme aimed again at the leader, whose eyes were fixed on the weapon, his hands up. He smiled. “Are you? Are you going to shoot me, sir? I’m not so sure you are.” He stepped forward a few feet. Paused. And then walked directly toward Rhyme.
    There was nothing more to say.
    Rhyme tensed, hoping the recoil wouldn’t damage the results of the delicate surgery, hoping he could keep the weapon in his hand. He sent the command to close his index finger.
    But nothing happened.
    Glocks—dependable, Austrian-made pistols—have a trigger pull of only a few pounds pressure.
    Yet Rhyme couldn’t muster that, couldn’t deliver enough strength to save the life of his aide and the police officer who’d risked his job to help him.
    The man in gray continued forward, perhaps assuming Rhyme lacked the fortitude to shoot, even as