The Last Assassin

will still be there. Depending on what I find, we'll figure out what to do next.'
    'Yeah, but…'
    'Look, I need your car to move Wong's body regardless. So you get the car and while you're doing that, I'll just check out the restaurant.'
    'You're not going to do anything without me?'
    'Have I ever?'
    He laughed. 'I lost sight of old Wong tonight for all of ten seconds. When I turned the corner, there he was, already dead. So no, you've never done anything without me.'
    'The knife,' I reminded him.
    He wrapped it in a napkin and slid it across the table.
    'All right,' I said. 'Let's do it.'

9

    D ox went to get his car and I caught a cab to the northern edge of Chinatown. The streets were quiet. I walked to Columbus Park and looked in the restaurant. What I saw there was classic good news/bad news. The good news was, Chan was there. The bad news was, he was playing cards with two other hard-looking Chinese men. Probably mid-level gang members.
    I watched and waited, shivering in the cold. At a little before four o'clock, the men got up. Okay.
    My phone buzzed. I took it out and opened it. 'Yeah.'
    'Got the car and I'm in the neighborhood. What's your status?'
    'Watching and waiting.'
    'He in there?'
    'Yeah, with two other guys. But I think they're getting ready to leave.'
    'Why don't I swing by? I've got my rifle right here with me. From the park, I can reach out and touch all three.'
    'No, I told you, a shooting's no good.'
    'Look, man, you've got three guys to deal with there. You need some kind of backup, a plan B. You're parachuting without a reserve, partner.'
    The men walked toward the door.
    'They're coming out,' I said. 'So it's too late to stage something from the park, anyway. I'm going to stick with Chan. Just stay in the car, stay mobile.'
    'But…'
    I closed the phone and took out the knife. The three men reached the door.
    There's a horrible intimacy to all forms of face-to-face killing. Firearms, impact weapons, bare hands… they all carry a cost. But a knife is the worst. Partly it's the blood. Partly it's the sounds a man makes when he's dying of knife wounds. Partly it's the almost sexual act of penetration. I know soldiers who've cut men's throats in war and who can no longer change their own engine oil as a result. It's the feel of it on their hands.
    I would have done it another way if another way had existed. Christ, the thought of Dox dropping the three of them from a hundred yards out was practically seductive. But if I could just get close to Chan, alone…
    The men came through the door. Chan turned and locked it, then pulled down a graffiti-covered corrugated metal gate and locked that, too. They all headed north on Mulberry. I paralleled them from inside the park.
    At the corner of Bayard, the two men continued north. Chan went right.
    I took a deep breath and let it out.
Okay
.
    I emerged from the park and started closing in on Chan. I glanced left. The two men were moving away, their backs to me. I crossed Mulberry. Twenty feet. Ten.
    The quickest, surest, and, from behind him, cleanest way would have been to cut his throat. But I didn't want this to look military or otherwise professional. I wanted it to look like something a hotheaded gangbanger had done in the grip of resentment and rage.
    Five feet. I moved noiselessly toe-heel on the sidewalk.
    Chan stopped and started to reach into his coat pocket. I knew he hadn't heard me, so I doubted he was going for a weapon. More likely a smoke. Although at this point it made no difference either way.
    I clapped my left hand over his mouth and pulled him back onto his heels. My right hand was already coming forward, the Balisong in a hammer grip. I plunged the blade in and out of his right side, again and again and again, hitting his liver probably five times in two seconds. I made sure to stay below his ribs and above his pelvis. A Balisong is at its best for slashing, not stabbing, and if I hit bone my hand might slip forward right over the blade. Then I came around under his zyphoid process and stabbed upward and to the left to lacerate his right ventricle.
    I spun him around and slashed his face. He got his arms up but I didn't care, I was just trying to make the attack look personal. Then I pushed him away, and he spilled to the ground. The attack had been so sudden, and the pain likely so shocking, that he hadn't made a sound. From the wounds I had given him I knew he'd be unconscious from blood loss inside twenty seconds and dead in