The Last Assassin

could even feel some of the adhesive from the duct tape, where it had come off on the porcelain. But the knife itself was gone.
    Maybe someone had found it by accident. Or else airport security periodically swept public areas for contraband. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what I was going to do next.
    I got up and moved quickly to the handicap stall. It was the last one, farthest from the entrance, and, unlike the other stalls, the door on this one swung out, not in. I closed it behind me, but didn’t engage the lock. When I let it go, though, it swung slowly outward.
    Fuck. I grabbed some toilet paper, squeezed it into a small ball, and pulled the door closed on it. This time the door held.
    I opened my bag and pulled out a pair of shoes and pants. I set the shoes down in front of the toilet and piled the pants on top of them. From outside the stall, at a glance, it would look natural enough.
    I heard the swinging door open. Hot adrenaline spread through my chest and gut.
    I sat on the toilet, took hold of the handicap railing on both sides, leaned back, and raised my feet in front of me.
    In my acute state I heard the distinct sound of a folding blade clicking into place. Then another.
    Footsteps, to my left. I breathed quietly through my mouth.
    The footsteps came closer. Closer.
    The footsteps stopped directly in front of me. I saw a shape through the crack at the edge of the door. The shape started to move lower as the yakuza angled for a better peek.
    I bellowed a war cry and shot my feet into the door. It exploded outward and blasted into the yakuza’s face. He fell backward and something clattered to the floor.
    I sprang out. The other yakuza was on my left, a blade in his right hand. Before he could get over the instant of shock produced by my yell and the sight of his partner going down, I bellowed again and grabbed his wrist with both hands.
    I trained in judo at Tokyo’s famed Kodokan for a quarter century. A quarter century of daily hours of gripping and twisting the heavy cotton judogi. More recently, I’d gotten addicted to Brazilian jujitsu in Rio. And on top of all that were my hand and finger exercises. I can say without any false pride that, when I grab someone’s wrist, they might as well be caught in a bear trap.
    I squeezed hard and the yakuza howled. His knife clattered to the floor. I stepped in close, grabbed his balls with an undergrip, and squeezed as hard as I could. He shrieked and doubled over.
    The other guy was on his knees now, groping for his knife under the sinks. I grabbed him by his leather jacket and hauled him back. He tried to catch me with a donkey kick, but I’d anticipated that and was too far to his side. The kick snapped past me. I scooted toward his head, braced my hands on his back, and shot a knee into his face. He fell back. I dropped down, grabbed the knife, and rolled to my feet.
    The other guy was staggering for the door now, still doubled over. I snagged one of his pants legs at the ankle and yanked it back toward me. He went sprawling forward onto his face. I did a knee drop onto his spine, mashed his face into the floor, and brought the knife up under his neck. I dug in, then tore out and away.
    There was a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. I jumped back to get clear of the blood and turned to his partner. He was on his ass now, scuttling backward. His face was a bloody mess—from the door shot or the knee or both, I didn’t know.
    He bumped up against the wall and started to struggle to his feet. I kicked him in the balls and he folded forward with a grunt. I stepped behind him, hooked my fingers into his eyes, and hauled his head back. Then I brought the knife around and practically took his head off. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound and I shoved him away from me. He crashed into one of the stall doors and went down.
    I looked at myself in the mirror. There was blood all over me. The jacket I was wearing was dark enough to conceal the problem, though, and I zipped it up higher. I rinsed my shaking hands under one of the faucets, closed the knife, and shoved it into a pants pocket. Then I rinsed my face and wet my hair, getting the blood off and changing my appearance at the same time.
    The swinging doors opened. I glanced over. A black man in a suit started to walk inside. He froze when he saw the tableau. “Oh, my God,” he said.
    “I was attacked,” I said, in a high, frightened voice, looking at his feet to make it