The Last Assassin

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 not much more than that. Even a paramedic team right around the corner couldn’t save him now.
    I continued around him, heading toward Bowery. I folded up the Balisong and dropped it in my coat pocket. It was covered in blood and so was I. Not a surprise and nothing I could do about it at the moment.
    I ducked into an alley just west of Bowery, pulled out the phone, and called Dox. My hands were shaking.
    He picked up instantly. “What’s going on?”
    “Pick me up at Bayard and Bowery. Northwest corner.”
    “Be there in less than a minute.”
    “I’m a little messy.”
    “Damn it, I knew you were going to do something by yourself. All right, I’ll put some newspaper down.”
    I looked at my clothes and thought, Better be the Sunday fucking Times.
    “What are you driving?” I asked.
    “Dodge Ram Quad Cab. Black.”
    “Just slow down when you get to the corner. You won’t see me at first.”
    “Roger that. I’m turning on Bowery from Canal now. You should spot me in a second.”
    I peeked out from the alley. There he was.
    “I see you,” I said. “I’m hanging up.”
    I clicked off and walked out to Bowery. The passenger door opened and I reached it just as Dox was tossing a thick wool blanket onto the seat. We opened it enough to cover the seat and floor and I got in. Dox glanced at me and took off.
    “Yeah, you are a mess,” he said. “Good thing I come prepared. That blanket there has seen its share of bodily fluids over the years, mine and a variety of lucky ladies’, but not any blood before that I know of.”
    “I’ll get you one just like it. There’s a Salvation Army place north of Delancey.”
    He chuckled, cool as ever. “Where to?”
    “The Dumpster. If it’s clear, I’m going to get rid of Wong.”
    “You leave the knife near Chan’s body just now?”
    “No. That would be too obvious. Besides, I’ve handled it too much. It’s