The Last Assassin

and he must have been accustomed to guests pausing to enjoy the moment of their arrival. When I was satisfied, I nodded and followed him inside.
    The lobby was bright yet intimate, all limestone and walnut and glass. There was only one small sitting area, currently unoccupied. It seemed I had no company. My alertness stayed high, but the tension I felt dropped a notch.
    A pretty woman in a chic business suit came over with a glass of sparkling water and inquired after my journey. I told her it had been fine.
    “And your name, sir?” she asked, in lightly Catalan-accented English.
    “Ken,” I replied, giving her the name I had told Delilah I would be traveling under. “John Ken.”
    “Of course, Mr. Ken, we’ve been expecting you. Your other party has already checked in.” She nodded to a young man behind the counter, who came around and handed her a key. “We have you in room three-oh-nine—my favorite in the hotel, if I may say so, because of the views. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
    “I’m sure I will.”
    “May I have someone assist with your bag?”
    “That’s all right. I’d like to wander around a little before going to the room. See a bit of the hotel. It’s beautiful.”
    “Thank you, sir. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need.”
    I nodded my thanks and moved off. For a little while, I “wandered” around the first floor, checking everything—eclectic gift shop, low-key bar, comfortable lounge, spacious stairwells, abundant elevators—and found nothing out of place.
    I took the stairs to the third floor, paused outside 309, and listened for a moment. The room within was quiet. I placed my bag and empty glass on the ground, took off my jacket, crouched, and loudly slipped the key into the lock. Nothing. I held the jacket in front of the door and opened it a crack. Still nothing. If there was a shooter in there, he was disciplined. I shot my head over and back. I saw only a short hallway and part of a room beyond. I detected no movement.
    I stood up, eased the Benchmade from my front pocket, and silently thumbed it open. “Hello?” I called out, stepping inside.
    No answer. No sound. I let the door close. It clicked audibly behind me.
    “Hello?” I called out again.
    Nothing.
    “That’s weird…must be the wrong room,” I muttered, loudly enough to be heard. I opened the door and let it close. To anyone hiding inside, it would sound as though I had left.
    Still nothing.
    I padded down the hallway, toe-heel, pausing after each step to listen. My newly purchased soft-soled Camper shoes were silent on the polished wood floor.
    At the end of the hallway, I could see the entire room but for the bathroom. The closet door was open. Probably that was Delilah, knowing I would approach tactically and wanting to make it easier for me, but I wasn’t sure yet.
    There was a note on the bed, conspicuous in the middle of the flawless white quilt. I ignored it. If this had been my setup, I would have put the note on the bed and then nailed the target from the balcony or bathroom while he went to read it.
    The glass doors to the balcony were closed, the curtains open, and I could see no one was out there. Probably Delilah again, lowering my blood pressure.
    All that remained was the bathroom, and I started to relax a little. The worst part about clearing a room, especially if you have only a knife and the other guy might have a gun, is clearing the “fatal funnel,” where the enemy has the dominant position and a clear field of fire. In this case, narrowing down the ambush points to just the bathroom reduced my vulnerability considerably.
    I walked to the side of the open bathroom door. I paused and listened. All quiet.
    I rolled up the jacket, paused to take a deep breath, then hurled the jacket into the room. I followed an instant later, bellowing a war cry. No amount of training can eradicate the flinch response, and even the hardest-core professional will find it difficult not to momentarily track a sudden movement, especially when the movement is accompanied by a roar. The distraction might last for less than a second, but that second can make all the difference—especially if you’ve mistakenly brought a knife to a gunfight, as I might have.
    But the distraction was unnecessary. The bathroom was empty.
    I let out a long breath and walked past the glass-enclosed shower to the window. The views, as promised, were stunning: the city and the sea to one side; the snowcapped