The Last Assassin

gestured to the sumos. The other two stood off to the side, watching the sumos warily. One of the giant men picked up the cargo bag and came closer, his buddy following from behind, no doubt to provide cover if something went wrong. As indeed it soon would.
    I eased out from behind the Cadillac and moved silently toward the water.
    The Chinese unzipped one of the bags, presumably to show the lead sumo the product inside.
    I reached the surf ten meters down from them and went in up to my knees. The water was cold but I barely felt it. I started moving in from their flank, crouching low, the HK out at chin level in a two-handed grip. I moved deliberately, trading speed for stealth, wanting to get as close as possible. If I failed to drop them all instantly, whoever I missed might return fire on whatever muzzle flash escaped my suppressor, and I was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of panicked triad members spraying bullets in my uncovered general direction from a stone’s throw away.
    There was a soft crack from somewhere behind us. The rear sumo cried out and slapped a hand to his neck with a loud thwack.
    Everyone froze and looked at him.
    I crept in closer. Four meters now.
    If the lead sumo hadn’t turned, too, I expected the Chinese would have dropped him then and there. But his hands were out and he seemed as surprised as they were.
    The rear sumo took an unsteady step forward. The lead Chinese yelled something, a warning, presumably, and backed away.
    Three meters.
    The lead sumo started to turn back to the Chinese, his hand going to his jacket.
    There was another soft crack. Instead of reaching into his jacket, the sumo cried out and grabbed his neck.
    The C0 2 cartridges produced no muzzle flash. And in the dark and rain, it was impossible to tell where the sounds of fire had come from, or even what they were.
    The sumos were both staggering now. The Chinese were all watching with the internationally approved expression for What the fuck? frozen on their faces.
    The first sumo sank to his knees. The other stumbled into him and tripped. The Chinese scattered, and the falling sumo landed on his partner like a tree felled by a logger. The ground shook with the impact, and, as one, the Chinese cried out and pulled out machine pistols. They pointed them first at the sumo pile, then, their higher brains perhaps getting a word in edgewise, started looking around wildly, their eyes wide in the dark.
    I put the infrared laser on the head of the man farthest from me. I saw the dot clearly in the night-vision goggles. Without the goggles, I knew, the dot was invisible. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and rolled my trigger finger in.
    Pfffttt. The .45 round caught him in the side of the head and he flopped soundlessly forward onto the ground.
    Pfffttt. The second guy went down the same way.
    The third guy looked at his fallen comrades. Then, possibly realizing what had happened, he started to wheel around toward me.
    Too late. I shot him in the head, too, and he collapsed beside the others.
    I scanned the beach. A few meters away the sumos were still piled one on top of the other, both facedown. I realized with a start that the guy on the bottom might be suffocating. His face was in the mud, and large as he was, that was a hell of a load bearing down on him from above. If he suffocated, this wasn’t going to look the way we needed it to look. I signaled to Dox to come in, and started wading ashore.
    I walked up from behind and prodded them each with a wet boot. No response. Okay, they were out. I secured the HK in the holster and felt under their jackets. The lead guy had reached for something at one point, so I knew they were carrying. There it was, a pistol in his unending waistband. I pulled it out and flung it into the surf, then, in spite of all the folds of flesh, managed to repeat the operation for the other guy.
    I grabbed the top guy’s wrist. I pulled hard but it was like trying to uproot a tree.
    Shit, the bottom guy was definitely eating mud. I pulled hard again. Again he didn’t budge.
    A moment later, Dox reached my position. “Nice shooting,” he said. “One shot, one kill. Or in this case three shots, three kills.”
    “Give me a hand with this guy,” I said, still trying to pull the sumo by the wrist. “I think he’s smothering the one underneath him.”
    “Ah, shit.” Dox dropped the tranquilizer rifle and grabbed the sumo by the arm. We managed to pull him partly off his partner,