there was no other way to do it. Better to endure some nasty cuts than die.
As he had anticipated, the gunman had released his hold on the woman, too preoccupied by the pain and by the ringing in his ears to maintain custody of her. When the woman screaming in terror, slipped away from him, Harry fired a second round, this time at the man himself.
The man was struck fatally in the chest and the momentum of the round was powerful enough to send him reeling backwards through the door of one of the stalls, leaving him slumped awkwardly on the toilet with blood dripping steadily down his chest. His eyes were still open and he had the look of a man too long constipated.
The woman fled. The last Harry saw, she was running down the corridor, possibly thinking that he too posed a threat. There was still no one in the vicinity but he did not expect that this state of affairs would last for long; someone must have heard the two gunshots.
Meanwhile, a woman with a very ingratiating voice announced the last call for passengers boarding Pan Am Flight Forty-Six to Istanbul, Beirut, and points further east.
Harry hastily dug through the pockets of the man he had just killed and found two items of interest: a wallet and a passport. He slipped both into his pockets, having no time to examine either, and left the ladies’ room. A wealthy looking woman of advanced years was about to enter. She scowled at Harry when he emerged, no doubt wondering what he was doing in territory off-limits to the male sex.
Harry began to race in the direction of the departure gate, prepared for the scream that he was sure must come as soon as the woman discovered the condition of the ladies’ room and the condition of the man who was still in it. The scream came all right, but it was much louder and higher pitched than he’d have thought humanly possible. It was a scream to wake the dead though not necessarily a man with a slug from a .44 magnum inside him.
But by the time the airport security and police arrived at the scene, Harry was already on board his plane. He was the last person on. The cabin door was closed moments after he entered.
Casually, he advanced along the aisle toward first class which was divided from the economy section by a beige curtain.
Ellie was seated on an aisle seat. She saw him coming but gave no sign of recognition. As Harry approached her, he whispered, “I owe you one.”
“I owed you one,” she replied in an equally low voice, “I was just returning the favor.”
“See you in Beirut,” he said, smiling, and continued on his way.
Achmed and Kayyim were just where he’d left them. They didn’t turn around until he took the seat behind them. They probably hadn’t been expecting to see him back. Achmed’s face darkened at the sight of Harry and he muttered something in Arabic that Harry was certain had to do with his mother. There is an art to cursing in Arabic. With an astonishing variety of abuse possible, an insult might lead to a blood feud persisting for generations. Harry had the sense Achmed was running through the entire spectrum of curses under his breath. Kayyim, on the other hand, being a more reserved sort, responded only with a mild look of reproach, as if it were bad form for Harry to still be alive.
Then, in a very pleasant way, he asked if Harry had enjoyed the stopover.
“Let’s say I got plenty of exercise,” Harry replied, and Kayyim nodded as if he knew exactly what Harry was talking about.
The Small Man hated Muzak. He would willingly have blown out the speakers or blown up L.A.’s airport just as he had San Francisco’s, but neither option was available to him at the moment. For his sole responsibility now was to follow Ellie Winston and keep the Alpha Group aware of her movements. Obviously, he had done a wretchedly bad job because here he was in San Francisco while she was in Paris or wherever she had decided to go to after Paris.
Now he was in a telephone booth attempting once
As he had anticipated, the gunman had released his hold on the woman, too preoccupied by the pain and by the ringing in his ears to maintain custody of her. When the woman screaming in terror, slipped away from him, Harry fired a second round, this time at the man himself.
The man was struck fatally in the chest and the momentum of the round was powerful enough to send him reeling backwards through the door of one of the stalls, leaving him slumped awkwardly on the toilet with blood dripping steadily down his chest. His eyes were still open and he had the look of a man too long constipated.
The woman fled. The last Harry saw, she was running down the corridor, possibly thinking that he too posed a threat. There was still no one in the vicinity but he did not expect that this state of affairs would last for long; someone must have heard the two gunshots.
Meanwhile, a woman with a very ingratiating voice announced the last call for passengers boarding Pan Am Flight Forty-Six to Istanbul, Beirut, and points further east.
Harry hastily dug through the pockets of the man he had just killed and found two items of interest: a wallet and a passport. He slipped both into his pockets, having no time to examine either, and left the ladies’ room. A wealthy looking woman of advanced years was about to enter. She scowled at Harry when he emerged, no doubt wondering what he was doing in territory off-limits to the male sex.
Harry began to race in the direction of the departure gate, prepared for the scream that he was sure must come as soon as the woman discovered the condition of the ladies’ room and the condition of the man who was still in it. The scream came all right, but it was much louder and higher pitched than he’d have thought humanly possible. It was a scream to wake the dead though not necessarily a man with a slug from a .44 magnum inside him.
But by the time the airport security and police arrived at the scene, Harry was already on board his plane. He was the last person on. The cabin door was closed moments after he entered.
Casually, he advanced along the aisle toward first class which was divided from the economy section by a beige curtain.
Ellie was seated on an aisle seat. She saw him coming but gave no sign of recognition. As Harry approached her, he whispered, “I owe you one.”
“I owed you one,” she replied in an equally low voice, “I was just returning the favor.”
“See you in Beirut,” he said, smiling, and continued on his way.
Achmed and Kayyim were just where he’d left them. They didn’t turn around until he took the seat behind them. They probably hadn’t been expecting to see him back. Achmed’s face darkened at the sight of Harry and he muttered something in Arabic that Harry was certain had to do with his mother. There is an art to cursing in Arabic. With an astonishing variety of abuse possible, an insult might lead to a blood feud persisting for generations. Harry had the sense Achmed was running through the entire spectrum of curses under his breath. Kayyim, on the other hand, being a more reserved sort, responded only with a mild look of reproach, as if it were bad form for Harry to still be alive.
Then, in a very pleasant way, he asked if Harry had enjoyed the stopover.
“Let’s say I got plenty of exercise,” Harry replied, and Kayyim nodded as if he knew exactly what Harry was talking about.
The Small Man hated Muzak. He would willingly have blown out the speakers or blown up L.A.’s airport just as he had San Francisco’s, but neither option was available to him at the moment. For his sole responsibility now was to follow Ellie Winston and keep the Alpha Group aware of her movements. Obviously, he had done a wretchedly bad job because here he was in San Francisco while she was in Paris or wherever she had decided to go to after Paris.
Now he was in a telephone booth attempting once
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