Hard Rain by Barry Eisler

knew there would be one waiting for him. His two
    friends, of course, were going to be shit out of luck.
    There they were, one on each side of the street. The American was now
    in the lead, on my side. He cut across and followed Harry into the
    neighborhood. Ten seconds later the Japanese followed. I picked up
    the tea and moved in behind them.
    Fifty meters left, fifty meters right, fifty meters left again. These
    streets were exceptionally narrow, flanked by white concrete walls.
    Almost a labyrinth. I walked slowly. I couldn't see them from this
    far back, but I knew where they were going.
    Three minutes later a cab pulled out from in front of me and headed in
    my direction. I glanced at the back window and saw Harry. I was glad
    to see that this part had gone smoothly. Had there been a problem,
    Harry would have turned around and just kept walking and I would have
    improvised. What I wanted, though, was that this sudden and somewhat
    theatrical loss of their quarry would cause his pursuers to come
    together for a consultation. I would have an easier time of it if I
    could surprise them simultaneously.
    Neither Harry nor I gave any sign of acknowledgment as the cab passed
    my position. I continued ahead, making a right onto the street from
    which the cab had just emerged.
    The street was about thirty meters long, turning ninety degrees to the
    right at the end. No sign of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. No problem.
    The place Harry had led them to was a dead end.
    I reached the end of the street and turned right. There they were,
    about twelve meters away. The Japanese guy had his left side to me. He
    was talking to the American. The American was facing me, an unlit
    cigarette in his mouth. He was holding a lighter at waist level,
    flicking it, trying to get it going.
    I forced myself to keep my pace casual, just another pedestrian. My
    heart began to beat harder. I could feel it pounding in my chest,
    behind my ears.
    Ten meters. I popped the plastic lid off the paper cup with my thumb.
    I felt it tumble past the back of my hand.
    Seven meters. Adrenaline was slowing down my perception of the scene.
    The Japanese guy glanced in my direction. He looked at my face. His
    eyes began to widen.
    Five meters. The Japanese guy reached out for the American, the
    gesture urgent even through my adrenalized slow-motion vision. He
    grabbed the American's arm and started pulling on it.
    Three meters. The American looked up and saw me. The cigarette
    dangled from his lips. There was no recognition in his eyes.
    Two meters. I stepped in and flung the cup forward. Its contents of
    ninety-eight degrees centigrade Earl Gray tea exited and caught the
    American directly in the face and neck. His hands flew up and he
    shrieked.
    I turned to the Japanese. His eyes were popped all the way open, his
    head rotating back and forth in the universal gesture of negation. He
    started to raise his hands as though to ward me off.
    I grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into the wall. Using the same
    forward momentum, I stepped in and kneed him squarely in the balls. He
    grunted and doubled over.
    I turned back to the American. He was bent forward, staggering, his
    hands clutching at his face. I grabbed the collar of his jacket and
    the back of his trousers and accelerated him headfirst into the wall
    like a matador with a bull. His body shuddered from the impact and he
    dropped to the ground.
    The Japanese guy was lying on his side, clutching his crotch, gasping.
    I hauled him up by the lapels and shoved his back against the wall. I
    looked left, then right. It was just the three of us.
    "Tell me who you are," I said in Japanese.
    He made retching noises. I could see he was going to need a minute.
    Keeping my left hand pressed against his throat, I patted him down to
    confirm that he didn't have a weapon, then checked his ears and jacket
    to ensure that he wasn't wired for sound. He was clean. I reached
    into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out