against doors. Then quiet. Room 205 was right down the corridor and to the left with a view out of the front of the hotel. There were no sounds from any of the rooms. A lift came down and passed straight through the floor. I looked at the dust hanging in the cone shed by the downlighter. It moved, suddenly turbulent. Into it, from the left, moving fast, his feet silent on the carpeting, came the triple-scarred African. His right arm was by his side and in its gloved hand was a gun with a suppressor attached. He didn't stop. I hefted the fire extinguisher, took four steps, turned right into the corridor and, missing my aim, caught him a glancing blow on his right shoulder. The gun fell from his dead arm. He turned and I hit him under the ribs with a right hand and then batted him with the flat of my left hand so that his head cracked sharply against the metal frame of the lift and he collapsed.
I called the lift, picked up the gun and stuck it in the waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. The doors opened on an empty chamber and I dragged him in and pressed the basement button. I frisked him as we went down and found a wallet which I put in my back pocket. On his right leg there was a knife in a scabbard strapped above his ankle. I removed it.
The doors opened on to the oil and petrol smell of the garage and I pulled him out and sat him up against the wall. It was hot and still in the yellow light of the garage but there was a tremendous noise in my ears which reminded me of a jet engine going into reverse thrust. I stopped to listen and found that this was the noise that whisky made when pumped around hardened arteries. Sweat was dripping off my nose on to the man's jacket which I was holding by the lapels as I straddled him. I lifted him and drove him up the wall and hoisted him over my shoulder in a fireman's lift, holding on to his legs, and set off across the car parkâso far, so professional.
Ten yards from the car I stopped dead. The two litres of sweat lathering my body iced. The gun was out of the waistband of my trousers and pointing into my spine.
'Slowly...' he said, speaking with an American accent. 'Let me down, man, but slowly.'
I still had the knife but I wasn't keen to test my ability with it against a .38. I lowered him to the floor. He was small and it was a long way for him to go off my six-foot-four-inch frame. I still held his right wrist as his feet touched the ground and remembered that he had held the gun in his right hand in the corridor. He must have been groggy still from the smack on the head because he moaned. I felt the gun come off my spine and he twisted his wrist out of my grip. I straightened and he started falling backwards trying to change the gun into his right hand as he was going down. The heavy suppressor tilted the gun and his fingers turned into a full set of dislocated thumbs. Then I was on him. I grabbed his right hand which held the gun and it coughed out a shot. A Mercedes's tyre burst, kicking up concrete dust from the floor and the car slumped on to its right buttock.
I had a problem. The knife was in my left pocket. My left hand held his right, my right was groping around at his flailing fist which was punching me in the head. The gun went off again and this time one of my Peugeot's tyres popped. I dropped my forehead hard on to the bridge of his nose. There was a crack and a bit of a grind, which I felt in the back of my head. I reared back, preparing to butt him again and he said, quietly, as if to himself, 'No.'
The gun fell from his fingers and I picked it up and stood back from him. He sat up and held his broken nose with both hands while blood poured on to his shirt.
'It's broke,' he said. 'You broke my goddam nose.'
I'd given up my English instinct for apologizing a long time ago so I didn't say anything. He told me he'd never broken his nose before in a way that made me think that perhaps we hadn't just been trying to kill each other. He asked me
I called the lift, picked up the gun and stuck it in the waistband of my trousers in the small of my back. The doors opened on an empty chamber and I dragged him in and pressed the basement button. I frisked him as we went down and found a wallet which I put in my back pocket. On his right leg there was a knife in a scabbard strapped above his ankle. I removed it.
The doors opened on to the oil and petrol smell of the garage and I pulled him out and sat him up against the wall. It was hot and still in the yellow light of the garage but there was a tremendous noise in my ears which reminded me of a jet engine going into reverse thrust. I stopped to listen and found that this was the noise that whisky made when pumped around hardened arteries. Sweat was dripping off my nose on to the man's jacket which I was holding by the lapels as I straddled him. I lifted him and drove him up the wall and hoisted him over my shoulder in a fireman's lift, holding on to his legs, and set off across the car parkâso far, so professional.
Ten yards from the car I stopped dead. The two litres of sweat lathering my body iced. The gun was out of the waistband of my trousers and pointing into my spine.
'Slowly...' he said, speaking with an American accent. 'Let me down, man, but slowly.'
I still had the knife but I wasn't keen to test my ability with it against a .38. I lowered him to the floor. He was small and it was a long way for him to go off my six-foot-four-inch frame. I still held his right wrist as his feet touched the ground and remembered that he had held the gun in his right hand in the corridor. He must have been groggy still from the smack on the head because he moaned. I felt the gun come off my spine and he twisted his wrist out of my grip. I straightened and he started falling backwards trying to change the gun into his right hand as he was going down. The heavy suppressor tilted the gun and his fingers turned into a full set of dislocated thumbs. Then I was on him. I grabbed his right hand which held the gun and it coughed out a shot. A Mercedes's tyre burst, kicking up concrete dust from the floor and the car slumped on to its right buttock.
I had a problem. The knife was in my left pocket. My left hand held his right, my right was groping around at his flailing fist which was punching me in the head. The gun went off again and this time one of my Peugeot's tyres popped. I dropped my forehead hard on to the bridge of his nose. There was a crack and a bit of a grind, which I felt in the back of my head. I reared back, preparing to butt him again and he said, quietly, as if to himself, 'No.'
The gun fell from his fingers and I picked it up and stood back from him. He sat up and held his broken nose with both hands while blood poured on to his shirt.
'It's broke,' he said. 'You broke my goddam nose.'
I'd given up my English instinct for apologizing a long time ago so I didn't say anything. He told me he'd never broken his nose before in a way that made me think that perhaps we hadn't just been trying to kill each other. He asked me
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