Grant and Ian were reloading, their hands trembling. I hit him, Grant said, trying to convince himself. I think I saw him fall. You shot a pile of pallets, I said. My voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the echoey warehouse. They froze. Who said that? Ian whispered. I picked up a large wrench from the forklift seat.
I threw it hard, skidding it across the floor to their left. As they turned toward the noise, I moved right. I was on Ian before he could turn back. I didn’t use a knife. I used my elbow, driving it into the solar plexus. The wind left him with a wet wee. He folded in half. I grabbed him by the back of his tactical vest and hurled him into a stack of empty oil drums.
The crash was deafening. Grant spun around, eyes wild. Ian. He saw me then, just a silhouette in the gloom. He raised his gun. I was faster. I closed the distance in two strides. I grabbed the slide of his pistol, pushing it out of battery so it couldn’t fire. With my other hand, I struck him in the throat. A precise controlled chop to the Vegas nerve.
