Page 66 of The Hitman

I take aim at the only man left and begin to shoot as I rush toward him. When I’m out of bullets, I drop that gun and switch the gun in my right hand to my left, barely missing a beat. I grab the gun from my back holster with my right hand. Sometimes Alfonso accuses me of having too many guns, but better too many than too few because I’m not really a hand-to-hand combat kind of guy. I love guns. Knives are okay if the situation calls for it. Sometimes explosives are nice, but I hate loud sounds. Hands are messy, but sometimes they’re the only option, like right now.

I ram my shoulder into the midsection of the man in front of me. He uses the butt of his gun to hit me right in the kidney. Now, that’s excruciating — maybe even more than a gunshot wound — but I can’t dwell on the pain. I compartmentalize it. I tackle the man to the ground, and I fall on top of him, losing the gun in my right hand. Unfortunately, he holds onto his gun and uses it to smash me in the left eye. It’s harder to compartmentalize that pain because I see stars, and they seem brighter against the dark backdrop of the night.

I start punching him in the face with my right hand and try and aim the gun in my left at his head. But I can’t leave my left side open long enough when he still has a gun in his right, so I make a calculated decision to toss my gun to the side so I can hold his right wrist to the ground.

This is everything I hate about hand-to-hand combat. One bullet in the head and this could have been over so, many minutes and bruises ago. But with only one hand — and my non-dominant one at that — the outcome of this fight is well out of my control, and I hate when situations aren’t in my control.

A gunshot rings out.

We both freeze for a second, waiting to feel the sting of a bullet entering our bodies, but only I make the mistake of looking toward the front of the house.

I shouldn’t be thinking about anything besides putting a bullet between his eyes, but in reality, I’m only terrified that Zahra didn’t listen to me.

What if the gunshots scared her?

What if she snuck out of the cupboard?

What if she heard all the commotion in the backyard and ran to the front door?

What if there were two men out front instead of one? Or three? Or four?

What if that gunshot was for her? What if I’ve been trying to punch this guy and stop myself from being shot, while Zahra is bleeding out on the front porch?

Once again, I take Salvo’s advice, because it’s still good. I take my strongest and ugliest emotion, and I let it fuel me, even as I refuse to name it. I stop worrying about getting shot. I slam this asshole’s right hand to the ground, and his grip loosens on his gun. I smash my fist into his left temple. I feel bone smash against bone. I smash his right hand against the ground again and again and again. He tries to grab my face to dig his fingers into my eyes, and I cry out.

“You fucking pussy,” I scream. I let the rage and pain I’m feeling fuel me. I stop punching him and circle my hand around his throat. He’s scratching at my face, but I don’t let up on his windpipe.

It takes a few seconds for him to register the lack of oxygen, but when he does, he starts scratching at my face for real and finally drops the gun. I let go of his wrist and his neck. He sucks in deep pulls of air, trying to refill his lungs. I grab him by both sides of his head and twist. He goes limp under my body.

I don’t take a moment to catch my breath.

All I can see in my mind is Zahra’s lifeless body at my front door. I snatch one of the guns from the ground — I don’t even know if it’s my gun — and race barefoot on the wet grass toward the front of the house.

I don’t move tactically. I don’t try and look for cover. I just run until I’m skidding to a stop around the front of the house, where I find Alfonso leaning against one of the cars, with a .357 in one hand pointed at the ground and his cell phone pressed to his ear.

“You sound tall. Are you tall?” he asks the person on the phone. He sees me and frowns. “Why are you in your pants? And what happened to your face?”

“Ai, sfigato. Why are you just standing here? Why didn’t you come help me?”

“Help you with what?”

“Some asshole just tried to claw my eyes out, and you’re here on the phone with some woman?” I look around as I spit these words at him, looking for any signs of Zahra. “I heard a gunshot.”

Alfonso nods his head toward the driver’s side of the other car. I see a body on the ground, the face beaten to mush. “He shot at my rental car. I made a deposit. Stronzo.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, checking each car for more people with guns and any sign of Zahra’s dead body.

“Salvo told me to come check up on you. He thought something was wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You haven’t seen your face.”

“I handled it.”

“Yeah, but why come here?” he asks.

My fingers twitch around the gun in my hand.