“She’s gone. Replaced by a guy named Hallis.”
“He and I worked Tenderloin together, and later in the 80s, Western Addition. He was an okay cop then, I thought. How is he as a chief?”
Ryker shrugged. “Not a lesbian.”
Terrell allowed himself a glimmer of a smile, then looked up as the elevator arrived and the doors slid open. He preceded Ryker inside and pressed the button marked 45.
The ceiling collapsed before Manning could do anything more than fling himself forward, out of the secretary’s chair. Even as he did, he felt something bite the back of his left shoulder, something that penetrated the fabric of his jacket and the shirt underneath. As he hit the carpet, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to wear body armor. What the hell had happened to all his training?
He rolled onto his back as quickly as he could, moving fast, the injury to his shoulder not slowing him for a moment. Behind him, the chair he had sat on was flung into the wall, striking it so hard that it shattered into two pieces and cracked the expensive mahogany paneling. A figure clad in black from head to toe caught itself on its hands, folded at the waist, and alighted on its feet like some sort of circus performer. A small slit in the black hood was just wide enough for the assassin to see through. Black eyes glittered there, eyes that Manning recognized, though when he had last seen them they were full of a different kind of passion.
“Shi Meihua,” he said quietly, as he brought up the Smith amp; Wesson. His training had reasserted itself fully now. He pushed his personal feelings aside and allowed it to take over. The person who stood before him wasn’t his lover of no more than sixteen hours ago; the person there now was a target, someone who intended to kill him unless he struck first.
There was no hesitation on her part, and she hurled the knife she held at him with expert accuracy as Manning fired, aiming for her center of mass. Two rounds found their target, and she was flung against the credenza, arms flailing beneath the power of the double impacts. At the same time, her knife slashed through Manning’s abdomen; it had been skillfully thrown, and it cut deep into his liver. Manning ignored the spike of pain as he gathered his feet beneath him and stood, reaching across his body with his left hand. He grasped the knife and pulled it out, gasping slightly as a greater degree of pain lanced through him, a kind of agony he had thought he’d grown used to. As the black-clad figure rebounded off the credenza and fell toward the carpet, Manning tracked it with his pistol, but he was off by just a fraction. His responses slowed by the spreading web of pain, he was slow to respond to the change in her body’s attitude. She wasn’t slumping to the floor, a victim of what had to be two fatal shots. Instead, she gathered her legs beneath her and hurtled toward Manning like a guided missile.
She’s wearing a ballistic vest! he thought, too late.
He fired again, twice. The first shot tore through her left thigh and blasted a path out of her calf. The second missed entirely. And then the pistol was sent flying as her left hand knifed out and struck his wrist with all the power of a sledgehammer, making his entire arm light up with pain. Manning pivoted at the waist and lashed out with his left fist, driving it into the side of her head with as much power as he could muster, which wasn’t much given his current position. He knew her target would be the knife wound. The liver was one of the most vulnerable organs in the human body, and he doubted her knife had perforated his entirely by accident.
Her body slammed into his, and the force of the impact made him stumble backwards as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her uninjured leg scythed out, describing a brief crescent as it tangled up with one of his own legs. Manning fell onto his back, his right arm flopping uselessly at his side as he fired off another punch. Meihua’s head rocketed back under the force of the impact.
And then she punched the knife wound.
As the elevator reached the 45th floor, both Ryker and Terrell heard the gunshots, two fired close together, another a moment later. Ryker pulled his pistol as the doors slid open and held it in a combat stance, feet spread, crouching slightly. The elevator bay was empty, so he stepped into it, panning the pistol from left to right. There was no target for him to engage.
“What do you want me to do?” Terrell asked. He had no weapon, and he had pressed himself against one of the elevator’s walls.
“Call nine one one, tell them shots fired at this address and floor, and tell them I’m on scene. Then let the cops up here as soon as they arrive. It’s probably going to be a few minutes, though.”
“No kidding?” Terrell knew the traffic patterns of San Francisco as well as anyone.
“Where’s Lin’s office?”
“Far corner. Left out of the elevator lobby, walk to the wall, then hard right. Office suites are at the end of a hall, his is the last one. Secretary’s office outside, and then Lin’s office is past that. Here, you’ll need this.” Terrell held out a magnetic card, but did not leave the elevator. Ryker was forced to sidestep into the elevator and take it with his left hand, crossing it under his right arm to do so. It was awkward and left him momentarily vulnerable, but there was no helping that.
“Later,” Ryker said. He moved toward the glass doors that led to Lin Industries and swiped the card across the reader there. Magnetic locks clicked loudly-too loudly, he thought-and he pulled open one door with his left hand. Keeping to a crouch, he turned left and hurried toward the far wall.
Behind him, the elevator doors closed.
The pain was so intense that Manning had no choice but to scream. As Meihua’s fingers rammed into the slit that had been opened by her knife, she tore the wound open even further. Manning screamed again, but rocked to his right. At the same time, he wrapped his left arm around her head, cupping her chin in his hand. He made to spin her head around with all his strength; he doubted he could break her neck this way, but he would doubtless damage ligaments and tendons there. She knew what he was up to, and she released him, rolling with his arm’s motion, but her movements were slowed by her damaged leg. Manning ripped his arm out from beneath her and powered another strike at her head, and his fist caught her full in the face this time. His choices after that were to roll up on her and pin her beneath his body mass, but with one arm out of commission there wasn’t much he could do; she would doubtless immobilize his left arm and break it, leaving him mostly helpless. So he rolled away from her and sprang to his feet as quickly as he could. He reached inside his jacket and pulled the Asp from his belt and flicked it open to its full 42-inch length. At the same time, Meihua pulled herself up onto her good leg, using the secretary’s desk for support. Manning took a step back, using his peripheral vision to scan for his pistol. He didn’t see it, which meant he was either standing right over it or it was behind him. Warm wetness made the front of his shirt stick to his body, and the wound in his side throbbed sickeningly. He knew the damage to his liver was bad, and was very likely bleeding profusely into his body cavity. He didn’t have much time left before he passed out from blood loss.
Meihua sprang toward him suddenly, moving with more speed than she should have been capable of, given the damage done to her left leg. Manning swung the Asp expertly, cracking her across the right forearm with enough force to snap her radius. He then reversed the swing as she continued to close and raked her across the skull. The blow was mostly ineffectual, for at the last moment she dipped her head, and the tip of the Asp managed only a grazing strike. She kept coming, and Manning stepped forward, lifting his right leg, snap-kicking her with his knee against her chest. The force of the blow was strong enough to knock her back, and for a moment she tottered on her injured leg. Manning swung the Asp again, striking her in the chest, and she grunted in pain.