The elevators.
I spin back around, searching among the sparse but terrified crowd for the courier. Where is he? I scan the dozens gathering at the elevator banks, unable to find him among the gathering crowd. He was wearing all gray and a blue cap. Where is he?
The cap lies on the ground, a few meters away from the doors. The courier must have ditched it, knowing that someone might key in on it. Scanning back, I see him, amidst the crowd. I sprint toward him.
Just as I’m getting close, he glances over his shoulder. As if expecting my attack, he turns and stands firm, watching me with focused eyes, waiting for me to hit him.
I stop myself. Something’s wrong.
I had planned to tackle and restrain him, but I stop in my tracks, raising my fists to fight. “Collections Agent,” I tell him, my voice wavering slightly with uncertainty. “Get on the ground.”
He takes a silent step back. One of the elevators finally opens, and as people crowd inside in a panic, he merely glances over his shoulder. Why isn’t he trying to run?
He shuffles forward and lunges. As he reaches for me, something on his hand reflects the smallest glint of light. He’s armed. I leap backward just before he can touch me but can’t keep my balance and fall to the hard floor. I manage to roll through it and jump to my feet as the courier springs forward again, scrambling at me. Off keel, he swipes at my face with an open left hand, but I strike at his forearm out of instinct, barely knocking the blow aside. He sets his feet and swings again, harder this time, and I grab his wrist with both hands, twisting it and forcing him to move sideways with the pressure. He stretches his fingers, trying to get the weapon to touch my skin. Unable to make it reach, he throws a couple of punches with his other arm. He’s not close enough to get much power behind them, but they still knock some of the wind from my lungs, weakening me and my grip on him as he strains to pull free.
This is a stalemate. He’s short but stocky and clearly stronger than me, and he’s the one with the weapon. I have no way of winning this fight from here, and if I don’t make a move soon I’ll be too worn down to even have a chance. I wrench him hard at the wrist, trying to break it or at least sprain or numb it, then take my right hand off and wrap it around the top of his knuckles, trying to force his hand closed.
Realizing what I’m doing, he lets out a shout and with all his strength turns and throws a hard left cross, catching me in the side of neck. Choking, I lose my grip, and he hits me again, this time just above my ear. Disoriented but knowing that one touch from his hand might kill, I plant the heel of my right foot in his belly and kick as hard as I can, sending him stumbling back, doubling over.
People flood past us, into the elevator, shouting and calling out. A loud snap is followed by a crumbling sound from the direction of the destroyed wall. It must be collapsing further. Could the whole building come down? These places are supposed to be built to withstand extreme punishment, but who knows what shortcuts the construction crew took.
The courier takes a long step back, reaches inside his vest, and draws out a gun.
Shit.
I sprint in the opposite direction, zigging and zagging a couple of times to throw off his aim. I can hear small bullets zipping through the air past me, popping viciously when they hit the walls ahead. He’s using compact, self-propelling, explosive ammo; tiny projectiles fueled by an electronically-fed chemical high explosive, the remainder of which burns off in a burst when the shells come to a stop. Nasty stuff, and illegal. His clip probably holds two hundred or so, they’re so small.
I leap and roll behind a parked forklift. Ducking low behind cover, I hear a spray of shots burst against the opposite side of the vehicle. What the hell do I do now? Where do I go? My hand keeps reaching instinctively to my hip for a sidearm that’s not there. The wall behind me cracks again, and cement slides in rocky chunks off its reinforcing metal beams. Smoke pours through, and the overhead sprinkler system turns on, showering the entire hallway in water.
Long seconds have passed since I got behind cover. The courier is obviously a professional, well-trained in combat, so I assume he’ll be flanking me at a reasonable distance for the kill, not too close, not too far. If I don’t move, he’s got me. Staying low, I creep around to the side of the forklift and peek out, just for a split second. No fire comes, and I don’t see my attacker. Maybe he finally ran, but I can’t take that chance.
I crawl up into the cab, staying crouched. I shift it into reverse, and as bullets whizz over my head and pop in the distance, I grab the wheel with one hand and press the accelerator with the other.
The forklift zips backward, surprisingly fast, swerving as I struggle to control it without a clear view. Bullets burst against the opposite side for a second or two until I clear the building’s central column, and my attacker no longer has an angle on me.
I ease off the pedal, and the machine stops. I have a choice. Try to escape, or take a chance on the element of surprise. The courier can’t see me, so he doesn’t know which direction I’ve gone. It’s clear now that he’s hunting me. For some reason, he won’t leave here until I’m dead.
I get off the forklift and run toward the far wall. Trying the door of one of the businesses—a hermetic sealant company—I find it open, just as a few bullets snap into it next to me, blinding me briefly with hot sparks from the little explosions against the metal. I duck inside, then through the swinging doors of the lobby, and onto the wide-open factory floor. All the machinery has stopped mid-movement. It’s quiet except for the steady buzzing of the fire alarm, the noise from the big hallway kept out by thick walls. The sprinkler system has not turned on in here, and water drips from my soaked clothing.
I duck down behind a conveyor belt with unfilled canisters of crease sealant still sitting on it. Seconds later I hear the doors open and some shots fired. Tiny concussive explosions somewhere near the entrance. The courier is here, though I cannot hear him moving. He’s wearing soft-soled shoes and is probably matching the pace of his footsteps with the fire alarm, judging by his skill level.
I hear some movement nearby, and I glance over to see him creeping ahead onto the floor, searching for me. Somehow he hasn’t spotted the drops of water on the floor yet. I roll aside, desperate to stay out of his field of view, but I hear the door open again, and the courier spins around, raising his weapon. His face focused and tense, he moves back toward the entrance. Now’s my chance.
I jump to my feet and rush him. He hears me and turns, but I’m already diving at him. Chem-prop bullets thrush wildly past my head as I take him to the ground. The impact jars the gun out of his grip, and it goes clattering away. His right arm shoots out for it instinctively, and I grab his left forearm, digging my nails into his skin. He groans with effort, reaching for the pistol. This is it, this is my chance. I force his left hand toward his head. Realizing what I’m doing, he thrashes against me, kicking and resisting. His arm shakes as he stops my progress. Again, we’re at a stalemate, and I feel my arms growing weak.
Taking a risk, I pull my right hand away from his forearm and clasp it over his knuckles. He twists and tries to turn it, but as hard as I can I dig my left thumb into the middle of his wrist where the tendons run close together. He yelps in sudden pain, and I squeeze his hand closed.
His eyes fill with terror. Desperate, he thrashes at me wildly, his movements suddenly not so crisp and disciplined. Giving him a hard shove with all the strength I’ve got left, I roll away and jump to my feet, breathing hard and fast as I back away. He scrambles at me, trying to get to his feet, but can’t. He clutches at his chest, wheezing, until he finally collapses back to the floor, face down and still.