“I’m finishing this before I go anywhere,” I say, pointing to Manhattan.
“I’ll save the I-told-you-so for if we get out of here!” Josh says.
“Can’t wait…”
I raise a hand over the desk, to try to catch Frank’s attention and get him to quit shooting. After a few moments of me waving, he must’ve either seen me or run out of bullets, as he stops firing. I stand, slowly; squinting as the wind and rain blasts through the broken glass from outside and stings my face. I look out at Frank, who I can see is now sitting down in the back of the helicopter, smiling. He gives me a salute, which I return. He then leans forward and taps Oscar on his shoulder, signaling it’s over, and the helicopter pulls away and disappears above us, out of sight.
The sound of the storm fades in as my hearing returns to normal. I survey the room, looking around for anyone left alive. It seems Frank managed to take out all the men…
BANG!
What the…? I spin around, stepping back into a fighting stance on instinct, despite being aware that a punch is futile in a gunfight. Josh is down on one knee holding one of my Berettas. He’s aiming past me and away to the right corner. I follow his gaze and see the last man sliding down the wall to the floor, leaving a dark red stain behind him.
“Thanks,” I say, turning back to him.
“Don’t mention it,” he replies. “Now will you go and kill Manhattan already!”
I walk away to the right, toward the display case with the samurai swords on their stand. The glass has shattered, like every window has. The wind is strong and it’s whipping the rain into the room, making the floor wet and slippery. Broken shards crunch underfoot as I stride purposefully toward Manhattan, who’s sitting with his back to the other side of the display case stand.
“Jimmy!” I shout. “Get your ass out here!”
Manhattan stands and steps out into view. He doesn’t have a weapon, and his suit has ripped in several places from the glass.
“You’re done,” I say to him. “And I’m gonna do what I should’ve done the first time we met…”
“I’m not letting you take everything away from me again!” he shouts. “I’ve worked too hard and been through too much to lose it all now!”
He grabs one of the swords and unsheathes it, revealing a very shiny and very sharp blade about three feet long. He grabs the hilt with both hands and charges at me.
Being unarmed against a weapon is never ideal, but I can usually manage in most situations. But I have to admit, I’ve never gone up against a sword before. The length of the blade means I can’t get in too close without being stabbed or sliced, and there’s little I can do from distance with my fists. I have to maneuver myself close to him… I’m working on the assumption that Manhattan isn’t a secret samurai master or anything. But he’s lethal by nature, and I remember all too well his skills with a small blade… I’m not about to underestimate him.
I take a step toward him, and he swings the blade down at me, left to right. I lean back to avoid it and spin to my right, putting a little distance between us. As he loses his footing from the momentum of the swing, I take the opportunity to move farther round toward the display case, taking the remaining sword. I draw it from its sheath and hold it in my right hand, familiarizing myself with its weight. It’s a gorgeous weapon — the hilt is gold, adorned with blue and red crystals and formed at the end into the shape of a dragon’s head.
Manhattan turns, raising his sword once more, poised for another attack. I hold mine out horizontally with one hand, lining the tip of it up with his chest.
“So, we’re going to duel this out like two old-fashioned gentlemen?” I ask.
For a man who’s in his mid-fifties, he’s still pretty lively. He says nothing; he just screams with a visceral hatred and runs at me again. As he gets close, he lifts the sword high and slashes it down. I bring mine up to meet his, parrying the strike off to the left, leaving his left hand side temporarily exposed. I step forward and thrust my right foot into his stomach, forcing him backward. He loses his footing on the wet floor again and falls on his ass.
“Fuck you, Adrian! You are my nemesis!” he snarls as he struggles to his feet.
“Really?” I say. “You’re nothing to me. You’re something I’d scrape off my boot and forget about.”
I wait for his next attack. He’s breathing heavily, and he’s far too emotional to do anything remotely effective. This fight’s already over.
He winces as he gets back to his feet; the effects from the kick to the stomach make his deep, heavy breaths look that little bit more painful. When he raises the sword again, even with two hands, he’s noticeably struggling with the weight.
He takes one step and swings it up from his right hip across at me. I step back and left, so the blade moves away from me. As it does, I hit it with my sword, giving it added momentum that carries Manhattan away with it. He falls forward, his face bouncing off the floor and the sword flying from his hand. He slides a little on the wet floor, shards of glass cutting into his skin. He stops very close to the edge, where one of many thick glass windows once stood between Wilson Trent and a thirty story drop.
“Get up,” I say, walking toward him. “Get on your feet and face me, you sad little shit.”
He pushes himself up on all fours and looks back at me.
“You’ve destroyed everything, you sonofabitch!” he yells. “Everything!”
“Well, it serves you right for trying to make a living as a crime lord, when all you were ever good for was cleaning Pellaggio’s shoes. You crossed me for the third time. That’s two times more than anyone else ever has. And now it ends. Stand… the fuck… up!”
Slowly but surely he gets to his feet again, standing in front of me with his back mere inches away from the city below us, defiant to the end. The wind whips through the entire top floor of the building. With every window decimated and every inch of the floor covered in blood and glass, the cold rain blows in unhindered, stinging my face. I raise my sword, resting the blade on Manhattan’s left shoulder.
“Any last words?”
“Yes,” he replies, with a sudden calmness that comes with accepting the inevitability of your own demise. “See you in hell.”
I smile at him. “Save me a seat, you arrogant old bastard.”
In a flash, holding the sword in my right hand, I spin clockwise in a circle, whipping the blade around and cutting Manhattan’s head clean off. As I complete my turn, before his decapitated body can slump to the floor, I lash out with my left foot and kick him out of the window and into the storm. I look down as his head rolls to a stop a few feet away in the corner of the room.
I look over at Josh, expecting a sarcastic comment or something, but he’s just standing there with an apologetic look on his face. Next to him is Paulie, his torso covered in blood from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. In his good arm, he has a hold of one of my Berettas, and he’s aiming it at Josh’s head.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Josh!” I say. “I turn my back for two minutes…”
“I was distracted watching you go all Highlander over there, I didn’t see the sneaky little bastard coming up behind me,” he replies, sounding almost embarrassed.
“Hey, assholes,” interrupts Paulie. “I’m standing right here, and I’ve got the gun, so how’s about you both shut the fuck up, okay?”
I throw my sword to the floor, the clanging of the metal echoing around the room over the persistent noise of the wind and rain. Thunder rumbles outside as I stare at my gun in the hands of someone else and feel a renewed anger inside.
“Look, I don’t know you,” I say to him. “I’ve killed a lot of people in a short space of time, including two of the biggest criminal masterminds in the country. I’m tired. Just take this opportunity and piss off, will you? It’s a one-time only offer.”