The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

"All of you, step back and lie down on the ground, facedown."

The two who'd been in the car turned their eyes on the man in gray.

Nobody moved.

"I'm not going to tell you again." Rhyme wondered what the recoil would do to his hand. He supposed there might be some damage to the tendons. But all he needed after the shot was to keep the weapon in his grip. The others would flee after he'd killed their leader.

Thinking of the Special Task Order. No due process, no trial. Self-defense. Taking a life before your enemy did.

"You gonna shoot me, sir?" The man was studying him, suddenly defiant.

Rhyme rarely had a chance to meet adversaries face-to-face. They were usually long gone from the crime scene by the time he saw them, which was usually in court where he was an expert witness for the prosecution. Still, he had no trouble staring down the man in gray.

His partner, the one in yellow, the one with the impressive muscles, stepped forward but stopped fast when Rhyme spun the gun toward him.

"Hokay, easy, mon, easy." Hands raised.

Rhyme aimed again at the leader, whose eyes were fixed on the weapon, his hands up. He smiled. "Are you? Are you going to shoot me,

sir? I'm not so sure you are." He stepped forward a few feet. Paused. And then walked directly toward Rhyme.

There was nothing more to say.

Rhyme tensed, hoping the recoil wouldn't damage the results of the delicate surgery, hoping he could keep the weapon in his hand. He sent the command to close his index finger.

But nothing happened.

Glocks--dependable, Austrian-made pistols--have a trigger pull of only a few pounds pressure.

Yet Rhyme couldn't muster that, couldn't deliver enough strength to save the life of his aide and the police officer who'd risked his job to help him.

The man in gray continued forward, perhaps assuming Rhyme lacked the fortitude to shoot, even as he tried desperately to pull the trigger. Even more insulting, the man didn't approach from the side, he kept on a steady path toward the muzzle that hovered in his direction.

The man closed his muscular hand around the gun and easily yanked it from Rhyme's.

"You know, you a freak, mon." He braced himself, put his foot in the middle of Rhyme's chest and pushed hard.

The Storm Arrow rolled back two feet and went off the rocky edge. With a huge splash, Rhyme and the chair tumbled into the water. He took a deep breath and went under.

The water was not as deep as he'd thought, the darkness was due to the pollution, the chemicals and waste. The chair dropped ten feet or so and came to rest on the bottom.

Head throbbing, lungs in agony as his breath depleted, Rhyme twisted his head as far as he could and with his mouth gripped the strap of the canvas bag hanging from the back of the chair. He tugged this forward and it floated to just within his reach. He managed to wrap his arm around it for stability and undid the zipper with his teeth, then lowered his head and fished for the portable ventilator's mouthpiece. He gripped it hard and worked it between his lips.

His eyes were on fire, stinging from the pollutants in the water, and he squinted but kept them open as he searched for the switch to the ventilator.

Finally, there. That's it.

He clicked it on.

Lights glowed. The machine hummed and he inhaled a bit of wonderful, sweet oxygen.

Another.

But there was no third. Apparently the water had worked its way through the housing and short-circuited the unit.

The ventilator went dark. The air stopped.

At that moment he heard another sound, muffled through the water, but distinct: Two sounds, actually.