Shingan.
Blackthorn was registering at the front desk of the airport hotel when he first became aware of the man, standing not far away to his right. It was his heartbeat that first caught Blackthorn's attention-less than forty a minute, with startling power in every contraction. The man was standing virtually motionless, taking eight or ten deep, even breaths each minute.
Power, Blackthorn thought. Power and danger.
Blackthorn picked up his overnight bag and briefcase and headed toward the elevator. The man followed but stopped as Blackthorn knelt and fumbled with the latch on his briefcase until an overweight man and his equally overweight wife moved past him, both breathing heavily from just the simple act of moving.
"How're you doing?" the large man muttered to the dangerous one, who grunted irritably in reply.
The four of them entered the car, with the man taking a position far enough to Blackthorn's right not to make contact. He was five-foot-ten and wore no cologne or other scent. Blackthorn's mind's eye conjured an image of dark hair and dark eyes that were constantly focused on him.
On the third floor, the doors glided open to let the large couple out. Blackthorn waited until the last instant and followed, even though his room was 419-a floor above. The doors closed completely and didn't reopen. Eschewing his cane, Blackthorn followed the couple to where their room was and then passed them and found the staircase at the end of the hall. Perhaps he had misread the man and the situation, he was thinking. His instincts weren't always perfect.
Trying to envision where his room might be located, he entered the corridor of the fourth floor and felt the numbers on the first two rooms-430… 428. He took his electronic key from his pocket and crossed the hall. 425… 423… 421.
"One more," the man's voice said quietly and calmly, in a pronounced southern drawl. "Four-nineteen, that's what the registration girl said. Four-nineteen. Move naturally or you're dead. You know I'll do that, don't you."
"I do."
The soul of the man was as cold as death.
Blackthorn felt the muzzle of a gun press into his side. He felt stunned that he hadn't detected the man in some way when he opened the stairway door. It was as if he were made of ice.
"Slip the key in the lock, open the door, and go on in. Quickly now."
The man's smooth speech belied his power. Blackthorn sensed that unless he took action, he was not going to live through this encounter.
He set his briefcase down, widened his stance, and began nervously attempting to insert the key in its slot. The man was a professional; he felt certain of that. Not a professional thief-a professional killer.
"Please, please," Blackthorn whimpered as he positioned the key. "I don't have much money, but you can just take what I have. And… and my watch. Take my watch."
"The door, open it!"
Blackthorn knew that in the cluttered hotel room he would be totally at the gunman's mercy. Whatever he did had to be now, right here, in the corridor. He had taken years of martial arts-karate for a time, then aikido, the way of spiritual harmony. He had the skill to reverse the situation against most men, but this one, this man of ice, was different.
The only advantage he felt certain of was that the man with the slow, measured speech couldn't know Blackthorn had no intention of allowing them both to enter the room. Before he engaged the key, the psychologist stiffened his body. Then, as he felt the muzzle of the gun move slightly away from his side, he spun, swinging his overnight bag in a sharp, vicious arc against where he knew the gunman's hand and wrist had to be. The gun clattered against the wall, and Blackthorn sensed the man diving for it.
In one movement, Blackthorn jammed the key down into the lock, opened the door, and pulled it closed behind him. Two bullets snapped through the wood next to the door handle, but the bolt held.
"Hey, what's going on?" a man's voice called out from down the hallway. "Barbara, the guy's got a fucking gun! Get back inside and call the desk!"
Blackthorn crawled from the doorway into the bathroom and locked that door. If the killer blasted his way into the room, it might take a few more seconds for him to get into the bathroom. Otherwise there wasn't going to be much he could do.
But there were no more gunshots.
Blackthorn stayed where he was. A minute passed, then another. Finally, he heard a pounding on his door, and voices. He had just opened the bathroom door when two security men, both with guns drawn, burst in.
"You all right?"
"I'm fine. What about my briefcase?"
"Jesus, he's blind."
"My briefcase and my glasses," Blackthorn snapped.
"Your glasses are right here," one of the guards said, setting them against Blackthorn's hand, "but there's no briefcase."
"Damn."
"The police are on their way."
"What's he ever gonna be able to tell them?" the other asked. "He can't see a thing."