52

They walked into the narrow men’s room one at a time. The first man had spiked, dyed red hair, with a straggle of punk rats’ tails flopping on the collar of his black overcoat. He must have pushed the door open with his back because he was spinning around as he came in and there was a MAC-10 submachine gun in his hands, another being held by the man behind him. The guns were fitted with Sionics noise suppressors that would make them virtually silent and far more accurate than the regular short-barreled MAC. That was the first thing Carver noticed, right about the time he was reaching into his jacket for his SIG. By the time he had his pistol out in front of him, swinging from one man to the next, he’d noticed something else: They weren’t firing at him.

If this had been a hit, they’d have come in blasting and he’d have been blown to smithereens long before he’d had a chance to draw. But they were just standing there, looking professionally mean and surly, but also pissed off, like they’d really have enjoyed the opportunity to kill him but were being prevented from doing so. That made sense. Whoever had sent them needed Carver alive. As long as Alix and the computer were out there, it wasn’t enough just to take him out. They needed the full set.

So now Carver had another piece of information to factor into his calculations. He wasn’t going to die within the next few seconds. They might be pointing guns at him, but no one was going to start shooting just yet.

The bozos didn’t seem to speak English. They just stood there, glowering. The redhead kept blinking. He had a speed freak’s dilated pupils and gray white pallor, the flesh of his face burned away till his cheekbones, brow, and Adam’s apple stood out in unnatural relief. Carver could almost hear the humming of his overstimulated nerve endings and feel the effort it was taking him to maintain even the semblance of restraint or rationality.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, no one knowing what the next move should be. Carver had no intention of making any provocative movements, not when a cranked-up crazy with a gun was standing six feet away. Then the other gunman started to move along the gap between the urinals on one wall and the sinks on the other. He eased by Carver, staying just out of reach, and took up a position beyond him, making sure Carver couldn’t cover both men with just one gun.

The man pointed at Carver’s gun and flicked his finger as if to say, “Hand it over.”

Carver looked at him dumbly. The man had a fleshy face, as smooth and stolid as a potato, with small eyes and a bully’s full, sulky lips. He gestured again, this time more forcefully, with a greater degree of irritation. “Oh,” said Carver, all wide-eyed and innocent, “you want my gun? Well, here it is. . . .”

He threw the SIG-Sauer hard at the potato-man’s feet, sending it clattering onto the tiled floor and skittering into his ankles. The piggy eyes looked down for a fraction of a second and that was long enough for Carver to swivel on his left foot and send his right crashing into the man’s fleshy jaw. He staggered backward, absorbing the blow, and Carver moved with him, grabbing the man’s right arm and using it as a lever to swing him around, like a dancer twirling his partner, sending him careering across the floor toward his pal with the red hair.

As the two men collided, Carver grabbed the suppressor of the potato-man’s MAC and ripped it from his grasp. He pivoted to face the two men. The redhead hesitated for a split second, wondering whether to fire, and that pause was all Carver needed. He took a single step forward, holding the gun barrel like a baseball bat, and swung it hard, backhanded, slamming the handle into one round head before his left elbow jerked back the other way, into the speed freak’s face.

That movement set Carver up for another backhander with the gun. He put all his strength into the swing, connecting with a crack that shattered bone and sent a spume of snot and blood flying across the room before the man with the punky red hair collapsed unconscious to the floor right next to his pal.

Carver took a moment to collect his breath. He checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothed down his hair, and straightened his clothes. Then he picked his pistol up from the floor, tucked it away, and walked back out of the men’s room.

When he got back into the pub, Stu the bartender was waiting for him.

“You all right, mate? You looked like you were about to upchuck.”

Carver smiled ruefully and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I’m fine. But you’d better tell the customers not to go in there for a while. There’s a bit of a mess on the floor.”

“Anything to do with those two blokes who went in there right after you?”

Carver shrugged. “Two guys? No, don’t think I saw them.”

The Australian grinned. “Jeez, mate, I’m glad you never picked a fight with me. Listen, the doc’s on his way and so are the cops. A couple of the regulars insisted on calling ‘em. Law-abiding bastards, these Swiss.”

“I’ll be off, then.”

“Yeah, that might be an idea. And you’d best drink your Guinness somewhere else for a while too.”