The Lion

Khalil backpedaled quickly, and Boris, knowing this was his last and only chance to kill this man, charged forward with the floor lamp.

Khalil feinted right, then moved left and kicked Boris's leg out from under him. Boris crashed to the floor, losing his grip on the lamp, and Khalil was on Boris's back, with his knees straddling the big Russian and his right arm locked around Boris's throat.

Boris tried to rise on his hands and knees, but Khalil kept his full weight on the weakening man while tightening his chokehold.

Boris felt himself blacking out, and he gave one last upward heave with his body, then twisted with every ounce of strength he had left. He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which was dark and blurry. He felt his abdominal wound throbbing and he knew it was gushing blood now.

He knew, too, he should do something, but everything around him seemed quiet and peaceful, so he lay there and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling, and his lungs filling with air.

He heard a voice say, "Get up."

Boris remained still, keeping his eyes shut and feigning more injury and exhaustion than he felt. He was vaguely aware that Khalil was close by, standing over him, then he felt a kick in his right side that knocked the air out of his laboring lungs. The second kick came, as he hoped it would, and Boris swung his legs and body around and knocked Khalil's legs out from under him.

Boris was on his feet, but it took him a second too long, and before he could react, Khalil was already up and delivered a powerful kick into Boris's groin.

Boris doubled over, and Khalil came around him and delivered a ru

Khalil dove on Boris's back and knocked the remaining air out of him, then put him in a headlock that again constricted his airway.

Boris remained still, hoping for another opportunity. His mind was cloudy, but his survival instincts had been aroused and his will to fight for his life had become stronger as he faced death.

Khalil's head was close, and Boris could feel the man's warm, steady breath on his neck. Then Khalil whispered into Boris's ear, "I underestimated you, and for that, I apologize."

Boris could not reply.

Khalil said, "And I thank you, Mr. Korsakov, for sharing with me all your skills and your knowledge." He asked, "Are you proud of me?"

Boris lay perfectly still, not wanting to provoke the man because he felt a small glimmer of hope-not hope that Asad Khalil would spare his life out of compassion; the man had none. Nor would Khalil spare his life out of respect for a worthy opponent. But Khalil might spare his life, Boris thought, because he was satisfied with humiliating him-killing his bodyguards, beating him in a fight, and heaping abuse on him. Khalil, he knew, would not spare any other man's life for those reasons, but Boris knew that he was a special case, and that Khalil understood that the most satisfying conclusion for Asad Khalil would be to leave him a broken man. Yes, Khalil knew that…

Khalil said to him, "You taught me well, so I will not mutilate you or cause you a painful death."

Boris tried to nod his head, but Khalil tightened the pressure around his neck.

Khalil said into Boris's ear, "But you gave me some bad advice…"

Boris saw something in front of his blurry eyes, and he could not identify it at first, though he could see Khalil's free hand gripping something. Then he knew what he was seeing-the long, thin shaft of an ice pick.

"No!"

Khalil put the tip of the ice pick into Boris's left nostril and pushed it back into his brain.

Boris screamed again, but this time it was an unintelligible, animal scream.

Khalil withdrew the pick, which glistened with Boris's blood and brains, then positioned the tip into Boris's right nostril, and again pushed it up into his brain and kept pushing until the handle flattened Boris's nose and the tip of the ice pick came up through his skull.

Khalil left the pick where it was buried, then slid off Boris and rolled him over onto his back.

He watched him for a few seconds and saw the dark red blood begi

Khalil retrieved his knives, then walked to the dining table, retrieved his gun, and pushed the magazine into the butt. He peeled off his bloody clothes and washed himself with the linen napkins and mineral water on the table.

On the bottom shelf of the serving cart under a tablecloth was a dark shirt, dark trousers, and a black windbreaker that Vladimir had laid there for him. Khalil dressed quickly, put on his shoes and socks, then took a linen napkin from the table and stuffed it in his pocket.

He then texted Vladimir: It is finished.

He walked toward the door, looked through the peephole, and was about to slide open the bolt, but then a thought came into his mind.

Khalil walked to the large two-way mirror and looked down into the restaurant. It was more busy now, mostly families with children having their Sunday di

Khalil returned to Boris, who was twitching now, though the moaning had ceased. He dropped to one knee and lifted the big man in his arms, then raised him up over his head, took two long strides, and flung Boris through the glass.

The sound of the shattering glass died away, and there was a momentary silence, followed by a loud thumping sound, and then the screams of the people below.

Khalil drew his gun, then went back to the door, opened it, and exited into the anteroom, noting that Vladimir had disposed of the bodyguard's body and the blood. He opened the elevator door with his key and rode down to the basement. On his way down, he wrapped the linen napkin around his right hand and his gun, then put his hand in the side pocket of his windbreaker.

Vladimir met him in the basement at the elevator and escorted him through the dark storage area to a flight of concrete steps, which they both ascended.

Vladimir pushed on a metal door that opened to an alleyway between the buildings, filled with trash cans and plastic garbage bags, two of which, he understood, contained the corpses of the bodyguards.

Vladimir said to him, "God has blessed you, my friend."

"And you."

Khalil pulled his hand out of his pocket, and Vladimir thought he was extending his hand in friendship, but as he reached for Khalil's hand, he saw that the hand was wrapped in a bloodstained table napkin, and he hesitated.

Khalil fired a single bullet into Vladimir's forehead.

The man fell back into a pile of garbage bags, and Khalil tossed the smoking cloth on his face, pocketed the gun, then threw garbage-filled bags over him to cover his body.

Khalil walked up the alleyway to an iron gate, which he unbolted and exited onto the sidewalk of Brightwater Court.

There were a number of pedestrians on the sidewalk, and he glanced at the front entrance of Svetlana and saw that people were streaming out the doors. Some women and children were crying and some men were shouting excitedly.

Khalil moved through the crowd and saw his taxicab, which was now surrounded by people, one of whom was trying to get in the vehicle, but the driver had locked the doors.

Khalil did not regret throwing Boris through the window, but his act of self-indulgence had now created a small problem.

Khalil pushed through the crowd, banged on the driver's window, and shouted, "Rasheed!"