That instant of truth, when the guns and knives came out, that was as
much in the moment as a man got. That was the ultimate realization
that you were alive, when you stared laughing Death in the face and
backed him down.
Death always laughed, of course, because he knew that in the end, he
always won. That was Death--but life wasn't about the destination, it
was about the trek. Playing the song was about the flow of the music,
not about reaching the end.
If a man spent years, decades, perfecting a skill, no matter how awful
the skill was in application, some part of him wanted to test it. To
know.
So, part of this was protecting his client. And part of it was, if
necessary, defeating the one who would harm his client. You stepped up
and knocked the other guy's dick into the dirt, and thus you knew that
in this instance, however briefly the moment lasted, you were better
than he was.
It was not the best measure of a man, to pit yourself against another,
but it was a method that gave at least a partial answer right then and
there.
Ego, and no way around that, but Ventura had come to terms with his ego
a long time ago. Yes, he had to accept that there were likely better
assassins out there now than he was--younger, stronger, faster. And
while old and devious beat young and strong most of the time, that
didn't happen when it was quicker reaction time that made the crucial
difference.
So, yes, there were better assassins, but he was pretty sure that
Chilly Wu wasn't one of them. If the deal went smoothly, well and
good, but if things went sour, well, then they'd see.
They'd dance the dance, and then they'd know for sure.
Ventura looked around the parking lot, which was still mostly empty.
The first showing in the theater was usually noon or later; most of the
stores in the shopping center didn't open until nine or nine-thirty, so
the sub rosa ops fielded by the Chinese had to work a little to hide.
In the parking lot of the mall, broadside to the theater, there was a
supposedly empty delivery van purporting to be from a carpet store, but
Ventura would bet rubies to red rust that somebody was hidden in the
back watching every move he made. Maybe through rifle sights, though
he didn't think they'd shoot him.
Another smile. During the American Revolution, there had been a
British sniper, a crack shot, who had once lined his rifle sights up on
George Washington. From the reports, it would have been an easy shot,
but the sniper hadn't taken it. Washington had been standing with his
back to the shooter, and a true British gentleman wouldn't shoot an
officer in the back, now would he? Could have changed the whole course
of the war, that one shot un-taken, but that wasn't the issue. There
were rules, after all. Otherwise, what was the point?
A public works-type truck was parked next to a manhole cover nearby,
orange rubber cones and blinking lights blocking the area, with three
men in hard hats industriously pretending to be working on something
down under the street.
