go through the glass, hope not to get cut too badly. Lousy options, but they beat being tortured to death by Flatnose and his handsome friends.
They were pretty rough shoving me down the hallway ahead of them, and I tried to emanate waves of fear and helplessness so their confidence would build. I wanted them to feel in control, to believe that I was cowed by their size and their numbers. That might give me some small chance at surprise. Beyond that, I had only one advantage, the same one SOG always had against the North Vietnamese, even when we were operating in their backyard: Considering what was coming, I was more motivated to escape than they were to hold me.
They took me to a room at the farthest end of the corridor. It was small, only about three meters square. The door had a window of frosted glass in its center and opened inward, to the left, at the back of the room. To the right was a small rectangular table with two chairs on either side of it. They pushed me into one of the chairs, my back to the door. I put my hands on my knees, under the table.
Flatnose disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a large wooden truncheon. He took a seat on the other side of the table, facing me. I heard the other two take up positions behind me, to either side.
There was about a meter of empty space between Flatnose’s back and the wall. Good.
They hadn’t locked the door. Why bother? There were three of them, and they were big bastards. This was their place. They knew they were in control.
I lifted the table a fraction with my knees, getting a feel for its weight. Despite its size, it was satisfyingly heavy. My heart was thudding in my ears, my neck.
Flatnose started to say something. I didn’t hear what. As soon as the words began I sprang up, my arms catching the table from underneath, driving it up and into him. The force of it slammed him backward into the wall. I felt the impact jolt through my arms.
The other two leaped forward. I shot my leg out into the guy coming in on my right. It caught him squarely in the gut, so hard his momentum continued to carry his feet forward. He went down and then the other one was on me.
He grabbed me from behind and tried for
The grip loosened and I spun inside it, pumping uppercuts into his abdomen. He dropped his arms to protect his body and I caught him with a solid palm-heel under the nose. He didn’t fall, but he was dazed. I shoved him to the right and scrambled for the door.
The guy I’d kicked grabbed my leg from the ground but I shook free. I gripped the doorknob hard and twisted it, flung the door open. It rocketed into the wall, the frosted glass exploding.
I stumbled into the hallway, running and almost falling like a man tearing out of control down a steep hill. It took me only a second to reach the entrance doors. I hit them hard, not holding anything back, and they burst open at the center. I spilled out into the hallway, rolled to my feet, and bolted for the stairwell. When I reached the outer door I wrenched it open and plunged down the stairs four at a time, my hand on the railing for balance. Just as I cleared the first riser, I heard the door slam open. They were already after me — not quite the head start I’d hoped for.
I had to get out of there before reinforcements started pouring in. Shibakoen subway station was on the opposite side of Hibiya-dori. I bolted across the street, trying to flow diagonally into the traffic, tires screeching as I jumped in front of cars.
Thick crowds of pedestrians were exiting at the top of the steps to the station — a train must have just come in. I glanced back as I hit the entrance and saw two of Yamaoto’s boys sprinting after me.
I could hear the chimes of another train pulling in. Maybe I could make it. I had no doubt that they would shoot me now if they could. In this crowd, no one would know where the shots had come from. I fought frantically for space, ducking past three slow-moving old women who were blocking the stairway, and spun left at the bottom of the stairs. There was a concession stand in front of the ticket windows and as I dodged past it I grabbed a palm- sized canned coffee. Hundred and ninety grams. Hard metal edges.
I shoved my way through the wickets and onto the platform. I was too late — the doors had already closed, and the train was starting to move.
The platform was crowded, but there was a clear passage alongside the train. I maneuvered into it, glanced back and saw one of Yamaoto’s goons pass the wickets and burst through the crowd into the clear space next to the train.
I turned and measured the distance. About five meters, closing fast.
I threw the can like a fastball, aiming for center mass. It went a little high and caught him in the sternum with a thud I could hear even over the noise of the crowd. He went down hard. But his buddy was right behind him, his gun out.
I spun around. The train was picking up speed.
I dropped my head and sprinted after it, my breath hammering in and out. I heard a gunshot. Then another.
Two meters. One.
I was close enough to reach out and touch the vertical bar at the back corner of the car, but I couldn’t get any closer. For an instant, my speed was perfectly synchronized with the train. Then it started to slip away.
I gave a wild yell and leaped forward, my fingers outstretched for the bar. For one bad second I thought I’d come up short and felt myself falling — then my hand closed around cold metal.
My body fell forward and my knees smacked into the back of the train. My feet were dangling just over the tracks. My fingers were slipping off the bar. I looked up, saw a kid in a school uniform staring at me out the back window, his mouth open. Then the train entered the tunnel and I lost my grip.
I twisted instinctively, getting my left arm under and across my body so I could roll with the impact. Still, I hit the tracks so hard that I actually bounced instead of rolling. There was one enormous shock all down my left side, then a brief sensation of flight. An instant later I felt a dull
