The instant that Khasha yelled “Gun!” George kicked the door as hard as he could, slamming Fitzpatrick’s arm between the heavy door and the doorjamb. Fitzpatrick cursed and dropped his gun. Fitzpatrick was five-ten and weighed 165 pounds. While he was highly trained in martial arts and in peak physical condition, George’s slam had caught him by surprise. One critical step in George’s maturation as a brawler was that once an advantage is obtained, it ought to be pressed and never lost. George knew instantly that this was another attempt at a hit. He recognized the gun that dropped to the ground as a Beretta 92FS, with a silencer attached. He yanked the door open violently, swinging his right fist hard, catching Fitzpatrick squarely in his jaw.
To George’s surprise, Fitzpatrick didn’t go down, but seemed to shake it off as though he were a pit bull trained for prizefights. He came directly at George, tackling him in the midsection, bringing them both to the ground. They rolled over the beautiful Indian carpets and hardwood floors, cursing, punching, and gouging as they went. George was getting the worst of it as he was slowly being ground-pounded into submission.
Fitzpatrick got up. George didn’t. Fitzpatrick grabbed a heavy, stonebased lamp from a decorative table in front of a large plate-glass window, raised it over his head, and was about to deliver the death blow. Somehow, in the thick of the fight, he had forgotten about Khasha. Maybe this was because she was short and slight; maybe it was because she was a woman. She picked up the gun, pointed it at Fitzpatrick, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
He smirked at her. “Never fired a gun before, have you?”
She squeezed the trigger again, and again, but still nothing happened. In two steps he was on her. “You see this little thing over here,” he said, “that’s called a safety. And you need to flip it off in order to shoot. You can watch,” he smirked, flipping the safety and pointing the weapon directly at her forehead.
George had come to his senses and saw Fitzpatrick take the gun from Khasha and point out the safety lever. In one move he was up and grabbed Fitzpatrick’s left arm. He swung him around violently as Fitzpatrick fired bullets into the wall and ceiling. George swung him 360 degrees, arching backwards the way a discus thrower would. He gave Fitzpatrick another 180 and heaved the CIA agent, with all his might, into the plate-glass window. The glass shattered, and Fitzpatrick fell forty-two floors, landing with a sickening splat in the middle of Hornby Street, where whatever was left of him was run over by a large articulated city bus.
“You all right?” breathed George heavily.
“Yes. George,” Khasha said, “let me get a towel. Your face is covered with blood.”
Hotel security had been notified of the racket by others on, above, and below the forty-second floor. The hallway door opened abruptly and two uniformed men, complete with radios and serious expressions, entered the suite.
“What on earth happened here?” one of them asked.
“George got upset with the room service guy,” said Khasha.
George was holding a bloodstained white towel to his face. He looked at the shattered window and the bullet holes in the walls. “I’m sorry you guys, but I tend to lose it when they overcook my steak. I just can’t deal with that. I’m sure you’ve run into this type of thing before.”
One of the security men spoke into his lapel mike. “Joe, call 9-1-1. We have a situation.”
The situation had settled down a bit and the first of the first responders showed up. Khasha looked around here. “George, where’s Turbee? Turb?”
She began checking the rooms of the suite, and when she opened the ensuite bathroom door, she saw Hamilton Turbee lying facedown in an empty tub, a pillow over his head.
“Turbee, it’s okay now,” she said quietly, reaching for his hand. “The police have arrived. We’re all fine.”
Turbee gave her a hug. “Khasha, this is too crazy for me. I can’t deal with this level of stress.”
“It’s all right, Turbee. It’s all good now.” She gently swayed him back and forth, searching in vain for a way to rebut the “too crazy” part.
The Vancouver police came, as did two RCMP officers dispatched by the Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit. The ambulance attendants arrived, as did a detail from Fire and Rescue. They all gave statements to the police, who were particularly interested in the gun. “Beretta with silencer,” said one. “Where have we seen this before?”
“Sarge,” said the junior city police officer, “we’ve just heard about this somewhere.”
One of the RCMP officers had an iPad with him, which had a highly encrypted satellite connection to C-PIC, the RCMP master database. He tapped a couple of icons and entered some text. “Guys, this is serious. We just had an attempted hit on Dana Wittenberg, which involved an identical weapon.”
“Dana? Dana Wittenberg? Oh my God,” said Khasha. “Is she all right?”
The officers did not respond to her question. Instead they asked her how she knew Dana Wittenberg.
“We had dinner with her a few nights ago. We were helping her with the trial. Turbee over here testified in the trial,” she said.
“Which trial?” asked the RCMP officer.
“The Lestage trial,” said Khasha. “We’re helping Dana out. That’s what all these computers are for.” She motioned to the computers and laptops that were sitting on a low coffee table along one side of the lounge area.
“You guys all involved in the Lestage trial?” he prodded.
“Yes, sir,” said Turbee. “That’s the only reason we’re here.”
The senior officer nodded. “We’d better radio that in.”
“But is Dana okay?” repeated Khasha.
“Yes she is, ma’am,” he responded. “Apparently she had some kind of monster dog that the intruder was not expecting.”
Turbee broke into
