Page 40 of The Atlas Maneuver

“My name is Cotton Malone. You have Kelly Austin. I want her.”

They’d known Malone was in Basel since yesterday, as he’d followed Kelly Austin around town. They’d maintained loose surveillance, more just a look-and-see, until today and the shooting.

Which Malone had thwarted.

Allowing her to take more drastic action.

The advanced billing on Malone seemed correct. He was indeed most resourceful.

She made two decisions.

The first was transmitted by hand gestures to one of the men in the other room watching her from the doorway. He understood andmoved toward Austin. The second was a gesture to the remaining man, who returned to a position at the second-floor railing.

And fired below.

COTTON SPOTTED THE SHOOTER IN THE INSTANT BEFORE THE TRIGGERwas pulled. Which allowed him to drop back, away from the corner, right before three rounds thudded into the woodwork, generating a blast of splinters. Apparently, no one was grateful for what he’d done.

Okay. He’d shoot his way in.

He snuck a couple of quick peeks around the corner and saw no one above.

He waited a few moments.

Checked again.

Then climbed the risers to the second floor, gun extended and ready. At the top a corridor stretched about thirty feet to his left, doors on either side. A couple were open, most closed. He checked each as he went and found more empty offices. Toward the end of the corridor was another stairway that led down, this one smaller than the main risers. Most likely at one time for the hired help. Now a convenient escape route. The last door opened to a corner space, larger than the others, lined with glass-fronted display cases and an impressive carved Buddha.

A man stood inside, near the windows.

Japanese. Young. Thin. Fit. Unarmed. Shirtsleeves rolled up. Bare feet at the end of his dark trousers.

The guy moved with blinding speed, advancing and throwing a vicious kick that caught Cotton square in the chest, sending him staggering backward, the gun dropping from his grasp.

A shower of colors burst before his eyes.

Air fled his lungs in harsh gasps.

He caught himself at the doorway with an outstretched arm and steadied his balance. Okay. He’d give him that one.

Martial arts.

Never something he’d mastered, though several had tried to teach him.

Over the years he’d learned that most people trained in such had never really used the skills. They mainly exhibited them in controlled situations or competitions. Movies and TV loved to choreograph two opponents showing off their abilities with unnatural chops and nearly impossible kicks. All in slow motion for added effect. But a real fight was something altogether different. No rules. No style. Winning was all that mattered.

And he knew how to win a fight.

He advanced toward the guy, cutting off room to maneuver. The man waited, planting one foot on the carpet and pivoting to uncork a spinning kick, trying to catch Cotton on the jaw.

But he was ready.

His left hand clamped onto the man’s swinging foot. He wrenched the leg up, then down, sharp and hard, at an odd angle, sending a wave of pain through his smaller adversary. The man tried to break free but Cotton only tightened his grip. He then released his hold and planted his right fist straight into the face. He had a few inches in height and fifty pounds on this guy, and that advantage paid off.

The body spun like a puppet, then flailed backward.

He delivered another blow to the face.

The younger man shrank to the carpet, spread-eagled, out cold.

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