An hour later, there was a knock on Jon’s hotel room door. He looked through the peephole. “Yeah, who’s there?”
“I’ve got the money.”
“Okay, let’s see it.” Toomey held up a stack of bills and fanned them back and forth. “Take a step back, hold your jacket out, and slowly turn around.” Toomey did as instructed. “Both pant legs up—one at a time if you please.” Convinced the man was unarmed, Jon removed the chain and deadbolt, and opened the door. Instantly, Glen Toomey stuck a handgun in Jon’s face, backed him into the room, and closed the door with the heel of his right foot. “I’m not sure this is the way I remember our deal,” Jon stammered while stumbling back against the bed. “Where was the piece?”
“At the foot of the door, dipshit. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot—too much noise and too many questions—but you may be found to have committed suicide by jumping from your eleventh-floor suite after composing a very depressing note.” Pike figured there was about a 100% chance Toomey was after more than the watch, with this behavior. Glen Toomey was a professional; despicable yes, but not dumb enough to leave evidence lying around. He’d throw Jon off the balcony or crack his head on the bathtub and make it look like an accident, then grab the thirteen grand and disappear into the night. He thought of his wife and daughter. If he was alone in the world, he could give the man what he wanted and hope for the best, but he wasn’t alone; he was responsible for two other lives. Jon had never really had an opportunity to put his army martial arts training to the test, other than a few competitions. If I don’t, I’m dead anyway, he determined. “Oh, please don’t kill me. You can have the money,” Pike whimpered hysterically with a slight slobber. “I’ve got a wife and daughter.”
“Shut up, you pussy. The watch if you please, Mr. Pike, and then I’d appreciate it very much if you would produce the thirteen K you removed from the table.” Jon didn’t have to bluff; his face showed genuine fear. He raised both of his hands very slowly to the space between his own face and the gun—just to the right of the weapon. Then with his right hand, he unfastened the clasp and let the watch drop to the floor. In the time it took Toomey to glance down, Jon moved his left hand two inches to the gun, grabbed it, pushed it to the left, and inserted his index finger in front of the hammer, preventing it from firing. He used what is known in martial arts as a nakadaka-ken fist. It is formed like a normal fist except the center knuckles form the striking area instead of the larger first knuckles of the index and middle fingers. With all his strength, Pike hit the man in the throat with his right. Toomey released his grip, and both he and the gun tumbled to the floor. The back of his neck hit the edge of the coffee table with an audible “SNAP” and he let out a creepy, blubbery gurgle, which reminded Pike of the sound a balloon makes flying across the room.
Jon knelt and felt a weak pulse that slowly faded away. He banged Toomey’s chest a few times and lowered his head to listen for the sound of breathing. He felt for a pulse again, which horrifyingly never returned. Pike stood, then sat on the bed for several minutes staring at Toomey. He lit another cigarette and gradually became aware that his entire world, life and understanding of reality had changed forever. He wasn’t some kind of secret agent like Malone. He was just a businessman who liked cards. Who was in control now? Was this an accident? His fault? His responsibility? Was this criminal? Was he on his way to jail for murder? The questions with no answers continued to pile up, making him nauseous from the late hour, too much alcohol, too little food, and the overwhelming smell of death and fear. He called Ted’s room.
