Slaton held the Sig casually by his side. Not that Monkh, whose back was to him fifteen paces away, could see it.
Slaton used his free hand to tap the kill switch on the mixer. Its engine sputtered to silence. Then he slid a foot sideways and disconnected the main extension cord to the power tools, only two of which were still running by their jury-rigged switches. The only sound at that point was muted, the generator on the lower level.
His target stood statue-like, the Glock still in his hand.
“I could ask you to drop the gun,” Slaton said. “But I don’t think you would. I can see the slide isn’t locked back. Given that it’s a Glock 19, with what appears to be a standard magazine, I’m pretty sure you’re down to one round.”
“Two,” said the man Slaton knew as Thomas.
“Really? Maybe my count got off. But you should be very sure about that before you do something rash. One might not be enough. Hollow-points are good, but unless you manage a head shot, and a good one at that, I’ll probably still be functional. Of course, that assumes you can turn and shoot faster than I can pull a trigger. And I’ve got a full magazine.”
“You will be dead after the first.”
“Doubtful. You already missed me once, down at the spillway. No, you will definitely need more than one shot.”
He could see Monkh trembling with rage.
“Who are you working for?” Slaton asked.
Monkh didn’t reply.
“Yeah … that’s what I figured. I’m guessing you don’t even know.”
Monkh had never felt such fury. But then, he had also never found himself at such a disadvantage. He knew his only chance was to fight. Yet Corsair knew it as well. He tried to concentrate, channel his anger into the most perfect move he’d ever made. Turn, sight, and shoot in a flash. Two rounds. He was sure he had two left.
He whipped to the right, his quickness blurring, and instantly sighted on the assassin’s silhouette. Monkh got off two shots and the slide on his Glock locked back. He knew both were on target. Strangely, Corsair didn’t return fire. Nor did he fall. He just … stood there.
Only then did Monkh realize why.
“Not bad,” Corsair said.
On the inch-thick sheet of glass in front of him, two coin-sized impressions, three inches apart, were fixed directly in front of his face.
“And you were right,” he added. “You did have two rounds left. Too bad you didn’t save one.” Corsair stepped out from behind the glass.
Monkh’s hand flew into his pocket. The touch of the polymer heel of his spare magazine was his last sensation on earth as two bullets pierced his forehead.
The entry wounds were less than an inch apart.