The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  In less than sixty seconds all sound died.

  He opened the bathroom door a smidgen. The haze was thick. He had to hold on a bit longer for it to dissipate.

  When he came out, his stomach constricted. There were only three unconscious bodies where there should have been four. Quickly, he went from one to the other. He removed their masks and discovered who was missing.

  Without hesitation, he fled the room. He dropped the moment he reached the hallway and went into a roll, holding on to his gun with both hands.

  Noise from the stairs drew his attention.

  He removed his mask and got back on his feet. He opened the door leading to the stairwell and bent low with the intention of making himself as small a target as possible. He looked up, believing the noise he’d heard had emanated from that direction.

  The quiet was ominous.

  The first bullet barely missed his scalp. The second grazed his left arm. The force of it threw him to his knees. It was just a flesh wound but it stung nevertheless.

  Shit! The bastard was below him, not above.

  He had to pause until the pain subsided. Blood was flowing but not sufficiently to require a tourniquet. He moved his arm; it was uncomfortable but still functioned. He wiped the film of sweat from his forehead.

  Descending the stairs two and three at a time, he gained some ground. The minute he got Yassin in his sights, he fired off a round.

  Yassin returned the gunfire.

  Jeremy had to cling to the wall of the stairwell to avoid being hit again.

  Yassin reached the lobby level. He burst through the door, then disappeared.

  Jeremy was right behind him. He realized that without prudence, it could all end here. Badly. He slipped to the cement floor and flattened himself. He opened the door from his lying position. The corridor was brightly lit. He couldn’t see anyone.

  He came to his feet.

  Taking the narrow corridor, he reached the lobby barely in time to see Yassin pushing his way through the crowd.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Jeremy went after him, keeping his gun hidden, his gaze pointed straight ahead.

  “Hey, you’re bleeding!” someone called out, as if he wasn’t aware of it himself.

  There were too many people in his way.

  Yassin sailed through the revolving doors.

  He followed him outside.

  Yassin was wearing a white shirt and trousers. Jeremy wasn’t dressed any warmer. But Yassin’s shirt was like a beacon in the dark. Jeremy was easily able to keep track of him. The man was less than half a block ahead, going north on Avenue Road.

  The snow was falling again. The wind had picked up and the cold was sufficient to cut to the bone. There were a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. Vehicular traffic, while not as heavy as usual, was steady.

  On the run, Jeremy began to close the gap.

  Before he could take aim, however, Yassin began to fire at him, showing a disregard for the pedestrians.

  Jeremy understood he could no longer remain on the sidewalk.

  Yassin followed his example and moved onto the road.

  Having been to Toronto before, Jeremy was aware of the average driver in this city. Most were ill-equipped to drive in rain, let alone snow. Too often they either went too fast or too slow. Tonight, the streets were especially slippery.

  Seeing Yassin dart through traffic, he quickened his pace. Once he was close enough, he waited for a car to pass, and he fired his weapon.

  Yassin ducked.

  This went on for several minutes, with each man trying to gain the upper hand.

  The cold was getting to Jeremy. He could especially feel it in the flesh wound in his arm. It was affecting his reflexes.

  Suddenly, a woman slipped on the icy sidewalk.

  Her cry distracted Yassin.

  Taking advantage, Jeremy bent low and began to run alongside a fairly new Honda Civic. The driver was a woman in her late sixties or early seventies. Her hair was more white than gray, and she looked stricken.

  He held up a hand, trying to indicate the need for calm.

  The woman slowed down.

  This perfectly served Jeremy’s purpose. Popping up at the approximate spot he expected Yassin to be, he called his name.

  Startled, Yassin backed up, straight into the path of a fast-moving car—a white Audi—coming from the opposite direction.

  There was a horrific sound.

  Yassin’s body flew into the air, then came down with a thud.

  Jeremy rushed to his side. He felt for a pulse but was unable to find one.

  Pausing, he checked again.

  “Dammit!” he swore aloud. Yassin deserved to suffer, not to succumb to what was practically a merciful death.

  Standing, Jeremy caught sight of the distraught driver of the Audi making a beeline toward him. The man was elderly and heavyset, wearing an overcoat, scarf, and gloves. “It wasn’t my fault,” he was babbling. “You saw it. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Easy—” Jeremy started to say, when he spotted the man’s yarmulke.

  And he burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” the driver said, growing angry.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The question seemed to unsettle the man even more. “Ch… Charles,” he said.

  “Charles?” Jeremy repeated. “You did good, Charles. You have no idea how good…”