I scrambled to the side and Rique fired twice with the 9mm, hitting the piece of carpet where I’d been a tenth of a second ago. I dived behind the sofa and took two shots of my own, missing the dodgy bugger both times. Shit. That was the end of my little gun. Had to move fast now. I tossed the weapon and picked the boom box off the floor and threw it at him. It missed, exploded into the wall, spewing CDs, batteries, and sparks.

Rique shot again, sending a bullet into the ceiling above my head. I hurled a vase and then a small glass coffee table.

The door opened.

Hector came in.

“Thank God, over here, mate,” I said.

Rique yelled at Hector: “He’s unarmed. Shoot him.”

Hector pulled out his revolver.

“You said I wouldn’t be involved,” Hector muttered.

Rique turned to lecture him.

“Do as you are told, and…” Rique began.

I picked up my favorite leather armchair and ran at Rique. It was studded leather with a metal back, so it might afford some protection.

I charged the bastard, hoping he wouldn’t have sense enough to shoot me in the legs.

But Rique was flustered by all the things happening at once. He fired off the rest of his clip into the leather chair before I smashed into him, driving him backward into the tinted plate-glass window. My Irish was up and my momentum easily took out the thick safety glass.

Chair and assassin smashed through the window and tumbled through the early-morning air onto the car park below. I was lucky I didn’t fall out after them. I scrambled to a dead stop, but I didn’t even pause to admire my luck or watch Rique smash to pieces on the hood of the Japanese ambassador’s limousine, which, rather inconveniently, had just pulled up outside. Instead I strode across the room and grabbed the gun out of Hector’s hand. He was dazed and bleeding from a cut on his fingertip he’d somehow managed to acquire when he’d taken his pistol out.