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Mr. Christmas

The man in work gear moved through a range of emotions. All of them writ large in his expressive face.

At first, confusion.

‘ What do you think of Marlon Brando? ’

Random strangers who ask for a light and then randomly seek your opinion on old movie stars are rare. It’s not an interaction that happens even occasionally. The man in work gear was surprised by the question. He didn’t even get as far as thinking about an answer – he was so bowled over at being asked that his brain couldn’t function.

He was momentarily stunned.

That confusion deepened as Mr. Christmas stepped forward smartly, almost nose to nose, gripping the workman’s right arm and pinning it so that he couldn’t get to the gun in his jacket. Before fight-or-flight response kicked in, the workman’s expression changed again. This time from surprise to shock.

And then pain.

‘Don’t move. Don’t struggle. There’s a blade in your thigh,’ said Mr. Christmas, his voice calm and almost soothing. ‘Do what I ask, and I’ll take the knife straight out. You’ll bleed, you’ll limp for a week, but you will live. If you don’t co-operate, I pull the knife a half-inch to the left, at forty-five degrees, and I sever a major artery. You will die in seconds. Do not struggle.’

The man’s eyes widened in fear.

‘Now, on your coms, I want you to tell your friends to drive away. Say Eddie Flynn made it out of an exit into an alley and he’s gone.’

Mr. Christmas, confident he had full control of the man in front of him, sensed movement to his left. He pushed in closer to the man, angled his body slightly to give himself some cover.

Bloch moved slowly out of the Cardozo lobby. Checking right and left. She saw the workman’s back, and Mr. Christmas standing close to him, glancing over his shoulder. Unusual, but not suspicious. Just two men in conversation. She was looking for a more immediate threat. From the angle of her gaze, Mr. Christmas guessed she had spotted the van.

It was unlike Flynn to move around the city without protection. He had obviously guessed, correctly, that it was more likely he would get hit coming out of the hotel, or inside the building. Which is why Bloch had been inside.

Mr. Christmas knew he could draw his gun, aim over the workman’s shoulder and take out Flynn as he stepped outside the hotel. It was a difficult shot. Forty yards. A moving target. Possible other bodies in the way. The Nazi might make a move while Mr. Christmas was distracted.

Too risky.

‘Tell your colleagues in the van to move,’ said Mr. Christmas. ‘I won’t ask again.’

The workman pressed a stud on his inner-ear device, said, ‘Abort, abort, NYPD.’

Instantly, Mr. Christmas heard the van’s engine starting up and then the change in tone as it found a gear and began to move.

If he let go of the workman’s arm to take out his own gun, the workman might try to get free – maybe even reach for his weapon. He glanced to his right. An alleyway. He gently pulled the man toward the alley, knowing, with a blade in his leg, he would have to follow.

Sweat broke out on the workman’s face as Mr. Christmas forced the man’s back against the alley wall. The entire alley was in the shade. Dark and cold against the morning sun. Narrow, maybe only ten feet wide.

‘You know, if you weren’t a Nazi, I’d probably let you live.’

Mr. Christmas skipped to his left, toward the mouth of the alley. He didn’t look back. He heard the wet crash of arterial blood hitting the opposite wall like a fire hose. Then he drew his pistol, leaned out from the alleyway and pointed it at the front door of the hotel.

Eddie Flynn and Harry Ford stepped outside.

It was too soon.

Too public.

But Mr. Christmas had learned never to pass up on an opportunity.

He shut his right eye. Used his left to find and align the iron sights on his Sig Sauer with Flynn’s torso.

He inhaled.

Began to apply pressure on the trigger. It’s always a squeeze on that trigger, never a pull.

The pressure increased.

He exhaled, stabilizing his body, making sure there were no movements to throw off his aim.

More pressure on the trigger.

The gun steady in his hand. Ready to adjust for the recoil.

More pressure.

A man in a wrinkled suit came out of the hotel behind Flynn.

Mr. Christmas gasped.

BANG!