The Evasion

The Man in the Black Suit

The Evasion

A figure dashed from the alleyway, unaware of the crosshairs marking him for death.  Across the street, there was the stealthy spit of a suppressed rifle shot, and a shell casing tinkled on the bed of a truck parked parallel to the river.

The bullet slapped into the man’s forehead, dropping him instantly.

But there was an error: a second man followed the first from the alley.

In the truck bed, Aakil cursed profanely as he realized what had just occurred.  It was too late.

A hotwired SUV slammed into Aakil’s vehicle at one hundred kilometers per hour.  Glass shattered and metal buckled with protesting screeches.  In one car, airbags expanded with a whoosh.  In the other, a man died.

Both vehicles slid and tumbled into the water.  They sank instantly.

The body of the gunman known as Aakil floated up, but in the SUV, a man in a black suit was restrained by his seatbelt.

Even though he’d intended to take down both vehicles, the impact still stunned him into immobility for several precious moments as the metal coffin plummeted silently.  Water gushed past the gaping mouth of the missing windshield.  Fumbling with his seatbelt buckle, the man freed himself and took a last gulp from the dwindling air-pocket in the top of the SUV.  Then he swam free of the vehicle, slipping away as it sank into the murk.

The Elbe’s freezing waters gripped him as he shed his jacket and pawed off his shoes.  Taking a moment to orient himself, he began swimming.

The man who’d killed Aakil breast-stroked a hundred yards downriver and clambered unnoticed to the shore.  At the spot where the cars had gone off, a crowd was gathering.

The man surveyed faces.  Only one of his pursuers still lived, and that man was located standing on the edge of the congregation, talking animatedly into a cell.  Apparently, he assumed his target was dead.

Dripping wet and bereft of jacket or shoes, the man who was not dead hailed a cab and ordered it to an expensive hotel, creating a story for the driver’s questions.  He couldn’t risk going back for his possessions, and since his last residence had been downscale, it was best to procure accommodations on the opposite side of the spectrum.  He had enough money on him to cover contingencies of this nature.

He took a hot shower in his new room, rented under the prepared alias of Abel Falke.  After his shower, the man named Falke sipped a drink from the minibar while waiting for laundering services to take care of his clothes.  He’d need to purchase new ones.

Then he sat for a while in thought.  At last he decided: it was time for some research.