Free The God's Eye View by Barry Eisler

the RMJ Tactical Berserker tomahawk from under the seat and placed it across his lap. Then he drove on.
    A half mile later, he reached his destination—an abandoned gas station in the hills outside the city. He turned into the lot. A dusty white van was already parked there, three men with dark mustaches standing alongside it under the long shadow of a sagging portico. They were smoking, and other than the cigarettes, their hands were empty. That was a good sign. The director had told him they knew they were getting only a third of the payment on delivery, so if they didn’t follow the plan, they’d be leaving a lot on the table, and that was good, too. But maybe the upfront money was all they hoped to collect. And he didn’t know what might be concealed under their loose shirts, or whether there were others inside the van. So he watched them carefully, both hands on the wheel where the men could see them, the SIG just a six-inch reach away. They were hard-looking men, and he’d been told they were experienced, so they’d know to keep their hands in sight as he was keeping his. They’d understand he’d read anything else as an attack, and that he’d respond accordingly.
    The man in the center, the tallest of the three, waved. Manus nodded and scanned the area. There was a rectangular concrete structure, paint peeling, graffiti-covered, the windows all blown out. Decent concealment and cover. A lot of scrub to the rear of the structure, but too far off for anyone but a sniper to meaningfully engage.
    He swung around and parked a ways off, not close as they would have been expecting. He was facing the structure, the van between them, the rusting gas pumps behind the van. This way they couldn’t flank him, and if they tried to engage, they’d be stacked up and he’d have a clear field of fire. And the sun was at his back and in their faces, too. A small thing, but he’d make sure it was working to his advantage, not theirs.
    They started walking toward him. He swung open the door and stepped out, staying behind it for cover and letting them see his hands but keeping within reach of the SIG.
    “Hello,” the tall one called out. “You are here for the Kilis Kebabi?”
    It was a little hard to read his lips—English was his second language, and he formed the words differently. And facial hair never made things easier, either. “No,” Manus responded with his half of the bona fides. “For the baklava.”
    “Oh, the baklava is also excellent,” the man said with a big smile, his teeth white against the dark skin and mustache. “You are Miller, yes? You have something for us?”
    Miller was the pseudo the man had been given. Manus stepped to the left, reached slowly into his pocket, and pulled free a thick envelope. He tossed it underhand and the tall man caught it smoothly. With barely a glance, he passed it to the man on his left, who opened it and started counting. Another good sign. If they’d been intent on killing him, they wouldn’t be focused on the money. Not yet.
    Manus reached down and popped the trunk release, took hold of the Berserker, then closed and locked the door. The men’s eyes bulged slightly at the sight of the weapon—over three pounds of black 4140 chrome-moly steel, five inches of razor-sharp cutting edge, and an aggressively curved handle, the kind of axe a Viking or Mongol might have carried to sack a city. The men pulled up short, but no one reached for a weapon.
    “What is this?” the tall man said, eyeing the Berserker as though it was a cobra.
    “A tool,” Manus said. He moved to the trunk, not turning his back, reached inside with one hand, and pulled Hamilton up. He helped the small man get his shaky legs out and onto the ground, then helped him stand.
    The tall man pointed. “He is wearing a diaper?”
    Manus nodded, not really understanding the question. It had been a twelve-hour drive, and Hamilton had been in the trunk. Of course he was wearing a diaper.
    The tall man