Free Clear by Fire by Joshua Hood Page B

the message that appeared.
    It read, “Can fit you in on Thursday. Do you need a ride home?”
    Mason typed, “See you then—need a ride.”
    He hit the enter button, sending the message, and was about to log off when he saw that Ahmed was typing a reply.
    His watch told him he’d been at the computer for six minutes.
    The new message popped up at the top of the previous one, and Mason leaned in to read it.
    “You’re burned, get out now.”
    Fuck.
    Mason quickly logged off the computer and moved to the front of the café. He handed the man the plastic card and turned his back to the desk while the shopkeeper checked the computer for the amount of time Mason had used.
    A black sedan cruised slowly past the shop, its windows tinted dark against the sun.
    Relax, you’re good , he told himself.
    The Arab was counting out his change and trying to watch the TV at the same time. He fumbled with the coins, dropping them on the floor with a curse. Outside in the street, the sedan had come to a stop near the curb.
    Mason’s hand reached for his pistol as a man with a cropped haircut got out of the passenger seat and looked down the street before closing the door behind him.
    “Keep the change, my friend, I need to use your toilet anyway,” Mason told the man in Arabic.
    The shopkeeper handed him the key to the restroom and returned the bills to the register without taking his eyes off the Bollywood remake he was so engrossed in. Mason weaved his way back to the rear, passed the bathroom, and pushed on the back door. It was locked.
    “Seriously?” he asked aloud, cursing himself for not checking earlier.
    Mason searched for a latch; there wasn’t one. The door had to be secured from the outside. He was about to kick it open when he noticed the welds on the door frame.
    There was a small recess near the door, partially obscured by an empty crate of wire. Mason moved back to the bathroom, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light. The smell of shit and stale urine poured out, and he checked to see if the man was coming before closing the door and wedging himself behind the crate.
    It was a bad spot, but it was all he had. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his knife and flipped the blade open with his thumb. Mason ducked down behind the box and prayed the dark corner would conceal him.
    I should just shoot this asshole , he thought as a shadow appeared against the wall. He knew the suppressor would be too loud, though, and the last thing he needed was the cops on his back.
    The man from the street slipped into his view, his light skin almost glowing against the dark walls. He was well dressed and had the deformed ears of a wrestler. Mason waited as the man slipped a pistol out of his jacket and shot a quick look back toward the computer terminals.
    Mason could tell that it was some kind of Beretta knockoff, and that meant the man was local. He just hoped he was poorly trained.
    The edges of the man’s mouth turned up in a smile as he took a shooting stance in the middle of the door and slowly began to turnthe knob with his nonfiring hand. Mason silently rose into a crouch as the door cracked open. With the knife at the ready, he stepped out of the shadows.
    He was trying to time it so that he would slip behind the assassin just as the door came open all the way, but his hip gently bumped the crate and the subtle noise gave away his position as he stepped out into the open.
    The man stiffened and, with his hand still on the knob, turned toward the sound. Mason brought the knife up, the blade aimed at his spine, but the man was already moving. He missed his spine, but sunk the blade into his back. Yelling in pain, the man turned abruptly as Mason shoved him into the bathroom, losing control of the knife as the pistol arced toward his face.
    Mason tried to duck, but he was too close and he felt the jarring blow glance off his scalp. Dazed, the American stumbled backward as blood gushed from the wound. Recovering quickly,