Assumed Identity (1993) by David Morrell

said.
    'Crawford!' Big Bob Bailey yelled.
    I don't have another choice, Buchanan thought.
    'Shoot him,' the first twin told the bodyguard.
    (I've got to-!)
    'I'm talkin' to you!' Big Bob Bailey stumbled. 'Crawford! By Jesus, answer me!'
    'Shoot them both,' the second twin told the bodyguard.
    But Buchanan was already in motion, lunging from the plastic chair, diving toward the left, toward the first twin and the Browning pistol he'd set on the table, his hand spread over it.
    Behind Buchanan, the bodyguard fired. With the sound-suppressor on the barrel, the guard's Beretta made a muffled pop. The bullet missed the back of Buchanan's head.
    However, it didn't miss Buchanan entirely. As he rose and lunged, his right shoulder appeared where his head had been, and the bullet sliced, burning, through the muscle at the side of that shoulder. Before the bodyguard could shoot a second time, Buchanan had collided with the first twin, toppling him over his chair, simultaneously grabbing for the first twin's weapon. But the first twin would not let go of it.
    'Shoot!' the second twin told the bodyguard.
    'I can't! I might hit your brother!'
    'Crawford, what the hell's goin' on?' Big Bob Bailey yelled.
    Rolling in the sand, Buchanan strained to keep the first twin close to him as he fought for a grip on the pistol.
    'Move closer!' the second twin told the bodyguard. 'I'll shine my light!'
    Buchanan's shoulder throbbed. Blood streamed from the wound, slicking the first twin and himself, making it hard for Buchanan to keep a grasp on the twin and use him as a shield. As he rolled, sand scraped into his wound. If he'd been standing, the blood would have streaked down his arm to his hand, causing it to become so slippery that his fingers wouldn't have been able to wrench the pistol from the first twin's hand. But he was prone, and his hand stayed dry as he struggled in the sand. He sensed the bodyguard and the second twin rushing toward him. He heard Big Bob Bailey again yell, 'Crawford!' And all at once, the first twin fired his pistol. Unlike the bodyguard's weapon, the twin's Browning did not have a sound-suppressor. Its report was shockingly loud. The bodyguard and the second twin cursed, scrambling to get out of the line of fire. Buchanan's ears -already ringing from when the bodyguard had slammed his hands against the sides of Buchanan's head - now rang louder from the proximity of the shot. Buchanan's right eye still retained a harsh afterimage from the glare of the penlight that the second twin had aimed at the eye. Relying more on touch than on sight, Buchanan rolled and struggled with the first twin to get control of the pistol. His shoulder ached and began to stiffen.
    The first twin fired the pistol again. As much as Buchanan could tell, the bullet went straight up, bursting through the palm fronds at the top of the shelter. But Buchanan's already compromised vision was assaulted by the pistol's muzzle flash. 'Jesus!' he heard Big Bob Bailey yell. Despite the ringing in his ears, he also heard distant exclamations from the hotel's outside bar. He sensed the bodyguard and the second twin surging toward him once more, and suddenly he managed to grab the first twin's right thumb, twisting it, yanking it backward.
    The thumb snapped at the middle joint with a sound that was soft, gristly, not so much a crack as a crunch. The first twin screamed and reflexively loosened his hold on the pistol, needing to relax his hand, to reduce the stress on his thumb. In that instant, Buchanan wrested the pistol away and rolled, sand sticking to his bloody shoulder. The bodyguard fired. As Buchanan kept rolling, the bullet struck next to him, and Buchanan shot four times in rapid succession. His vision was still sufficiently impaired that he had to rely on other senses - the touch of sand that the bodyguard scattered while he rushed closer to Buchanan, the sound of the muffled pop from the sound-suppressed Beretta - to help him estimate the