Assumed Identity (1993) by David Morrell Page A

bodyguard's position. Three of Buchanan's bullets struck the bodyguard, knocking him backward. Buchanan immediately twisted, aiming to his left, firing twice, hitting the second twin in the stomach and the chest. Blood spurting from between his unbuttoned silk shirt, the target doubled over and fell.
    But the bodyguard was still on his feet, Buchanan realized. The man had been hit three times and yet seemed only dazed. Buchanan abruptly understood that all three bullets had struck the bodyguard's chest and that the Hispanic had seemed so unusually large-boned because he was wearing a concealed, bullet-resistant vest. As the bodyguard straightened and aimed yet again, Buchanan shot him in the throat, the left eye, and the forehead. Even then, he feared that the bodyguard might spastically squeeze off a shot. Buchanan tensed, desperate to squirm backward. But instead of firing, the bodyguard rose as if trying to balance on his tiptoes, leaned back as if balancing now on his heels, and toppled across the table. At the same time, Buchanan felt thrashing to his right, twisted onto his side, and shot the first twin through his left temple. Blood, bone, and brain - hot and sticky - spattered over Buchanan's face.
    The first twin shuddered, dying.
    Buchanan in turn inhaled deeply and trembled, overwhelmed by adrenaline. The repeated shots from the unsilenced Browning had intensified the agony of the ringing in his head. Due to years of habit, he'd mentally counted each shot as he'd pulled the trigger. Four toward the bodyguard. Two toward the second twin. Three more toward the bodyguard. One toward the first twin. Earlier the first twin had fired twice. That made twelve all told. Buchanan hadn't worried about using all his ammunition because he knew that the Browning was capable of holding thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Normally he wouldn't have needed to shoot so many times, but in the darkness, he couldn't guarantee precision. But now his remaining bullets would not be enough if the shots had attracted the twins' other bodyguards. In a rush, Buchanan crouched behind the table, aiming toward the gloom of the beach, the glow of the lights at the outdoor bar, and the gleam of the lights at the hotel. A loud, nervous crowd had gathered on the sidewalk that flanked the beach. Several men were pointing in Buchanan's direction. He didn't see any armed men rushing toward him. Quickly he made sure that the bodyguard and the first twin were dead. While stopped at the first twin, he searched the body, retrieving his belt, his keys, and his pen.
    He didn't want anything associated with him to remain on the scene. In a greater rush, he checked the second twin, groped inside his suit coat, and pulled out the list of names - Buchanan's pseudonyms -that the second twin had read to him. He left the other list, the names of supposedly disloyal associates that he'd given the twins. The authorities would investigate those names and try to implicate them in these killings.
    Or so Buchanan hoped. He wanted to accomplish at least some of what he'd been sent here to do, to inflict as much damage on the drug-distribution network as he could. If only this mission hadn't gone to hell, if only.
    Buchanan suddenly froze. Big Bob Bailey. Where was he? What had happened to-?
    'Crawford?' an unsteady voice murmured from the darkness.
    Buchanan strained his vision to study the night, his eyes now less impaired by the glare of the penlight and the strobelike flash of the shots.
    'Crawford?' Bailey's voice sounded oddly muffled.
    Then Buchanan realized - Bailey had been stumbling toward this table the last time Buchanan had seen him. When the shooting started, Bailey must have dropped to the beach. His voice was muffled because he was pressed, face downward, against the sand.
    'Jesus Christ, man, are you all right?' Bailey murmured. 'Who's doin' all the shootin'?'
    Buchanan saw him now, a dark shape hugging the beach. He shifted his gaze