The Blonde

squeezed shut, and a blood-line of drool connecting her lower lip to the floor.

“Hey,” Vanessa said, crouching down. “Come on now. Stop it.” She reached to touch the girl’s leg.

“Wait,” Kowalski said. “She’s …”

Too late.

The teenager nailed Vanessa in the tits with her boot, sending her backwards across the kitchen. She crashed into the table, one end of which flipped up and hit her in the back of the head.

It would have been funny if it hadn’t looked so painful.

The teenager sprung to her feet, never mind that the act of pushing her palms against the bottle shards cut them deeper. She still was an absolute mess, all drool and blood and tears, but she looked deliriously happy.

Vanessa moaned and struggled to catch her breath. Her fingers clawed at the linoleum as if there were some kind of painkiller hidden beneath.

“You’re sensitive there, I can feel it,” the girl said, then saw a corkscrew on the kitchen counter. Kowalski had bought it at Vons along with the pinot noir. The teenager considered it quickly; decided it would do.

She reached out for it.

Kowalski wrapped his right arm around her neck and squeezed.

This was Kowalski’s signature move. He likened himself to the trash monster from Star Wars- , once he had you locked in, there was little you could use outside the power of the motherfucking Force to free yourself.

Unfortunately, the teenager was quick. She already had the corkscrew in her hand.

The Motherfucking Force vs. $3.99 corkscrew from Vons over on Sunset.

She sliced his cheek. Kowalski tilted his head back, squeezed harder. She whipped around, caught him on a love handle. The sharp point tore his flesh. Fuck, she was a squirmy thing.

He continued squeezing.

By the time the teenager was unconscious, Kowalski had puncture wounds and gashes in his leg, back, face, and forearm. As well as his right love handle.

He let her drop to the kitchen floor, then sat down to collect his thoughts and take stock of his injuries. Which were fairly numerous, for what was essentially twenty seconds of wild slashing violence. He ran his tongue around his mouth, feeling if anything else was loose.

Across the room, Vanessa pushed herself up on her arms.

“I fooking wish you carried a gun,” she said.

“I wish I carried dental insurance,” Kowalski said. He opened his right fist and looked down at his bloodied tooth.

Vanessa reached out and found the towel. Kowalski realized that the free show was over, and he hadn’t any time to fully appreciate it.

Who was he kidding. He wouldn’t have allowed himself to, anyway.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I won’t be bringing the girls out to play anytime soon.” She rewrapped the towel around her torso.

“We have to get to San Diego. Now.”

“Figured that.”

They were silent as they quickly gathered their things.

Haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” The interrogator was loving this. Possibly as much as the idea of using his little knife. What was that anyway? Something he took from the kitchen at home? Something his wife ordered at a Pampered Chef party?

“Yeah,” Kowalski said. “I figured it out. The first team pushed us to a specific car rental place. You had someone there waiting. You tagged the Taurus with a homing device.”

The interrogator shook his head, made a tsk-tsk sound. “And she said you were the smartest operative she ever worked with.”

He didn’t have to say who. “She” was enough to wedge the blade under his armor.

“Then again,” the interrogator continued, “she’s no longer with us.”

Kowalski said nothing.

“In answer to your theory: No, we did not bug the Taurus. We had something else.”

Kowalski said nothing.

And then it came to him. Oh, of fucking course. How stupid can one man be? Maybe he had been knocked in the brains one too many times.

He’d known it had happened. He just didn’t know it had happened so early.

“The Surgeon certainly thought the device came in handy.”

The Surgeon watched the targets take the stairs down from the apartment. They faded in and out of view. That was okay. He also had them on his handheld tracker. Two pulsing red dots, making their way slowly across a grid. No way of losing them.

So he was more or less relaxing, smoking a Pall Mall, something he had a hard time doing practically anywhere in L.A. In this empty apartment, though, it was okay. Maybe a rental agent would detect a faint hint of smoke, but by then, he’d be long gone.

He only expected to be here a few more minutes, actually.

Maybe just sixty seconds.

A quick phone call (fuck the Internet; The Surgeon was old school) had revealed that Lee Michaels owned the third garage on the left. The garages were positively Stone Age: just a box of concrete wedged into a muddy hill with corrugated steel doors. It was enough to accommodate most midsized vehicles. Like a Ford Taurus.

Even the most primitive of garages, however, have a door handle.

The trap was so easy to set. Just put The Stuff in your right-hand pocket, grab a stack of supermarket circulars, walk up to the apartment gate, give ‘em a circular, then on the way back quickly put on some gloves and coat The Stuff on the handle.

The Stuff was great. Mr. Brown loved working with it every chance he got.

The Stuff killed on contact with skin. Not right away, but within fifteen to twenty minutes. Knocked you unconscious. For good.

The Stuff was completely untraceable. Not even the CIA knew about The Stuff. Not this Stuff.

So Mr. Brown staked out an apartment across the way and smoked while he waited. Lie also tore open a packet of mint pastilles, and he scooped a handful into his mouth between cigarettes. It fought the nicotine breath. Women were so picky about that.

Maybe after this he’d go down to Sunset and try to get himself a date.

The great thing about the garages was that they were so narrow. Only one person could squeeze in at a time. The thing to do was worm your way into the driver’s seat, back the car out, then have your passenger lower the garage door for you before hopping in.

That meant two people touching the garage door handle. The driver. And the passenger.

Oh, and here they were, heading to the garage, thinking they were about to make a clean getaway.

Yep.

The Surgeon was mildly surprised that Ms. Montgomery had failed to take them out herself. She was usually good. He hoped she wasn’t dead.

But then again, it was nice to strut his Stuff, too.

Kwalski reached for the garage door.

“Wait,” Vanessa said.

“Nobody’s hiding in the garage,” he said. “I rigged it. If this had been opened in the last few hours, I would have known.”