Right. But still …
The assistant secretary’s sudden and insatiable interest in the Mary Kates—“What do they do again? Self- replicating, huh? You don’t say….”—worried Kowalski. The same way you’d be worried about a fifteen-year-old with a sudden interest in assault rifles.
That shit had to be nipped in the bud.
Especially if what Vanessa had told him was true.
That at least fourteen thousand people—and counting—had this stuff dormant in their blood. Waiting for a command from a satellite somewhere.
The assistant secretary didn’t know about that yet.
Kowalski purposefully kept intel flowing as slowly as possible; he needed time to strategize. He didn’t tell them about the proof in San Diego. He told them he’d bring Vanessa Reardon in when the conditions were right.
But they were growing impatient. Soon, they’d send someone after him.
And Vanessa.
“What are you doing right now?” she asked.
“Cleaning up a few things. You know, I wanted to ask you something.”
Chubby, still in his rifle scope, was coming to the end of his Diet Coke. Kowalski could tell by the way he craned his neck back, trying to suck out every last drop of caffeine.
“Yeah?”
“You wanna have dinner out somewhere?”
“I think I can stand a public appearance. You have no idea what a leisurely shower can do for a woman.”
“Wearing the necklace, of course.”
“It’ll never leave my person.”
In the hospital, with Ed’s head missing, Kowalski had been at a loss as to what to do about Vanessa. She still couldn’t be alone. A transfusion would be useless. Even a single nanoassembly left behind could replicate a thousand more. And going down to the graveyard to collect some of Thinny’s blood wasn’t practical. Not with cops and rescue workers swarming the scene.
Instead, Kowalski had suggested infecting himself, then swapping vials of blood. To wear on necklaces, a la Angelina and Billy Bob. They’d both be covered.
“You’d do that?” she’d asked.
“Am I not a gentleman?” he’d joked.
He’d suggested pricking their fingers; she’d reached up and grabbed his face and kissed him—his mouth, his scars, his bruises—sealing the deal.
“So where are you taking me?” she asked now.
Wait.
Chubby was on the move. Look at him adjusting his crotch. Getting ready for a little exercise. About freakin’ time, right? The sights followed him.
“I was thinking …”
Steady now….
Index finger on the trigger …
“… San Diego.”
BLAM
BLAM
BLAM
Acknowledgments
The author would also like to thank Ray Banks, Lou Boxer (pharmaceuticals), Ken Bruen, Angela Cheng Caplan, Bill Crider, Aldo Calcagno (locations), Michael Connelly, Paul Curci, Carol Edwards, Father Luke Elijah, Loren Feldman, Nancy French, Greg Gillespie, McKenna Jordan, Jon, Ruth and Jen Jordan, Deen Kogan, Christin Kuretich (wardrobe), Terrill Lee Lankford (possum wrangling), Joe Lansdale, Laura Lippman, Emily MacEntee, Donna Moore, Kevin Burton Smith, Mark Stanton, Shauyi Tai, David Thompson, Dave White, the good people at St. Martin’s Minotaur, the
REDHEAD
a novella by Duane Swierczynski
You thought blondes had more fun?
Wait until you meet the redhead.
A Note to the Reader:
