The Blonde

7:36 a.m.

Down the corridor, the Operator snatched a hospital gown from a pile stacked on a metal table. Pressed the down button on the elevator. Held the gown to his lower belly. She’d really nailed him. He could feel the blood trickling down his crotch, pooling in the bottom of his boxer briefs.

But no matter. All he needed was a few stitches.

And by now, Proximity would have done its job, and Vanessa would be dead. He wished he could have watched it happen.

Filmed it, even.

“Wait!” someone called.

The Operator turned. It was the guy from the room, the one who’d come in with the hardman.

“Who are you?” the guy demanded. “And how do you know Kelly White?”

At first, back in the room, the Operator had pegged this guy as a nonentity. He’d presented no threat; he’d made no move whatsoever. His friend had been the one to worry about—though not really, as it turned out. Someone had already put that bastard through a meat grinder. Knocking him down turned out to be surprisingly easy.

This one, though. Who was he?

Then again, who the fuck cared? He had a gash to stitch, places to go, a weapon to sell….

“Piss off,” the Operator said.

“No,” the man said, “I’m not going to piss off. You know all about the things in Kelly’s blood, don’t you? The Mary Kates?”

Oh, that name.

The Operator sighed, then heaved his knee up into the man’s testicles.

He shouldn’t have to be doing this, you know.

He should be out bringing nations to their knees. Not this nobody.