The Blonde

7:40 a.m. and 10 seconds

First, Kowalski threw a sloppy chop to the throat. Something the bastard could see coming from around the corner.

As expected, Thinny dropped, kicked, and swept Kowalski’s leg out from under him. Then he was on top of him like a college sophomore.

And Kowalski plunged the needle into Thinny’s neck.

Thumbed the plunger.

Confusion washed over the man’s face. He’d felt the stick, but didn’t know the source. He rolled back. Reached up. Felt the syringe. Widened his eyes.

Kowalski could have said one of a thousand things, but he figured the silence was worse.

Just a smile. A small, quiet smile.

And a look. A telepathic exchange, more accurately: You know what that is, don’t you, big boy?

Thinny yanked the syringe out of his neck. A thin ribbon of blood spurted from his neck. Then he raised the syringe up and behind him. Bared his teeth. Prepared to put every once of his weight behind a blow that would drive the dirty needle into Kowalski’s face, past skin and bone, deep into his brain cavity.

Kowalski anchored himself with his good arm and bad leg.

The needle plunged downward.

Thinny’s descent was blocked by Kowalski’s foot, thrown up at the last moment and stretched back to its limit. He could almost kiss his knee.

Then Kowalski performed the one-legged press of his lifetime.

Thinny was hurled backward.

Shattered the window behind him.

Toppled backward out of the jagged frame.