The Blonde

9:57 p.m.

Adler and Christian Streets, South Philly

Kowalski had his night-vision sights trained on a nice little head shot. Yeah, it’d be messy.

The guy whose head was covered by a professional assassin’s sights still had absolutely no fucking idea. And he was eating another slice of white pizza—was this all this guy ate? No Orangina this time. Chubby had a Diet Coke. Like that was going to do any good.

It was nice to be back on-mission. Sure, he had a lot to sort out. But no reason he couldn’t do that and wipe out every single member of the Philadelphia branch of the Cosa Nostra at the same time.

They’d stolen one of his potential futures. His future with Katie and their child.

So he was stealing theirs.

Down to the man.

Steady now.

Index finger on the trigger.

Set angle to maximize blood splatter.

And…

And Kowalski’s battered leg—in a proper brace, finally— started humming.

It was a new phone. He’d ditched the old one in the hospital biohazard dump. This one was exactly like it. Another razor-thin model with an armband meant for athletes. Only one person had the number. Kowalski plugged in the jack, hooked the receiver and mike around his ear.

“Are you busy? ”

“Not really,” Kowalski said. “You?”

“I think I slept all day.”

“Good.”

Once he was sure she was stable, Kowalski had moved Kelly— whose real name, he confirmed, was Vanessa Reardon—to an off-the-books safe house. One even CI-6 didn’t know about.

Oh, CI-6 had assured him that Nancy, his ex-handler, his ex-girlfriend, had been sanctioned for her little side deal with one Matthew Silver, aka the Operator, aka the Guy in the Cemetery with the Exploded Head. It was a serious matter, and Nancy would be dealt with in the most serious manner. CI-6’s assistant secretary sifted salt in the wound by informing Kowalski that none of his assignments that Thursday night had been official. In fact, his orders had been given by the Operator, and filtered through Nancy.

No, no, the assistant secretary didn’t blame him for that. No way Kowalski could have known. She’d used the right protocols. And he was just following orders, right?

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, à 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