The Blonde

11:13 p.m.

Philadelphia International Airport

Good thing Philly International was a one taxi stand kind of joint; Kowalski didn’t have to bounce around a bunch of them. There were only two options: Kelly White was here or she’d left. The bartender in the Terminal C bar remembered a girl fitting her description leaving around 11:30. She left with a man, middle-aged, in a black jacket. Bartender assumed he’d picked her up. “They were real clingy,” she said. Chances were, they were still around.

Okay, so two likely options. They’re somewhere else in the terminal, or they’re going to catch a cab. Headed somewhere else to get friendly.

Once Kowalski checked the terminal a few times to his satisfaction, he decided to flush them out.

He approached a Continental manager, flashed a card identifying himself as an agent of Homeland Security—which was sorta true, only not official. Kowalski’s organization, CI-6, was buried in a blur of funding, obscured by a purposefully murky organizational chart. Even Kowalski didn’t know whom his boss reported to, if anybody. For all he knew, his boss ran the world.

But the card looked legit enough. Even had the new embossed foil with the holographic flying eagles.

One minute later, Kowalski heard the page he’d requested:

Passenger Kelly White, please report to the Continental customer service kiosk. Passenger Kelly White, report to the Continental customer service kiosk.

No way White would go to the kiosk. If she did, the manager was prepared to detain her and page Kowalski. Most likely, she’d shoot for the exits. One set of sliding doors led to the taxi stand. The other led onto the long-term parking lot. Since White wasn’t from Philly and, according to his handler, had only landed recently, a car seemed unlikely. The cab was going to be it.

Sure enough, there she was. Kowalski saw Kelly and that middle-aged guy in a black jacket. They were embracing in front of an open cab door. And inside … oh, another guy in the backseat. Kowalski fixed his eyes on the orange box of an alternative newsweekly across the street, then headed forward as if to retrieve a copy. Meanwhile, he reached into his jacket pocket and sent a text message—“So glad you remembered”—as he memorized the cab’s license plate. The next step was up to his handler.

Kelly and the unidentified male were still going at it. Kowalski wondered, idly, what the deal with the guy in the cab was. He couldn’t see the man’s face. Had Kelly proposed some kind of three-way scenario?

Not that it mattered. He didn’t know why the female subject was wanted. That was the way it was with CI-6. No need to dig up a motive. Just simple, clear objectives. Which made his job quantifiable, if not exactly satisfying.

Which was why he was so eager to return to his current project in Philadelphia. This time, it was personal. He knew the reasons—most of them anyway. He knew the net effect of every action. He had a singular purpose, and it was extremely satisfying when he completed each task he’d designed to achieve that purpose.

Vengeance of Katie.

Katie was a girl he’d met a year ago; she became pregnant with their child. Unfortunately, Katie’s brother was a professional criminal who had embroiled himself with the Philadelphia branch of the Cosa Nostra. After too many double crosses to count, the mob took their payment out on Katie … and, by default, their unborn child.

They killed her.

They smeared her with peanut butter so that rats would destroy the body after they’d dumped her.

Kowalski had been out of town. When he arrived in Philadelphia, he drove straight to the morgue. He identified her naked, chewed, clawed, lacerated body, under the murky pretense of Homeland Security. He read the reports. Once he pieced it together, Kowalski decided to take out the mob, down to the man. He wasn’t in a rush. No need to get sloppy. He’d simply pick away at every cheeseball until there were none left. Simple, clear objectives. But with a motive. Which was incredibly satisfying.

Except when he thought about Katie, or what their child— might have been a son—would have looked like. Sounded like. Smelled like.

This bothered Kowalski, because he was not the kind of man to think about children.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. There could be no subterfuge now. Things were moving fast. The organization was reacting, planning.

He pressed the cell phone to his ear and reached down with his free hand to take a copy of the newspaper. The cover story was about beer—apparently, there was a festival in town this week.

“You have her.”

“Looking at her now,” Kowalski said.

“Who is she with?”

“Two men, one middle-aged, another one inside a waiting cab. I can’t see the second guy.”

“Okay.”

“She just finished playing tonsil hockey with the middle-aged male.”

“They were kissing?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Hold please.”

Kowalski watched the pair finally break the embrace. About goddamned time. It was wrong to flaunt that kind of thing in front of a widower, wasn’t it?

But wait. What is this?

Her pale hand on his chest. A shocked look on the guy’s thick face. The girl pushing him away, stepping backward and sliding herself into the cab, slamming the door the shut. The guy pounding on the roof. Looking really pissed. The engine revving.

“We’ve got a situation here,” Kowalski said.

“What’s happening?”

“Kelly White and the second male leaving by car. First guy left behind. He’s standing on the sidewalk. Need some direction here, sugar.”

“Stand by.”

But of course. The cab bucked backward for a moment, then lurched forward. In the meantime, the middle-aged guy was reaching for the door, as if that would do any good. Give it up, buddy. She’s got bigger and better things to do. Namely, the guy sitting next to her.

“You have the cab’s license number?”

“What you think these are, walnuts?”

She didn’t laugh at the in joke. One lazy Sunday morning together, flipping channels, finding Sesame Street. A Cookie Monster skit. Ernie asking a stupid-ass question. Cookie getting indignant, pointing to his googly eyes. What you think these are, walnuts?

“Send a text message, encrypted. Then follow male subject number one.”

“Not Kelly White.”

“Correct. Stick to subject number one as closely as possible.”

There was no point in asking why. Could be one of a thousand possibilities. Girl passing guy drugs, a document, a serum, a weapon. Girl no longer in the game; guy the subject now. That’s what mattered. Now it was time to follow the new guy. Kowalski thought about Professor Manchette. Will I have to decapitate this guy in a couple of hours?

Ah, the job.