The Blonde

2:08 a.m.

Sheraton, Seventh Floor

Kowalski was mildly annoyed when he learned that he and Mr. Vincent, security chief here, were headed to the same floor—seven. Yet another hurdle. Chances were, this guy would be headed down the same stretch of hallway, and to be thorough, Kowalski was going to have to incapacitate this guy. Was this never going to end? This endless parade of victims? It was as if God had looked down and said, Oh, I get it, Kowalski—you like mowing down people left and right. Well, let me give you a few more to deal with. Hope you can keep up!

The car reached seven. Ever the gentleman, Kowalski extended his arm, but Mr. Vincent here wasn’t having that.

“You first, sir.”

Great. Kowalski stepped off the elevator and read the floor key posted on the wall. The room he wanted was to the left.

Mr. Vincent asked, “Can I help you?”

“Just getting my bearings, thanks.”

He was hoping the security chief would shrug his shoulders and go off and do whatever the hell he’d come up here to do. Maybe there wasn’t enough diet Coke in the vending area. Maybe the snack machine was out of butterscotch Krimpets.

“What room you looking for?”

This bastard was persistent.

“It’s right down here. Man, I really should have stopped at three apple martinis, you know? But they’re so damned good. My boss is going to hand me my ass in the morning. He’s down there right now, sleeping like a good boy. Not me.”

Mr. Vincent chuckled and nodded, but he didn’t budge. “You can probably squeeze in a few winks before dawn.”

“Like that’ll help. I need a big glass of water and a fistful of aspirin.”

Another polite chuckle. “After you, boss. Here at the Sheraton, the guests come first.”

Kowalski had no choice but to walk toward 702. He faked a bit of drunken swagger to sell the apple martini line, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t be necessary. It was going to come down to incapacitation. Get this bozo out of the hall and out of his way for at least ten minutes. He visualized Mr. Vincent in his head. Tall and stocky, with close-clipped hair that screamed ex-military. Creeping up on forty, but not there yet. Possibly a Gulf War vet. An easy smile, but cold eyes. Probably a lot smarter than he ever let on. A simple slap and kidney punch wasn’t going to work on this guy. The rooms ticked down to the left and right: 708, 707, 706.

Kowalski threw an elbow backward. It caught Mr. Vincent in the nose. He followed up with a roundhouse punch to the side of Mr. Vincent’s head, which, if it had been delivered correctly, would blind him for a few seconds. Then Kowalski went for the balls, which made the security chief fold in half and drop to his knees right outside room 705. Now it was time for a little creative asphyxiation. It was a move he’d learned in Bosnia, for when there wasn’t time (or need) to hold a boot to a man’s face and slice open his throat. A minor strangulation that would rob the subject of air long enough to make your escape without killing him.

And killing this guy was the last thing he wanted to do. He was getting way off-mission tonight. Claudia Hunter’s sweet, shocked, strangled face still haunted him. It was all so gratuitous. A man had to draw the line somewhere.

Mr. Vincent, however, still had a little fight left in him. He threw out a punch that caught Kowalski off guard—and pum-meled his stomach. The air gushed out of him. He staggered back and bumped up against the wall. He felt his knees weaken. That had been one brilliant shot. Totally unexpected. Superb. A follow-up landed on the side of Kowalski’s knee. There was that military training. Mr. Vincent here was trying to bust his kneecap from the side, where there was little natural protection. It almost worked, too. As he stumbled, Kowalski threw a fist at Mr. Vincent’s neck— one that should rob him of air for a few seconds. He heard the man gasp. Kowalski hit the carpet but then popped up quickly, intending to deliver a roundhouse kick to the head. But Mr. Vincent was already on him, tackling him, hurtling him forward. Room 704, 703…