The Blonde

2:50 a.m.

Sheraton Lobby

For the last time, Kowalski reassured the desk clerk that he was fine. “It’s just a sprain. Feeling a little tipsy. You know how it is.” All the while, he was scanning the elevator car to see where it stopped. He already had an idea of where that would be. Floor five. Diet Coke dork with the ice bucket.

You need to keep her within ten feet of you at all times, but do not allow her to get too close.

It was coming together for him: All night, she had been in the company of others. Made a point of it. Pick up one guy at the airport, ditch him for another. A new guy with a hotel room to himself. She needed someone close.

I don’t want to die, but if I have to …

She gets alone, she dies.

Never mind how. Figure that shit out later.

She’d kicked him out of the elevator, made a suicide run back up the shaft.

But maybe it wasn’t suicide. Maybe she was going for that Diet Coke dude on five. Hoping he’d still be there. Keep the company of another man. Stay alive another couple of hours.

“Sir, I’d feel a lot better if you sat down here and let me call someone to take a look at your wrist.”

But that made no fucking sense. What kind of government-created disease, plague, or virus—and it had to be one of the above; otherwise, CI-6 wouldn’t be having him traipse around Philadelphia with a severed head in a gym bag for shits and giggles— worked only when the victim was alone?

No wonder the handler wouldn’t tell him anything. This kind of thing went beyond spurned ex-lover territory.

What was CI-6 messing around with now?

Kowalski ignored the desk clerk and walked over and punched the up button. He knew he’d probably find a dead body up on five, if she’d made it that far. Which, okay, was not a great situation. He’d rather have Kelly tell him more. But if need be, he could liberate her pretty head from the rest of her body, give her a little reunion with Ed in the Adidas gym bag, and search for answers elsewhere. His handler and CI-6 weren’t the only people in the United States with access to a laboratory.

“Sir?”

Kowalski turned, smiled, and waved at the desk clerk with his bad wrist. It hurt like fuck; he’d really torn something in there.

But given the circumstances, it was simply the badass thing to do.