Read Online The Blonde by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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go, buddy. Put
that
in your novel. But the whole killing innocent bystanders thing was beginning to disturb him. He didn’t need another dead body on his conscience.
Not tonight.
“Ahem.”
The guy jolted, then froze. Only his eyes moved.
“Yeah, right over here, see?” Kowalski waved.
The prof nodded slowly.
“That bag does not belong to you. It does not contain cash or jewelry, or anything else you might consider valuable. Take a few steps back, let me take my bag, and I’ll be gone. No harm, no foul.”
“How do I know this is yours?”
“Because I say it is. And you should always believe a man with a semiautomatic pointed at your stomach.”
Kowalski had no such thing pointed anywhere.
The man’s voice cracked: “I want my cut.”
“Of what?”
“What’s in this bag. You can spare a little. Consider it a holding tax. I know how you armed robbers operate.”
“You don’t need anything in that bag.”
“
And you
don’t have a gun. No chance you’d be caught with the money
and
a piece. That’s another twenty mandatory. You ditched the gun the moment you left the job.”
The guy was a stubborn fucker. Definitely a college professor, thinking he could throw his intellect around like a sledgehammer. Always thinking he was too clever to get caught. He must have been sipping a cappuccino, up late, thinking amazing thoughts, and then watched Kowalski stash the bag in the tree house.
“You’re not worried about your children? Because once I kill you, they’re next.”
“What makes you think I have children?”
“Right before they die, I’ll tell them Daddy let this happen.”
“Oh, the tree house, right? That was here when I bought the house. I don’t have kids, asshole. Just like you don’t have a gun.”
Kowalski had been perfectly content to take the bag by force and leave this guy alive. That’s what he’d thought about as he broke the lock on this guy’s back door: Let him live. Because the body count was already high—hell, he’d just walked away from a dying woman in a shallow creek. No need to toss another body onto the pyre.
This, though, demanded a response.
“Go ahead. Take what you want out of the bag, and let me get out of here. I can hear the sirens.”
The professor smiled, then unfastened the bag. He looked down into it. His jaw dropped.
Kowalski closed the distance and slapped the man across his nose with an open palm. Better than a fist—less likely to break your own hand that way. The prof was stunned, but he threw a wild right roundhouse punch, which Kowalski deflected by snapping it to the side with the flat of his hand. Without losing momentum, he grabbed the professor’s wrist and yanked him forward, giving Kowalski a clear shot at the kidneys and base of the spine. He pounded his fist down repeatedly until the man was paralyzed on the carpet and sobbing.
“You’re probably a sociology professor, aren’t you? All that talk about mandatory sentencing.”
The guy squirmed, and moaned. Kowalski patted his pants pockets until he found what he was looking for.
“Tell me something. What’s mandatory sentence for dental floss?”
1:45 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
K elly was asleep. Jack could tell by her breathing, which had settled into a slow, comfortable rhythm.
Thank Christ.
Nanomachines? The Operator? The Olsen twins? A killer satellite? Proof in San Diego? Luminous toxin? Deflecting a kiss one moment, offering a blow job the next? What kind of con game was this?
But deep down, Jack knew this wasn’t a con. More likely, this woman was simply stone nuts. Some kind of research scientist whohad lost her mind, or stayed up one too many nights with a complex equation.
Boiiiiiing! Spring loose! Lets go out and kidnap a man nursing a boilermaker in an airport bar!
A sad substitute for a lost social life.
Jack slowly rolled off the bed and made his way to the other side, where she had stashed her bag. It was one of those vinyl messenger bags
that
in your novel. But the whole killing innocent bystanders thing was beginning to disturb him. He didn’t need another dead body on his conscience.
Not tonight.
“Ahem.”
The guy jolted, then froze. Only his eyes moved.
“Yeah, right over here, see?” Kowalski waved.
The prof nodded slowly.
“That bag does not belong to you. It does not contain cash or jewelry, or anything else you might consider valuable. Take a few steps back, let me take my bag, and I’ll be gone. No harm, no foul.”
“How do I know this is yours?”
“Because I say it is. And you should always believe a man with a semiautomatic pointed at your stomach.”
Kowalski had no such thing pointed anywhere.
The man’s voice cracked: “I want my cut.”
“Of what?”
“What’s in this bag. You can spare a little. Consider it a holding tax. I know how you armed robbers operate.”
“You don’t need anything in that bag.”
“
And you
don’t have a gun. No chance you’d be caught with the money
and
a piece. That’s another twenty mandatory. You ditched the gun the moment you left the job.”
The guy was a stubborn fucker. Definitely a college professor, thinking he could throw his intellect around like a sledgehammer. Always thinking he was too clever to get caught. He must have been sipping a cappuccino, up late, thinking amazing thoughts, and then watched Kowalski stash the bag in the tree house.
“You’re not worried about your children? Because once I kill you, they’re next.”
“What makes you think I have children?”
“Right before they die, I’ll tell them Daddy let this happen.”
“Oh, the tree house, right? That was here when I bought the house. I don’t have kids, asshole. Just like you don’t have a gun.”
Kowalski had been perfectly content to take the bag by force and leave this guy alive. That’s what he’d thought about as he broke the lock on this guy’s back door: Let him live. Because the body count was already high—hell, he’d just walked away from a dying woman in a shallow creek. No need to toss another body onto the pyre.
This, though, demanded a response.
“Go ahead. Take what you want out of the bag, and let me get out of here. I can hear the sirens.”
The professor smiled, then unfastened the bag. He looked down into it. His jaw dropped.
Kowalski closed the distance and slapped the man across his nose with an open palm. Better than a fist—less likely to break your own hand that way. The prof was stunned, but he threw a wild right roundhouse punch, which Kowalski deflected by snapping it to the side with the flat of his hand. Without losing momentum, he grabbed the professor’s wrist and yanked him forward, giving Kowalski a clear shot at the kidneys and base of the spine. He pounded his fist down repeatedly until the man was paralyzed on the carpet and sobbing.
“You’re probably a sociology professor, aren’t you? All that talk about mandatory sentencing.”
The guy squirmed, and moaned. Kowalski patted his pants pockets until he found what he was looking for.
“Tell me something. What’s mandatory sentence for dental floss?”
1:45 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
K elly was asleep. Jack could tell by her breathing, which had settled into a slow, comfortable rhythm.
Thank Christ.
Nanomachines? The Operator? The Olsen twins? A killer satellite? Proof in San Diego? Luminous toxin? Deflecting a kiss one moment, offering a blow job the next? What kind of con game was this?
But deep down, Jack knew this wasn’t a con. More likely, this woman was simply stone nuts. Some kind of research scientist whohad lost her mind, or stayed up one too many nights with a complex equation.
Boiiiiiing! Spring loose! Lets go out and kidnap a man nursing a boilermaker in an airport bar!
A sad substitute for a lost social life.
Jack slowly rolled off the bed and made his way to the other side, where she had stashed her bag. It was one of those vinyl messenger bags
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