Fuzzy Navel by J. A. Konrath Page B

move.
    “Jack?”
    Thank God
. I keep tugging, removing as much of the bag as I can, my fingers encircling his face. His cheeks are wet, with sweat or tears or both.
    I shed a few tears too.
    “I’m so sorry,” I say, over and over.
    “She put a hole in the bag. A little one. Didn’t want me to die yet.”
    He talks in a monotone, emotionless. Probably in shock.
    “I gave him a choice.” Alex stands in the doorway. “Fuck me, or die. He told me he’d do it if I put a bag over my head. Personally, I think it looks pretty good on him.”
    My fear vanishes, replaced by a hate so intense I can taste it. I get to my knees, then to my feet, and charge at her. Alex doesn’t flinch. When I get close enough she sidesteps my attempted body tackle and trips me. Unable to break my fall, I land on my face, my lips kissing the dirty concrete floor, the wind rushing from my lungs.
    “You want to play, Jack? We’ve got time to play.” Alex puts her hands behind her back. “I’ll even play fair. You’re Little Miss Tae Kwon Do, right? Let’s see if you can take me.”
    I’m so pumped up with anger and adrenaline that I get up before my breath comes back. I take a feeble gasp, shake away the stars, and run at her.
    Alex kicks me in the stomach, so hard that it knocks my shoes off. I fall onto my ass, the handcuffs digging in and twisting my wrists, prompting a scream. I use the pain, continuing to stretch at the cuffs, pulling them up under my butt and over my feet.
    My hands are now in front of me.
    It won’t help much fighting against Alex. She’s stronger than the last time I’d sparred with her. But maybe if I could get to my bedroom, to my other gun-
    I run for it, run like I have a freight train coming after me. Make it to the kitchen, to the front room, to the hallway. Then I stumble and eat carpeting.
    “Is that how you got your black belt, Jack? By running away like a scared little bitch?”
    I roll over, glare up at Alex. She grabs my handcuff chain and jerks me up to her level. Her strength is amazing.
    “Pumped a little iron in lockup?” I say between breaths.
    Half of her face smiles.
    “A little.”
    Then she whips me forward, headfirst into the wall.
    Everything goes from very bright to very dark.

8:18 P.M.
     
SWANSON
    J AMES MUNCHEL WALKS into the suburban sports bar with a big yellow grin on his face and a
hail conquering hero
swagger. He actually lifts up his hand for a high five when he reaches their table.
    Greg Swanson can barely hold in his rage. His jaw is clenched, and his shoulders feel like a giant knot.
    “Sit down, you idiot,” Swanson orders.
    Munchel darkens, lowering his upraised palm. But he complies. They’re at a table in the back, and the place is crowded enough that no one is paying any attention to them. Like all sports bars, this one boasts an impressive number of TVs. The one nearest them is tuned to CNN, at Swanson’s request, and it’s still reporting live from Munchel’s massacre scene.
    “What the fuck were you doing?” Swanson asks.
    “I was following the plan.”
    “The plan was to take out the target, not half the cops in Chicago.”
    “They were witnesses,” Munchel says.
    Swanson bunches up his napkin, squeezes it hard. He’s bigger than Munchel, by five inches and sixty pounds. But the smaller man is flat-out crazy, and this scares Swanson.
    Swanson looks at Pessolano, hoping for some assistance. Paul Pessolano is wearing those stupid as hell yellow shooting glasses, which make him look like a bee. His face is granite, impassive. He’s had military experience, but he must have had his communication skills shot off during Desert Storm. Either that or he’s seen
The Terminator
too many times.
    As predicted, Pessolano offers nothing. Swanson turns back to Munchel, who is flagging down their server. He waits while Munchel orders a beer and one of those fried onion appetizers. When the waitress leaves, Swanson has to count to five in his head so he doesn’t