He thought about taking the whole box, but that might be tough to check in to a hotel. So he grabbed a few essentials.
A 9mm Luger.
A 9mm Beretta Brigadier, for Vanessa.
Boxes of ammo for both.
And finally, an M-79 40mm grenade launcher, along with some high-explosive rounds and shotguns rounds (20 ought buck). For those close-call getaways.
He stuffed the guns in his pants, ammo in his pockets, then re-buried the box, slung the M-79 over his shoulder, and crab-walked out of there.
Vanessa left the road guard incredibly confused yet undeniably aroused.
“There’s a hotel and restaurant up the road,” Kowalski said. “Maybe ten minutes.”
“You said something similar when we crossed the border.”
Kowalski reached into his pants, pulled out the Beretta, handed it to her.
“Happy Birthday.”
“Wow,” she said.
“Just drive.”
Ten minutes north was the Rosarito Baja Resort and Cocktail Lounge, with emphasis on the last part. The place made a halfhearted attempt at being touristy, but mostly attracted tourists who didn’t give a shit about that kind of stuff. Tourists who wanted to eat cheap Mexican food and drink themselves stupid.
Kowalski left the M-79 in the trunk, but took the Luger. He told Vanessa to put the Beretta in her bag. He carried the laptop and USB with him, in the little carry bag he’d stolen along with the computer. He carried in his tooth, too.
They were ready for dinner.
The restaurant was mildly crowded. It was the late dinner, early drinking set. Outside the windows, and across an empty pool, Kowalski could see a giant patio covered by a tent. Beneath it, there was a large crowd of people square-dancing. Yeah, that’s what it was. A crowd of Asian tourists, square-dancing. That, or his concussion was getting worse.
Their chicken enchiladas and empanadas and nachos and salsa and bottles of cold Dos Equis had just about arrived when the stranger sat down at the table with them.
She dressed like a tourist: white hoodie with stripes running down the arms, Corona over the right breast, jeans. Hair up with a clip.
Strangely enough, she was a redhead.
She gave you some Proximity tech,” Kowalski said. “Which is how you were able to track our movements so precisely.”
“Precise is the word.” He fished around in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small plastic unit with an LCD display.
He showed it to Kowalski. The display had a map of North America. There was a pulsating dot in the northeast corner of Pennsylvania. And another around San Diego.
“And see, I thought she came right for us.”
“She had the blonde’s DNA, from the lab back in Dublin. We gave her yours.” He looked down at the device. “Funny how Vanessa’s still registers, even though she’s dead.”
“Yeah. Funny. So how did she find you?”
“She didn’t,” the interrogator said. “She tried to make contact with your, um, ex-girlfriend after she’d been removed from her post. We intercepted the message. We made contact. We brought her in. She told us what we needed to know.”
“And then you just let her come after us?”
“Well, not exactly. She kind of fucked us over on that. We wanted you alive. She went out there to punish you.”
“Right.”
“Which brings us to the point of our meeting, Michael. We need to know where she is now. And you were the last person to see her, according to the hotel staff—right before your little blonde friend went on her second killing spree.”
“Listen—”
“Hang on now. Don’t just blurt it all out. Think it over. Because the moment you tell us, and we verify, you’re a dead man.”
“Look, she’s—”
“Shhh now. Shhhhh. Don’t you want a little more life? Or the chance that we’ll keep you alive until you tell us?” He played with the small knife in his hands.
Kowalski smiled. “You forgot what I told you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re the one who’s going to die. Every fucking last one you.”
You killed my brother,” the stranger said, then reached over and helped herself to a sip of Kowalski’s beer.
Which was the only thing he’d planned on eating. His teeth were too messed up to chew a steak or even a taco, and he hated burritos. So it was pretty much beer—and later, when he found the right guy, some painkillers—on the menu. He’d ordered food so Vanessa wouldn’t feel self-conscious.
“That’s my beer,” Kowalski said. “Who was your brother?”
“You knew him as Matthew Silver,” she said. “He was lusting after this one for a while. He used to e-mail me about her.” She turned to glare at Vanessa. “My brother made you sound like a real prude. Couldn’t you have done the world a favor, spotted him a handjob?”
“Your brother was a whiny little bitch,” Vanessa said.
“Look at us. We could be sisters.”
“Died like one, too.”
“Ladies, ladies,” Kowalski said, pretending to play peacemaker, but actually reaching down into his trouser pocket for the Luger. He wrapped his hand around the grip.
The strange redhead, meanwhile put a black purse on the table and opened it.
Here we go.
Kowalski was ready to shoot her through his pants, if need be. A messy gut shot, but it would stop her.
But the stranger wasn’t going for a weapon. Rather, a small plastic box with an LCD screen. There was a digital map of North America on it. And right at the top of Baja California, approximately right where they’d sat down to a hot Mexican meal and two cold beers, were two pulsing dots.
“I helped my brother create Proximity,” she said. “It’s something we’d joked about at Georgia Tech. It got real a year ago. I was his silent partner.”
“Got a name, little sister?” Kowalski asked. This might be her. The financial link they’d been searching for.
She smiled. “Let’s see. We’ve got a Silver. And it was Kelly White, wasn’t it? So call me Ms. Black.”
“I am not going to call you Ms. Black. That’s ridiculous.”
“Lucia, then.”
Kowalski scanned his memory. Lucia, Lucia, Lucia … Was the name anywhere in those Excel files? Not that it mattered, really. They would subdue this one, make her talk. She would tell them everything they needed to know. He was rusty, but he still had some moves. He knew how to make it hurt.
“After I heard what happened,” Lucia said, “I flew to my brother’s lab. There was enough to piece together the story. As well as a tracking device.”
She showed them the little plastic box again.
“How can we help you, Lucia?” Kowalski asked.
“I wanted to meet you in Los Angeles, but you were busy. I didn’t know they’d try to send someone to kill you so quickly.”
“We’re here now. What do you want?”
“Not here. Some place quiet.”
Some place quiet was an empty banquet room down a tiled hallway that featured a giant oil painting of a bull that had been stabbed with three lances. Kowalski kicked out the door stop. With a pneumatic hiss, the door closed behind him.