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shadows. But if the cop has some sort of optical enhancer, it’s possible she can still see him.
    The sirens are getting closer. He needs some kind of distraction, something that will confuse the night-vision goggles the woman cop must be using.
    He unzips the suitcase, removes one of two whiskey bottles. Inside is kerosene mixed with laundry detergent. Poor man’s napalm. Munchel would have preferred real napalm, or a grenade, but he couldn’t get those. He tried to order some, on the Internet, and the prick took his money and didn’t send him shit. Hopefully the homemade stuff will be good enough.
    Munchel unscrews the bottle cap and shoves in a braided wick from a camping lantern. He uses a Zippo to light the wick and then shouts, “Semper fi!” as he throws the flaming bottle at a parked SUV. It bounces off the hood and shatters on the sidewalk, soaking someone’s lawn with liquid fire.
    He doesn’t stop to acknowledge his handiwork. He’s on the move again, tugging the suitcase behind him in a crouch, changing direction several times, making it to the Chevy Nova parked in the center of the street.
    The split-tail’s car. He considers using his second Molotov cocktail to set it ablaze, to teach her a lesson, but changes his mind and reaches for something else instead. Something electronic, that Pessolano let him borrow.
    This woman is a worthy opponent. It isn’t enough just to destroy her car. Munchel wants to best her. To beat her. And he’s already formulating a plan on how to do just that.
    He turns on the device and attaches it to the underside of her rear bumper. Then he lights the second bottle of napalm, yells “Recon!” and chucks it at a patrol car.
    Munchel runs back the way he came, slipping between houses, making it to his car a block away. It had taken him almost forty minutes of circling to find that parking space, and even though he was clearly the required twenty feet away from the fire hydrant, he still got a ticket. Assholes.
    Rather than dwell on it, Munchel throws the suitcase and the rifle into the backseat, hops behind the wheel, and beelines for the rendezvous point, imagining Pessolano and Swanson watching his heroics on CNN and cheering him on.

6:54 P.M.
     
KORK
    J ACK’S BOYFRIEND LATHAM is kind of cute. Red hair, a strong chin, broad chest. He doesn’t cry out when I crack him in the nose with the butt of my revolver, and doesn’t beg for his life when I stick the business end under his chin.
    “On the sofa, next to the old lady.”
    He complies, but takes his time, fixing me with what he probably thinks is a cold stare. He’s about as menacing as a teddy bear. If he wanted to learn cold stares, he should have grown up in my family.
    “When’s your girlfriend getting home?” I ask.
    He reaches out, holds the woman’s hand. Doesn’t answer. Which pisses me off.
    I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve killed, but I know I’ve killed men for annoying me less than Latham is doing right now. But I don’t want to do anything permanent until Jack gets home and is able to watch. So I settle for smacking him with the gun again.
    I hit him pretty good, opening up a cut on his cheek, and he refuses to meet my eyes. So much for the tough guy act.
    “I don’t like repeating myself,” I say.
    “She told me nine.” His voice is soft, dull. “She’s on a case.”
    I check my new watch. Heathrow didn’t allow watches. Or jewelry. Or makeup. Or bras. Or shoes. We had our unisex cotton pants and top, and slippers with flimsy rubber soles. I could understand them keeping security tight. A few of the women in there were crazy. But my minders confused
insane
with
feeble-minded.
Big mistake.
    My watch tells me I have about two hours left before Jack arrives. I’m hungry. Maybe I can get Mom to serve me some of that stew she’s making. I also haven’t gotten fucked in forever. The last time was with my so-called husband, and he was as in effective in bed as he was at