John Lutz - Night kills

When the meth guys left Rodney's tonight, he'd follow them to wherever it was they slept, hold them up at gunpoint, and trade trucks with them. He'd have to explain to the dumb jerkoffs how things worked. They wouldn't report their truck being stolen, because if caught with it, Coulter would blow the whistle on their illegal meth operation. The F-100 they could paint, and then maybe arrange for a junkyard title and drive it as long as they wanted. Guys like them had the connections. Yokels were into trucks.

Coulter figured that when the two meth guys thought about it, they'd be glad for the deal. Sure they'd lose some cash, but they'd be gaining an expensive new truck in exchange for their rolling piece of crap. Some trading up.

The other thing about his plan, before he drove away in their junker and with all their cash, was that he would be sure to let them know they'd been held up by the most wanted fugitive in the country. Couple of hicks, it'd probably be the biggest thing in their lives. But they wouldn't tell anyone. They couldn't. They'd have an interest in him not being caught. Not with their rust-bucket truck, anyway. Also, they'd probably secretly be on his side. Underdogs stuck together tight, just like the smelly swamp mud around this place.

Pleased with himself, Coulter sipped his beer and through half-closed eyes observed money changing hands.

Money that would soon be in his hands.

She had to do something!

Had to move!

Maria Sanchez decided to walk off some of the energy that was building up in her like a nuclear device about to reach critical mass.

She left her shit-hole apartment, and when she got outside the building took a deep breath and turned right. The evening air was cooler than the heat of the day, but not by much. The city's concrete still radiated heat from today's bright sun.

She strode along the sidewalk almost at a run, but after a few blocks, when she realized how hard she was breathing, she slowed down.

Maria hadn't set off with any particular destination in mind, but since she was walking toward Columbus Circle she decided to go there. If the scream that was like an itch in her throat had gone away by then, she'd walk back to the apartment and see if she could make it a while longer before going out and taking the risk of trying to make a buy.

Columbus Circle, then back. Then, if the need returned…

At least she had a plan.

Plan or go mad!

Maybe, once she made it back, she wouldn't go out again at all tonight. She could drink some booze-not at all her drug of choice-and watch some crummy TV on the lousy little set in the corner of the living room until she was tired enough to sleep. She knew Palmer Stone was right, that the smart thing, the only thing that made sense, was for her to bide her time and keep a low profile.

But Palmer Stone wasn't the one with the scream caught in his throat.

What the hell was she up to?

Nancy Weaver, who'd been watching the new Madeline's apartment building from across the street, saw her leave the building, dressed casually in brown slacks, white joggers, and a red tunic gathered at the waist by a thick brown belt with an oversized buckle. On the opposite side of the street, Weaver began to shadow her.

After only a few strides she knew it wasn't going to be easy. The woman was damned near running.

Weaver was the shorter of the two women and was wearing clunky black cop's shoes instead of joggers. Every once in a while she'd have to take a few skips to keep pace with Madeline; otherwise she'd have to break into a jog. She wasn't dressed for jogging, what with the leather shoes and the skirt and blazer. She'd attract a lot of attention. Some of it might be Madeline's.

Finally, on Broadway, Madeline slowed down.

Weaver stayed well back, huffing and puffing and wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She didn't want to screw up this temporary assignment. Quinn believed in her, and he was about the only one left. She knew if things went right he'd put in a word for her. He was a tough guy and a real cop, and he recognized her talent for being a detective. And he had pull. He could get her back in plain clothes permanently. She could take it from there. Sure, she'd been dumb before and gotten herself all jammed up and back in uniform. It wouldn't happen again, though. She'd make sure of that.

Madeline had slowed down even more and was kind of ambling. It was almost as if she'd been trying to get away from something and had finally found some relief. Working off tension. Weaver had been there herself and understood. She just wished Madeline didn't have those long legs. Wished she had those long legs. A cop with legs like that could get herself promoted.

Following Madeline became progressively easier at this slower pace. Weaver fell into the other woman's rhythm. It was almost as if she were inside Madeline's mind and knew ahead of time what she was going to do, where she was going.

They were almost to Columbus Circle.

Gloria hadn't had much trouble keeping up with Maria Sanchez, a.k.a. Madeline Scott. She was glad, though, that the bitch had finally slowed down. They were almost at Columbus Circle. That would be good. Plenty of traffic. Rush hour. Everybody in a hurry. Careless.

Gloria had shoved the first Madeline off the subway platform just as the train was roaring in. Even if someone in the crowd edging toward the train had noticed, it would have seemed only a slight, accidental nudge. They wouldn't have guessed the technique and power in it.

Not a subway this time, Gloria had decided. A street vehicle. Preferably a cab, but an ordinary car or truck would do. A bus might work well. She was confident Maria Sanchez's stay on this earth was fast coming to an end.

If Gloria didn't have the opportunity this time, she'd wait for another chance. It would come. She had patience. God would provide.

After Victor had related to her his conversation with Palmer about Maria's phone call, Gloria knew something had to be done, and she had to be the one to do it. Victor and Palmer would agree that Maria had to be deleted, she was sure, only not soon enough. They were men, and this bitch knew how to string men along. For the safety of all of them, for the company, Maria had to go soon, before she did damage they couldn't control.

Watching the woman striding ahead of her-the erect posture; long legs; slender hips; and tight, round ass-Gloria momentarily considered doing things the slow way. But she soon reconsidered. This was business and nothing to play with, however enjoyable it might be. It needed to be fast, and look like an accident.

No problem. Gloria smiled, remembering not only the first Madeline, who'd been too breathless and shocked to scream, disappearing beneath the speeding subway train, but also the many hits she'd made for a long-ago insurance scam. She could make this work. Bringing about other people's accidental deaths used to be her specialty, and it was a skill you never forgot.

Weaver saw Madeline slow down near the traffic circus of Columbus Circle. Cars, trucks, buses coming fast and from odd angles as traffic lights signaled in the dying light. A person had to be careful crossing the street here, but even with care, things happened.

Madeline stopped at the curb among a knot of about a dozen people waiting for the light to change. Several more pedestrians joined the crowd, edging in tight, closer to each other. Some of them leaned slightly forward, as if the traffic light would signal the beginning of a race.

Weaver slowed her pace. She didn't want to reach the intersection too soon. Better to keep some distance between herself and Madeline.

She felt a tingling pain in her right calf, and her left foot was sore from her shoe being a little too tight. All that high-speed walking had taken its toll. And apparently it had all been for nothing. It wasn't as if Madeline was late for an appointment. Weaver felt a twinge of aggravation with this woman who was taller, more attractive, and irritatingly blond. And with those legs.