Blood List(13)

Marty grinned. "It'll be my pleasure."





Chapter 5





October 24th, 8:08 AM MST; Sheila Jones' Apartment; Salt Lake City, Utah.



Sheila smiled and stretched languorously on the bed, listening to the shower as last night's e-date got ready for the day. Some kind of business meeting or something. She ran her hands down her naked body and shuddered in remembered pleasure. She fought back the cloud of Ecstasy and alcohol of the previous night to grasp at his name. Pete? Pat? Something like that.

Good fuck, whatever his name was. She'd have to ask for his number. She got up and strolled to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge for some milk. As she reached in, she noticed a small scratch on her wrist. Now where did I get that? she thought, mentally reminding herself to get some Neosporin once the guy got out of the shower. Or maybe I should join him? She frowned. Maybe I won't ask for his number, she thought, glaring at the half-gallon as if it were the milk's fault that she had bad taste in men.

She chugged a couple of gulps from the carton and was putting it back when the front window shattered. Her mouth open in an "O" of shock, she stared at the little hockey-puck-like object that skittered across the floor. Her brain had just enough time to register that she should probably duck or hide or at least close the fridge door or something when the flash-bang grenade went off.

Sheila found herself sprawled naked in a widening pool of milk, staring at the ceiling. Her head felt like a popped balloon, and she tasted blood. The milk felt cold on her back and soaked her hair. She hadn't realized there were so many cobwebs in the corners of her kitchen. Maybe I ought to dust more.

She tried to clear her thoughts as sound rushed back in. Boots thumped everywhere, and she heard a man shout, "CLEAR!" Only then did she realize that a short black kid stood over her with some kind of machine gun. He had F.B.I. emblazoned on his bulletproof vest and jacket.

"Can you hear me?" His eyes were cold. She nodded. "Sheila Jones?" he asked again, wasting no time on superfluous talk. She nodded again. She felt like a marching band was drumming its way around her skull. "Where's Paul Renner?" Fuck, that was his name. Paul.

"Um. Shower." She pointed toward the bathroom. He took off at a dead run. Sheila fainted.



The bathroom door was ajar. Carl pushed it open with his left hand while Jerri covered him. Fog billowed from the muggy room. Condensation covered both the tiny window and the large mirror. Hot water streamed down in the shower. Carl crept forward, both hands tight on the fully automatic MP5. The safety was off. He inched forward. One hand on the trigger, he reached with the other and yanked back the shower curtain. The water sprayed on empty porcelain.

Carl stepped back. "Master bath's clear," he said over the COM. "Jerri, check the bedroom closet."

"Got it," she said from behind.

Carl took a doubtful look at the window, cracked to let in a breeze. No way a guy could fit through there, even if it were wide open. He peered out, his weapon raised and ready to fire.

The burst of pain as his elbow dislocated was the first indication that he wasn't alone. Carl tried to cry out, but a strike to the throat silenced him. His mouth worked like a fish’s, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. D Street wrenched his arm behind his back. Carl felt ligaments tear and tendons rupture even as the killer plucked the MP5 from his hand.

Ah, shit, this guy's fast, was the last thing Carl had a chance to think before another blow dropped him like a sack of meat. He squirmed on the ground but couldn't summon the mental energy to do anything else. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.



Paul Renner inspected the submachine gun while Special Agent Carl Brent twitched at his feet. There was a round in the chamber, a fully loaded magazine, and the safety was off. He kicked the downed man in the temple, hard, with his steel-toed boot. Should have looked up, he thought. With an amused smile, he stepped through the doorway and into the bedroom.

Special Agent Jerri Bates had a fantastic ass. Paul took a moment to admire it as she rifled through the closet, pounding on the walls with the heel of her hand. His grin got bigger as she called out to her partner, her voice muffled by the clothes.



The closet was a dead end. There weren't any secret hidey-holes, nowhere for the perp to go, nowhere to hide. I hope Marty and Gene are having more luck in the front. Jerri banged around a bit more just to be sure, then called out, "Carl, he's not in the closet. There's no escape route here!"

"I know," said a man's voice. It wasn't Carl. "Nice guns, these HKs."

Jerri's fingers twitched on her weapon, and she readied herself to turn and fire.