Special Agent Alexandra MacPherson can't decide which is worse - a witness who dies or a suspect who won't stay dead.
Sometimes it all comes down to the gun you choose. SIG Sauer P226 .40 S&W or Rossi .357 Magnum revolver with a six-inch barrel. I’d picked the SIG. I should have gone with the Rossi.
I sneaked a look at the battered clock on the wall of the loading dock. Doyle was only five minutes late. Not so long I worried he’d had second thoughts. I needed him to show soon, though, before my unease fermented into something harder to conceal.
The SIG was a cop’s gun. I knew if anything tipped off Doyle, it would be the gun.
“He’s late,” Mike said.
I shrugged. Played like I didn’t care, hadn’t noticed.
“You see the game last night?” Mike asked.
God help me. A Sox fan. I’d happily watched the Phils beat the Braves the night before, but Kate Campbell didn’t give a shit about the national past time. “No,” I said. “I don’t follow baseball.”
“They play the Yankees tomorrow.”
“Well, I do hate the Yankees.”
“Who doesn’t?” Mike dropped the remnant of his cigarette to the floor of the dock and crushed it under his shoe.
Kate Campbell was a vegetarian who sold lattes at an internet cafe and lived in a dump near Temple University. A fugitive from the United Kingdom for alleged involvement in a train derailment in North West England, she fancied herself a modern day Guy Fawkes.
I was ready to be done with Kate Campbell.