Page 19 of Lone Wolf

Two: Choose someone willing to do anything, because quite often on her jobs the need to do anything arose.

She preferred former military, since they’d already broken the seal to the real world; every last one of them had written a check with their life to have a job, food, health care.

The homeless encampment at the Veterans Administration in Westwood had spilled outside the gates and up along the San Vicente Boulevard sidewalk. There was an advantage to setting up on this side of the spiked wrought-iron fence; being off federal property put the shanties into the purview of softer “community policing”—no drugs searches, no harassment, plenty of privacy.

The lineup of rugged gray tents sporting American flags was referred to in the media as “Veterans Row” instead of “Skid Row,” a fancy bit of language play to take the stink off the mini-slum that had sprung up a syringe’s throw from affluent Brentwood cafés and boutiques. The encampment had a feeling of semipermanence to it—potted plants, couches, even a few rickety bookcases—and it was maintained with pride.

Sitting in a stolen black Chevy Suburban, Karissa watched the denizens working their shifts, collecting trash, sweeping the pavement. Two shirtless men played chess with soap carvings on an overturned Amazon delivery box. A woman with dusty hair sat on the curb, repetitively running her hands up the nape of her neck. A portly wizard draped in a regal gown of rags sat on a lawn chair smoking a blunt with Falstaffian aplomb.

They wouldn’t be useful.

Through her Steiner tactical binoculars, Karissa singled out two of the homeless vets who’d been mopping up the porta-potties. One black, one white, muscular builds showing through army-green T-shirts, no signs of tooth erosion or caved cheeks from drug use. Working with focused efficiency and serious expressions, they retained their military posture, carrying themselves with dignity. As they moved back to their shared tent, the others parted deferentially.

Because of her current employer, money wasn’t an issue, which meant she could proceed with speed and efficiency. Grabbing the Pelican laptop case off the console, she climbed out. Given her diminutive stature, she had to slide off the seat, jam her heels into the runner, and hop from there. The truck was lifted to accommodate bigger tires; she’d chosen it in the event a pursuit took her off road.

Hoodie pulled up, reflective Oakleys hiding her eyes, full-finger gloves made of tactical rubber. The night air smelled of car exhaust and the sickly-sweet stench of garbage. She disappeared into the human flotsam on the sidewalk, no one paying her any mind. There were various ruckuses—a shouted confrontation over a bottle, schizo nattering, someone sawing a piece of plywood.

Reaching the charcoal tent, she slipped inside.

The domed interior was more spacious than she would have anticipated. The men sat on opposing cots, one scrubbing his throat with a wet washcloth, the other reading. The latter wore a pair of wire-frame eyeglasses that looked oddly delicate on his weather-beaten face. The trapped air held breath and body odor, the smell of a den. When she rose to her full height, the tarp of the ceiling didn’t brush the top of her head.

They alerted to her entry, chest muscles shifting as they swiveled their heads. They emanated a lupine menace that relaxed once they took her measure. Five foot four and female didn’t represent a threat.

“You don’t just walk into a man’s home,” the reader said.

“Do you know how to drive?” she asked.

The white guy set down his washcloth on the cot next to him. “I commanded an M1151 Enhanced Armament Carrier through three fifteen-month tours in Iraq. Do you know how to fucking drive?”

She looked back at the reader. “How about you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can drive.”

“Tactically?”

“Who the hell are you?”

To them? No one. In her jacket and sunglasses, she was nothing more than a drawn hood and a pair of bug eyes. She wasn’t pretty enough to be striking and she was too pretty to be striking in the other direction, which made her perfectly forgettable.

Crouching, she set down the Pelican case, unsnapped the catches, and lifted the lid. The bundled stacks of Benjamins gave off the verdant smell of green. Though neither man moved more than his eyes, a disruption like an electrical current moved through the tent.

“That’s a hundred,” she said. “Another hundred for after.”

Of course there would be no need for a second payment. A key aspect of Karissa’s continued success in the private sector was that she left no loose ends. The people who employed her paid for perfection and expected nothing less. When she needed a basic lookout or a wheelman, she found it helpful to find people who went unaccounted for, people no one would miss.

“After what?”

She reached beneath the currency straps and came out with two steel tent stakes. Seven inches long, with curved tops that fit neatly in the palm and pointed ends she’d sharpened to gleaming tips.

The reader pulled off his glasses. He sat up.

She stood over the open suitcase, one tent stake protruding from each fist between her index and middle fingers. “The thing is,” she said, “I only need one of you.”

With a flip of her hands, she reversed the stakes, clenching the pointed ends, the curved tops out. She straightened her arms left and right, a spike extended in the direction of either man.

Both of their feet were on the ground. They were equidistant from her. Their arms were bent slightly, hands pressed to the thin mattresses of their cots. To reach the tent stakes, they’d have to lunge.

They were trained soldiers and the tent stakes were sufficiently sharp to get the job done. No doubt there’d be some tumbling and shouting in the tight space, but that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for this stretch of tents, and battle-testing always carried some risk. She hoped that this, her first stop, would also be her last. She could use a one-and-done; the delivery date on her third target had been accelerated to tomorrow morning, and she didn’t want to have to shop at tent city downtown or the homeless village in East Hollywood.