I was wide-awake as day broke, buzzing with nervous energy. Knowing the blonde would have to stay put, I hurried back to the truck and grabbed Czarnecki’s duffel bag, the one he carried into the Mexican’s room in Reno. It held everything I’d need. Then it was back to the motel.

Fremont was deserted now, except for one crazy drunk shadowboxing in the window of a casino. The slot parlors’ recorded spiels echoed down the empty street, and daylight dimmed the neon to almost nothing.

Nobody was stirring at the Sky Harbor, either. My chest was tight as I approached Room 106, my hands shook when I took the crowbar from the bag and wedged it into place, and I was going on pure instinct when I forced the door open.

The blonde, wearing only a bathrobe, flew at me from the bed. She went for my eyes, but I backed her off with the crowbar. Her skin smoked when she stumbled into the sunlight streaming through the doorway. She kicked the door shut and charged again.

I swung the crowbar and caught her in the head. Blond wig askew, she fell onto the bed, bleeding from a gash on her scalp. I pulled out the ice pick I’d slipped into the pocket of my coat and dove at her. As I straddled her, ready to stab her in the heart, a child’s voice rang out.

“Mommy!”

I glanced over to see a girl of seven or so, dressed in Raggedy Ann pajamas, cowering near the bathroom. My pause gave the blonde time to recover. She bucked me off, and we wrestled for the pick. “Please don’t kill my daughter,” she said. This was something I hadn’t planned on, something I hadn’t even imagined. “Do what you want to me, but don’t kill her.”

I got on top of her again and drew back the pick. The child was crying now. The blonde lifted her hands, fingers laced together. “Please,” she said, then punched me in the nose with both fists. Blinded by pain, I stabbed wildly.

The child jumped onto the bed and grabbed me around the throat from behind. She bit my ear, digging her teeth in and shaking her head until I fell back on top of her.

“Kill him!” she yelled.

The blonde came up with a knife, rolled over, and brought the blade down. I blocked her arm and stuck the ice pick in her neck. Blood spraying out of her mouth spattered my face. I yanked the pick free and jammed it into her chest. She stopped coughing and went limp.

I pried the child’s fingers from my throat, bending them until some broke, then picked her up and flung her across the room. She bounced off the wall and lay moaning on the floor. I grabbed the crowbar.

“You motherfucker,” the child hissed. “You piece of shit.”