Season of the Bitch

Spencer Chowheim had read every gun magazine ever and was intimately acquainted with the tensile strength of vulcanized Black Forrest steel. He was likewise an expert on the failure rate of Zlotsinger 9mm rounds and the temperature at which gunpowder combusts, which, as he knew, was 7500 degrees Fahrenheit. He knew the relevant facts as well as anyone, possibly even better. But still, it sat funny on his rectum. He should have brought the Mannlicher.

No doubt, this was a job for the Steyr Mannlicher. Why had he brought the Rosenbold 9mm? He'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.

Make no mistake of it; the Rosenbold is a fine gun. The cool glow of its carbon-shanked blue steel barrel is enough to set any rogue double agent's nerves at ease. This had been paramount in Chowheim's reasoning during his weeks of deliberation over what gun to bring on this mission. But now, actually in the field, it was clear that he'd brought the wrong gun.

Maybe it was the unprecedented danger of the mission that had Chowheim feeling uncertain, or the fact that he had leftovers from dinner still sitting in the trunk, possibly going spoiled. It was a cold night out, but still… what if the Audi's triple-lacquered sheet metal skin trapped too much of his body heat from the ride over inside the cabin of the car, and that heat had transferred through the back seats and into the trunk? It was quite possible that the meal-retaining leg of this mission was already in jeopardy, a veritable code blue. It was clear that mayo was the key. How much mayo do they put on those sandwiches, anyway? Chowheim smiled, as his months of preparation were finally paying off. Two ounces of mayo. A half-ounce over the national average. He would have to cut his losses with the sandwich and press forward with the remainder of the mission. That bird had flown.

Chowheim wiped the condensed moisture off the face of his watch, a reminder of the city's foggy streets or possibly a remnant from when he dropped the Rosenbold in a urinal at the restaurant. A quarter to one. It could be any minute now. He folded up his coat collar, made from an expensive blend of microfiber and elk snout, and crouched down further in the entryway. The sidewalk glistened in the strange glow of a streetlight; moist from the fog that dragged its way through the city, or possibly urine. Chowheim ran through a year's worth of police reports and evaporation tables in his head.

It was urine.

A cold drop of water dripped on Chowheim's hat, ran down the back of his neck, ducked inside his collar, shot down his spine and made a beeline straight for his asscrack. Nerves of steel or no nerves of steel, that was really starting to piss him off, and he hoped the bitch would come soon.

Chowheim began scouting out angles of approach from his perch in the entryway and calculating the probability of each, given the moon's orbit in Pisces. He had it figured down to the third decimal place when a voice interrupted his figuring.

"Excuse me, can I get by?" The voice came from a woman of the female persuasion.

Chowheim stepped to the side reflexively and uttered an apology before he realized. As the door shut and locked behind her, he deftly de-pantsed the Rosenbold. It was her! CIA mole Nikki Santana! He fired the gun into the air several times in hopes that curiosity would lure her back. Silence crept in like a fog as the sound of the echoing gunshots faded away. He waited.

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