nocking him backward. He dropped and slid against the front door, leaving a smear of blood. His arm was still out, clutching his pistol, and he was blinking up at Milo."Shit," he whispered, gurgling. "You got me.""You should've worn a vest."Tripplehorn's hunting jacket was drenched now, making the darkand-light-green design a little more monochrome. Milo kicked the pistol from his hand; it slid into the living room. He squatted close to Tripplehorn's head, remembering that face from the Corso Sempione, sitting across from the Tiger, giving the assassin a bag of money and a shot of HIV. "Tell me who's running you," said Milo.Tripplehorn coughed blood onto the hardwood floor. He shook his head.Milo didn't have the heart to force it out of the man. He knew, or he believed he knew, that Terence Fitzhugh was running him. There was nothing else to say. He shot Tripplehorn in the forehead. He searched the corpse, taking his cell phone and the little automobile unlocker that he had so admired when Einner used it in Europe.He left by the front door, continuing past Grainger's corpse and into the woods. There, he was sick. As he crouched in the leaves, he realized it wasn't the normal sickne
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