Porsche neared the row house, but stayed on the far side of the street, using passing crowds for cover. She spotted two men guarding the alcove of the two-story duplex. The others were inside, surely, the Sandman among them, she dreaded.

She skirted the building and found a back entrance through the alley. A wooden fence encased a small yard with potted geraniums. Porsche undid the latch and snuck inside. The building had an ancient fire escape ladder made of iron.

She leaped and caught a rung, swung and pulled herself up like a gymnast, careful not to make any unnecessary sound. Atop the platform, she crouched outside the open window listening for sounds that told her she was in the right place. The window had streak marks; a pane had spider-cracked, a hand-print smeared on the glass.

Porsche nudged the window up until it couldn't go any further and slid through the opening into the room.

She saw high-heeled shoes, pink bras over the chair, a snow globe and flowery decor, dolls thrown on the floor. It didn't strike her as Marlboro's style. The woman she'd read was an eater of men, not one to play with girly-girl dolls.

There was clear evidence of a struggle. Someone had kicked in the door, the hinges bent, the doorknob embedded into the drywall with force. Whoever lived here had tried to escape through the half-open window -- but no one made it out.

As she neared the doorway, Porsche could detect faint voices coming from the living area.

The conversation said: "Get them to the bathroom. Rest of you, watch the front. No one comes up here."

"Yo, this one ain't dead."

"So? Put the two lovebirds together, two birds for one jug. Hurry, he wants us out in thirty mikes."

"Two bodies will take twice the time."

"Just do it." The speaker let out a mumbled curse.

Footsteps were coming down the hall. Two distinct patterns, the second set slower, dragging something heavy.

Porsche waited until the sound moved past her, then glanced out into the corridor. The bathroom was four feet to her right, slightly opposite the bedroom, filled with large moving shadows lit by vanity strip lights.

Two men strained to lift something heavy into the tub, sounding like a side of beef slapped on a steel slab.

The voices in the bathroom continued: "Make sure you cover your face. This stuff can eat through your nasal membrane."

Another voice said, "Will you look at this one. What a waste. Could've had fun with her."

"Get moving. This one first. Then the other. No goofing around."

"Relax, Casper, we're on it."

She got one name -- Casper, and his tone sounded like he was Lockheart's right hand.

The clasps of a suitcase clicked opened, a snap of rubber -- the lip of latex gloves, heavy glass bottles clinked.

"Mask on."

She heard the popping of a plastic stopper. Then a gurgling sound of liquid being poured.

A faint hissing emerged.

More curious now, Porsche inched closer to the door opening, when the fumes sent her reeling. It burned her nostrils and brought tears streaming from her eyes, but she bit down to suppress the urge to cough. Porsche knew at once what it was -- acidic mist discharged upon contact with organic tissue. They were here to liquefy bodies.

Her skin crawled and itched, either from the noxious mist or from her revulsion.

She remembered hearing -- this one's not dead. Two victims then. Which one was Marlboro, alive or dead?

Once again, the question of responsibility faced her. In Caracas, she watched while Cerberus ripped apart people. Later, she spied on Moreau while a hit team torched him. She was a voyeur by trade -- and was sick of it. Now the same killers were at it again, drawing an acid bath for these women. She could do more than watch.

Dropping her left hand to her side, Porsche fingered and squeezed a lump inside her left bicep -- an on/off switch to a sub-dermal actuator. The micro-pump did the rest, excreting a coagulating liquid that dripped from her cuticles. The liquid carbon alloy built up resembling quick freezing icicles. A cell then sent out a tiny electric charge which bonded the molecules into rigid lattices. Once electrified, the compound was stronger than steel, producing razor-thin edges as sharp as obsidian glass. This augment was her little secret, a gift from the Agency. Few operators had access to it, the tech reserved only for those in the close-quarter business. Because it was liquid, it was hard to detect, was noncorrosive, inert, and accepted by her body. An elegant weapon, not crude like a knife or gun she had to hide, she regarded it as an extension of her hand. And once the voltage cut off, the claws would melt away in seconds and her fingers returned to normal.

Liquid metal from her venous reservoir dripped. She let it build up to a good length before electrifying it into talons, the longest hook extending five inches from her middle finger. Good slashing length, ideal for intimate wet work. She turned her head, drew in a deep breath of clean air and held it.

Porsche moved fast. She could see two men in gas masks bending over, one man sloughing the naked body of a girl into the tub, the other holding a large 5-gallon bottle of acid over her. Where the drops touched tissue, it smoked as it dissolved skin and bones. The second body waiting for the bath was Alexis Marlboro. Alive or not, Marlboro was her mission. Sorry about the other girl.

As silent as a scythe, Porsche ripped her hooked fingers into the nearest man, cutting through the straps of the gas mask, slicing rubber, neck tendons, and his carotid artery in one motion. Arterial spray hit the flower-patterned wallpaper.

His shock muffled by the mask, the second cleaner dropped the flask. The glass shattered, splashing acid everywhere as her blades plunged into the nape of the second man. Instant death.

The spill smoked their clothes and skin. The dead didn't feel the bite of acid. Porsche stepped back, checking herself. No sulphuric burns. Porsche gave the gory bathroom a satisfying glance, the floor slick with the blood of two animals. For an instant, she wished she hadn't been so thorough in taking them out. They deserved the acid.

But there was no time for debate. The crash of the bottle had been shockingly loud.

Get her out now!

Porsche squatted and grunted as she hauled Marlboro out using her one normal hand, not daring to breathe until they were in clean air, the pressure popping her ears. In the hallway, she exhaled and paused.

The talking from the living room ceased.

"Everything all right back there?" One voice called out.

Move!

Porsche stayed low to drag the big woman and her one-ninety-five-pound mass into the bedroom with one hand; the claw-hand would do more damage than good. And she can't afford to turn it off this second.

Soon, she heard: "Go see what happened to those two idiots."

Sure enough, one set of footsteps thumped down the hall. He coughed from the fumes. "Jesus. What the hell are you two--"

She imagined he came upon the carnage and was stunned at the bloody sight. She had seconds to act.

Porsche sprang from her hiding place, coming at him so fast from behind the man hadn't time to shout. Her claws ripped out a chunk of his larynx. He gurgled liquid and dropped to his knees. She cupped his mouth and caught his fall.

By now the rest of them would know something is wrong. And they won't stop to ask.

Looking at her talons, the weapon would be useless for what was to come. Porsche deactivated her claw-hand and rummaged through the body of the third assassin. A suppressed pistol hung in a shoulder holster with a full mag, an extra clip in the jacket pocket. She slid back into the bedroom, leaving a bloody trail of footprints. There was nowhere else to hide so she left the Marlboro woman where she lay.

A floorboard from the hallway squeaked.

Three men remained and they wouldn't bother with the bathroom.

The first shooter barged in and sprayed a wide arc of bullets into the bedroom -- the continuous staccato from automatic fire pattered, slugs punching holes in the drywall and closet, into the mattress and headboard, splintering wood and glass from the dresser and mirror. The gunman peppered his blind spots, leaving nothing to chance. What he missed was Porsche lying on her stomach under the far side of the bed.

She shot out his knees from her prone position. The man howled, crumbled onto shattered joints, and fell over.

His backup appeared at the door. Porsche was quick to roll out and plugged two to the chest, the slug impacts throwing the wingman into the hallway.

She froze and tried to listen while her heart boomed in her ears. A series of scurrying sounds told her the last man had scampered away. But he'll be back with more.

She got to her feet and approached the guy she'd knee-capped. He was still alive but writhing in agony. She kicked away his weapon, bent over to grab his collar and said, "Who do you work for . . ." She reconsidered, and asked a better question: "Where's Lockheart?"

He looked up at her, a mask of rage and pain. She could tell he didn't expect anyone other than Marlboro and the dead girl in the tub. All he said before she plugged him between the eyes was, "You're dead, bitch."

Scratch number five.

She checked Alex's breathing -- shallow draws. They'd tasered her, judging from the burn holes of the electrodes, but otherwise, she was unharmed. That almost hadn't been the case. Porsche had done good.

She patted the woman on her face to wake her. Marlboro didn't move. Porsche smacked harder. The next group of shooters coming through that door will wipe us out.

"Come on, lady, wake up already."

Marlboro's eyes began to flutter. Then she coughed and convulsed, sucking in a lungful of air. Her eyes wide open, she screamed, "Camila!"

So, Camila was the owner of the high-heels and dolls in this bedroom.

"Hey, take it easy okay? I'm here to help," Porsche said.

Swirling under delusions, the big girl lashed out and had Porsche by the neck with one giant hand, crushing her throat with vice-like strength. Porsche's eyes bulged, ready to pop out of their sockets. Can't breathe. The periphery of her vision began to fade, seconds from passing out.

The amazon was focused on Porsche with murderous intent.

Porsche slammed the butt of the pistol onto Marlboro's temple, twice, thrice, before the latter shuddered and collapsed onto her back. Porsche fell forward onto her and rolled off, coughing and hacking.

"Holy shit," Porsche gasped, rubbing her bruised neck.

That monster grip! This is the thanks you get.

Now how to move that man-size body from here before the killers returned? There was only one way -- the hard way. Porsche dragged the dead weight toward the fire escape, smashed the glass and cleared the window frame of cutting shards. She hefted the burly mass through the window and shouldered her onto the emergency exit. "Goddamn bitch is heavy."

The height of the second floor wasn't so bad. Porsche felt her sore neck -- it's going to leave a freegin mark. Payback. Porsche kicked the unconscious woman over the railing. The body thumped onto a flower bed.