Mint Cookie Murder by Leslie Langtry

up under myself, my fingers curling around the steaming, hot mug.
    He nodded. "I did. But he got away when we ran out." Riley frowned.
    "What is it?" I asked.
    "I should've stayed and finished him off," he said.
    I shook my head. "I'm glad you helped me get Kelly out of there. She should never have been involved."
    "Doesn't matter," Riley said. "The bastard got away." He was taking this pretty hard.
    "Well, we know what his car looks like, and we know he can't shoot with any accuracy, so I think we're okay for now," I responded. "And he doesn't know where we are."
    Riley sighed, running a tanned hand through his gold locks. "I guess that's something. Still, I would've preferred finding a body instead of a puddle of blood."
    "Why did he miss?" I asked. "How many assassins do you know of who miss? I mean, maybe once. Possibly twice—but even that's extremely rare."
    "It doesn't make a lot of sense," Riley agreed. "Bobb's never missed a hit as far as I know."
    Philby hissed loudly from the bed.
    "So maybe it isn't him?" I asked.
    "Maybe," Riley said. "I thought it was weird he made contact with you instead of killing you outright. That also goes against his M.O."
    "How have I never heard of…" I looked at Philby, who was struggling to get his bulk into his litter box. "…this assassin before? I thought I knew all the players?"
    Riley spotted the cat and got the point. He grinned. "He's fairly new. He was starting to make a name for himself right about the time you were handed your walking papers by the agency."
    "So what is his modus operandi? How does he usually take out targets, and who does he work for?"
    Riley got up and pulled an undershirt from the duffle bag, pulling it on over his nice, lean muscles. I was sad to see him clothed.
    "He started to show up on our radar with the Freitag hit in Munich a year and a half ago. Our sources indicated a new player on the scene. We didn't know much about him until he took out Wollan in Oslo a month later."
    I nodded—I'd heard of both assassinations. Freitag had been a German politician—a Socialist noted for reform. Wollan was a Norwegian arms dealer with ties to Somali warlords.
    "But how did you link those two murders?" I asked. "Neither one was tied to the other."
    "It was the way he did it. Always with a rifle at close range. And he left a calling card at both scenes. He cut off their right index fingers in both cases. And he stuffed them into the left nostril of the victims."
    "Seriously? This is a grown up? Not a cartoon character? Why did he do that?"
    Riley shrugged. "He's never explained it. Over the next year, there were five more hits. All men who had no ties to the other victims. Same index finger picking the same nostril."
    "That's how you connected him?" I asked. "From a juvenile gesture?"
    "No, we started picking up buzz about him. He's a free agent. Works for the highest bidder. Always goes by the name Bobb."
    Philby walked over to Riley and hissed furiously at him. It was almost like the cat couldn't help complaining when he heard the name, and he wanted us to stop saying it.
    "Always spelled with two B s," Riley continued as he patted the cat on the head. Philby seemed to grudgingly accept this apology and trotted away.
    "Anyway, we've never had an eyewitness until now."
    I pointed at my chest. "Me. I'm the only one who's ever seen him. Great."
    Riley nodded. "You're the only one who's ever seen him and lived to talk about it."
    "That seems like a rather odd loose end. Why would he do that?" I wondered. Assassins almost never broke with their M.O. They were creatures of habit. It made no sense that this one would behave differently. I studied my index finger for a moment. I'd like to keep it.
    "Have you talked to Langley about this?" I asked.
    "I reported it after you fell asleep last night. The license plate was a dead end, but they believe it's him. They also think you're a target."
    I threw up my hands. "Great. So not only do I still have dead spies