My mind was in turmoil. Too much had happened too quickly. If I was going to be a murderer's target, okay, there wasn't much I could do about it. But no need to set her up as the next clay pigeon. Besides, it would be too easy to get damned romantic about the danger of it all, and start acting like some asinine shiny-armored knight and make a real idiot of myself. Vickie was an adult; she didn't need me in her life. I'd bring her nothing but grief. Okay, she was good to be with; she brightened up a room and brought warmth to my life. She was fine in bed. And keep thinking with your gonads instead of your brains, I warned myself, and you'll both end up on the next cold-storage shipment to Minnesota. As I thought about it, in the cab on my way back to my apartment, I doubted that the murderer would use the same technique on me that he had on his brothers. But he didn't have to, of course. Hell, he was the President! He could get rid of me in a thousand ways, from a fatal accident to a nuclear strike.
