30 Days of Night: Light of Day by Jeff Mariotte Page A

building, listening to the click of her heels on marble floors, watching people she usually saw only on the evening news. The sense of history was palpable, weighing as delightfully heavily on her as a truffle on her tongue. She was a killer, a brawler, a woman who loved violence and sex with a ferocity that more intellectual pursuits could never inspire. But she had a powerful appreciation for history, too. Although her father had been Japanese and she was raised in both countries, she had grown up thinking of herself as an American, and being in this place forced her to take that citizenship seriously.
    She loved her job because she got paid to kill bloodsuckers. But she loved killing bloodsuckers, in part, because every one she killed meant some number of Americans would not be murdered in the night.
    An aide showed her into Senator Harlowe’s inner office. It was vast, paneled in dark wood, anchored by a desk that must have weighed as much as one of the faces on Mount Rushmore. Fighter planes could have landed on its surface. The senator had animal heads and skins on one wall, four TVs—two of which weretuned to Fox News and CNN even though the sound was muted—a sitting area with rich, comfortable leather furniture, and a full bar.
    “Can I offer you anything to drink, Ms. Tanaka-Dunn?” he asked.
    “Some water would be nice.” No way she was going to drink before giving congressional testimony. She needed to stay sharp, to keep the lies straight.
    “Fine, fine. Have a seat.” He waved toward the sitting area. In a corner formed by a sofa and an overstuffed chair was one of those giant antique globes, the kind on which you expect sea monsters to be painted in the oceans. She sat on the couch and he brought her a glass of water and himself something that looked like bourbon over very few rocks. “We appreciate you coming by today.”
    “I didn’t think I had a choice.”
    “Well, you didn’t. But we appreciate it, just the same.”
    “Anything I can do for my country,” she said.
    Senator Harlowe sat down in the chair. He had difficulty, Marina noticed, tearing his gaze away from her legs. She crossed them one way, then uncrossed them, then crossed them the other. The whole time, he stared, absently licking his lips.
Maybe they don’t get a lot of women testifying,
she thought.
    Then she thought something else, and uncrossed them again, tilting slightly more toward the good senator.

    Marina wondered if he could have been more obvious. He called to an aide to make sure they weren’t disturbed. He locked the door with a loud click. He grunted and groaned out loud, especially when he took her up against the wall, her back pressed into the musty pelt of some ancient, half-lame creature he had shot. She believed that she had become some sort of trophy, just like the dead animals. After she was gone, he would laugh with his male aides. “See what I bagged today?” he would ask. Hysterical.
    But after his pants were fastened and her clothes were returned to something resembling the state they had been in originally, he sat down at his huge desk and made a couple of phone calls, while Marina waited in a visitor’s chair. “I don’t think we actually need to have that meeting today,” he had told her. “Operation Red-Blooded is too important to be compromised, and to tell you the truth I don’t entirely trust some of my, ah … colleagues on that panel. Let’s just put through the funding for the next fiscal year and call it a day.”
    Marina had stretched, then made a little wincing noise. “I think I’m just a little bit sore,” she said.
    “Maybe with a five percent increase,” he added with a smile.
    “Thank you, Senator.”
    “And I’m sure we can keep the funding spigot flowing … as long as you stop by for a visit every now and again.” He gave her a smile that was more of a leer,and Marina wondered if there had ever been a woman who thought that was sexy. She supposed a man with his