by Hondo Jinx
Junior was a grasping wanna-be, pretending he could handle his own crew and call the shots. Normally, it was laughable. Now, it was a real problem.
In the wake of the botched hit, Junior would be desperate.
She just had to be extra careful, then. Sage had cloaked her, she was wearing her ugly-ass disguise, and the news still hadn’t said shit about her.
She’d swing by Captain Tony’s, grab her dad, and take him to the community center. Against her better judgment, she was excited to see her dad. She couldn’t help it.
She was nothing if not loving, nothing if not loyal. Even when that loving loyalty had a way of dragging her through the mud, and the mud in question always ended up being full of broken glass.
She couldn’t wait to surprise David with his new paddle. She’d let him know she was going out of town for a while, and then maybe she’d swing by Happy Times Chinese and tell Mr. Santini to go fuck himself, she quit.
That thought made her smile. Santini, who operated on a constant power trip and treated his employees like shit, would be livid. And that was that. The opportunity to watch a red-faced Santini sputter and curse justified any risk of heading into town.
But she wouldn’t bring the machine pistol. It was compact yet still bulky enough to make carrying it under her sweats a real pain in the ass.
Besides, Brawley had filled her with so much power, she didn’t need a gun. She could protect herself just fine, thank you very much.
Unless Junior and his psi-crew personally hit her this time. From behind. Without warning.
It was a risk she had to take.
She took a twisting path toward Old Town, swiveling through a circuitous network of alleys and less-traveled streets, keeping her hood up and her eyes peeled for trouble. She felt ridiculous and paranoid, all at the same time.
But when she reached Greene Street and strode into Captain Tony’s, there was no sign of her dad.
He usually sat beside the tree, beneath the license plates and bras and signed dollar bills.
But he wasn’t there. Or anywhere else around the bar.
She scanned the seating near the wall and glanced at the pool tables.
Her dad was nowhere to be seen.
Nina did a slow 360, double-checking the dim place, aware of men at the bar checking her out, despite her upturned hood, baggy sweats, and combat boots.
Maybe her dad was in the pisser. That had to be it.
She stood near the door to the men’s room, waiting while one more Jimmy Buffet knockoff sang over the speakers.
Come with me, the singer crooned. We’ll sail the sea. Just the three of us. You and me.
What kind of bullshit lyrics were those?
“Nina?”
She turned to see Steve, one of the bartenders looking her up and down with a confused smile. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute. You look like Rocky training for a fight.”
“Thanks, Steve,” she said. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. Have you seen my dad?”
“Yeah, he was just here.” Steve leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Hey, if you could say something to him, his tab is getting a little heavy. He’s a great guy. I mean, everybody loves him. But—”
Whatever Steve said next, his words were lost to Nina, drowned out by the hammering of her heart. Xander Mack was many things, most of them bad, but he loved his daughter and cherished every second they spent together. He would never leave before Nina got here, not unless…
Stupid, she thought. You are too stupid to even live. “Steve, when did my dad leave?”
The bartender shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes ago?” He grinned. “We’re on conch time, remember?”
“Was he—”
Alone, she had meant to say.
But then her head filled with noise. Her father’s voice, throbbing with fear and desperation, screaming in her mind, Run Nina, run! They’re coming for you!
16
Leaving Hazel’s shop was like exiting a dark, air-conditioned movie theater and stepping into a bright Texas afternoon. The difference was jarring, and nothing seemed quite real.
“Are you okay, husband?” Sage asked, slipping her slender arm over his shoulders.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just trying to wrap my head around everything she said. Sounds like we’re in for a rough ride.”
“Wherever you go, I will follow. As will Nina. You’re our power mage.”
“All right,” he said.
For a moment, they walked in silence.
Balls was the one thing Brawley had always had, even when he was young and broke. But that was the problem right there, he realized. He would handle whatever was coming down the pike, but he couldn’t help worrying about his women. It was easier to have big balls when you didn’t have much to lose.
“I’ll keep driving,” he said, “but do me a favor, darlin. If it seems to you that I’m shoving my head up my ass, tell me.”
Sage laughed. “I will always share my opinions, Master.”
“What did I tell you about that Master shit?”
She eyed him overtop her sexy librarian glasses, smiling and batting her long lashes. “Perhaps you need to assert your dominance over me and really drill the lesson home.”
Brawley pulled her close, liking the feel of her tiny waist beneath his fingers. “Now you’re talking my language, sexy lady.”
But then his nostrils were full of bad smells: blood and dirt, sweat and shit. A tremor rolled across his vision and through his flesh. Thousands of voices cried out, mostly muffled by the terrible ringing in his ears. White-hot pain raced across his neck, down his spine, and into his head.
Terror seized him. He was on the ground again. The ground was shaking, because Aftershock was pounding this way, looking to finish the job. Brawley had to get up, had to roll, had to run… but he couldn’t move.
Reality rushed back in.
Brawley stood there, gasping, heart hammering, filled with panicky dread, his terror collapsing into a single image, which filled his heart and soul and named his fear even as Sage, her voice tight with apprehension, gave name to the object of his sudden concern.
“Nina,” Sage gasped.
Yes, Nina. Something was wrong with Nina.
Sage said as much. “I can’t see her. Not through the cloak.”
Tourists flowed past where they had stopped on the sidewalk.
“Her nose ring,” he said, remembering the psi sensor Sage had placed there.
“Yes,” she said, recovering from her shock. “She’s on Greene Street and moving fast. Coming out of Captain Tony’s, near Mallory Square. She’s really scared.”
Rage burned to life in his blood. “Is someone chasing her?”
“I don’t know,” Sage said. “She’s heading toward the center of Old Town.”
“The community center,” he said, and his gut told him yes, that was right. Nina had decided to go see her brother, and now she was in trouble.
“Come on,” Sage said, moving in that direction. “We can find her. Just open your mind and concentrate on the question of Nina’s whereabouts. You will sense her location. There is no better GPS system than a Seeker. Let’s go.”
“No,” he said, pulling her to a stop. “I’ll help Nina. You go back to your place and grab whatever you need, then head to the Publix parking lot and meet us back at the RV. Can you find it on your own?”
“Yes, but shouldn’t—”
“Do it,” Brawley said. Sage was brave enough, but she wouldn’t be much use in a fight, and he didn’t want to put her in danger, too. Besides, he suspected that they might need to pull up their tent stakes and hurry out of here sooner than expected.
He gave her a quick kiss and started running toward town. “See you at the RV,” he called over his shoulder.
As he ran, Brawley did as Sage advised and focused on Nina’s whereabouts. It was an easy thing to do since there was nothing more that he wanted in the world than to keep her safe.
>
No magical GPS system came to life, giving him directions or highlighting routes, but he did feel compelled to travel in specific directions.
Cut across this street, his mind proposed not in words but in notions. Hang a left. Another. That way. That way. That way.
He followed his gut, drawing closer and closer to Nina.
Then, as he was hustling along down a narrow street flanking a deserted parking lot, a strong sense of foreboding passed over him like an icy wind, literally raising goosebumps over his flesh.
Danger…
A motorcycle whipped past. Then its brakes screeched.
Brawley turned.
The rider, a burly guy on a crotch rocket, stopped in the middle of the street, spinning the bike around to face Brawley. A cloud of burnt rubber was drifting down the street, and the rider was reaching inside his leather jacket.
Brawley lifted his shirt with one hand and drew his XDS with the other.
They both fired at the same time.
Brawley felt something whip past the side of his face as the explosions of their gunfire echoed off the buildings lining the narrow street.
He stood his ground, firing then bringing the .45 back on target before squeezing the trigger again, aiming just below the concussive muzzle blasts of the rider’s pistol.
One, two, three shots…
The rider jerked, spinning halfway around, firing into the sky as he tumbled from the bike. His pistol clattered away on the pavement.
The man’s legs jutted out from behind the bike, twitching with convulsions.
Brawley checked his six.
At the far end of the street, people had stopped and were staring with horrified faces.
But he saw no bad guys.
Except the one flopping around like a slice of frying bacon on the other side of the bike.
Brawley moved in that direction, pistol at the ready. Yes, he’d struck the son of a bitch center mass, but for all he knew the guy was wearing body armor under that leather jacket, and Brawley wasn’t taking chances. He didn’t need someone on his back trail, gunning for him.
The guy’s legs stopped shaking and drew slowly backwards, like roadkill curling up to die.
One could only hope.
Brawley circled around, trying to get a clear shot.
There was a loud whack, and then a wall of metal was rushing straight at Brawley.
If it weren’t for his amazing reflexes, the bike would have cleaned him. But Brawley spun sideways like a bullfighter, and the motorcycle rushed past, missing him by inches.
The man had kicked the bike at him. What kind of strength would that take?
Brawley whipped back around, meaning to draw down on the freak, but apparently the man was just as fast as he was strong, because before Brawley could even level the XDS, what felt like a second onrushing motorcycle struck him hard, knocking him from his feet and sending his pistol skittering across the macadam.
His assailant paused for a second to straighten his back and roll his burly shoulders. His yellow t-shirt was splashed in crimson, blood draining from two separate holes, one in the gut, one high up the chest. “That hurt,” the guy growled, swaggering forward.
Brawley hadn’t been shot, but pain nonetheless filled his body. That son of a bitch had slammed into him so hard, it felt like he’d been stomped by a two-thousand-pound bull.
And he reacted just as he would have in the arena, telling his pain to fuck off and lurching to his feet. Only this time, instead of heading for an exit, he scrambled for his pistol.
He didn’t make it.
The wall of force slammed into him again, bowling him over. He rolled across the pavement and slammed into the foundation of a brick building.
More pain, more problems. He lay crumpled on his back with his legs over his head. He swung his legs forward, trying to sit up, but then the guy was on him again.
The man’s hand grabbed Brawley by the throat and hoisted him off his feet. The iron grip squeezed like a vice, cutting off Brawley’s air. One sharp twist would rebreak Brawley’s neck, dislodge the pin, and kill him.
Fuck that noise.
He grabbed the man’s wrist but couldn’t peel it from his throat. Looking down, he recognized the face leering up at him from inside the black helmet. It was one of the assholes who’d been shaking down the Cat Wizard with Junior Dutchman the night before.
The guy laughed nastily. “I thought that was you.”
Brawley refused to let this bastard kill him. He had plans. First and foremost, helping Nina.
He lashed out with a hard kick and slammed his boot into the guy’s nuts.
The guy didn’t even flinch. He grinned, squeezing harder. “Never play poker with a man named Doc. Never shoot pool with a man named Ace. And never, ever fight with a Carnal.”
In one, last, desperate effort, Brawley pushed. Not with his hands but with his mind.
All the pulsing power rushed from his mind.
There was a loud pop, and Brawley saw a bright flash of red before he instinctively slammed his eyelids.
The iron grip released him, and he fell to the ground, landing on his feet like he had so many times after getting tossed by a bull.
“The fuck?” Brawley panted, looking down at the man who lay on the sidewalk at his feet. One glance told him he didn’t need to worry about the Carnal regenerating again.
The man’s head was gone, helmet and all, reduced to a thirty-foot smear of blood and shards, like a bug pulped across a windshield.
Brawley didn’t hang around to study his handiwork. Somehow, his desperation had once again released a reflexive wave of force, only this time, instead of saving a cat, he’d saved himself.
He ran over, scooped up his XDS, and slipped it back into his holster. He was shaking badly. Not from fear but from having released such a powerful wallop of psionic force.
Then a funny thing happened. He felt an invigorating rush of energy plunge down through the crown of his skull and whip away into his mind.
For a quarter of a second, he felt a jolt of euphoria.
But then his big expenditure of juice hit him hard, and he forgot all about the quick rush of new energy. A beating heart of pain formed at the center of his brain, and the street seemed to tilt beneath his feet, threatening to topple him.
No, he growled, and caught himself.
He heard voices at the end of the alley and detected motion but couldn’t sort it out.
Cops?
He didn’t know.
He needed to pick up his brass, but with his trembling hands, shaky legs, and his vision now blurring, it would take him a day and a half just to pocket the spent casings.
But he couldn’t leave those things lying there, covered in his fingerprints like so many calling cards. In his frustration, he imagined sweeping them from the ground…
And the little brass cylinders whipped into the air, winking with sunlight as they flew into his hand.
He shoved them into his pocket and sprinted away from the noisy end of the alley.
It seemed like voices were calling out from all directions. Coming from both ends of the alley and calling down out of windows up and down the lane.
Brawley jagged to the right, throwing himself clumsily into a narrow alley between two buildings. His shoulder slammed into one of the walls, but he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other, and stumbled down the alley toward the bright light at its end.
The heartbeat of pain in his head slowed as he struggled forward. The pain lessened. His body sense returned to him then. With it came his balance, and it no longer felt like the ground might catapult him into the sky. His vision cleared, and his stumble became a purposeful sprint.
By the time he broke out of the alley and into the crowded street beyond, his physical challenges had dwindled to a dull headache and another case of severe thirst. And of course, the pain remaining from his fight with the Carnal.
His throat hurt. His neck was badly bru
ised. And he was pretty certain the bastard had cracked a rib. Son of a bitch. If he hadn’t already killed the guy, he’d go back and kill him all over again.
No one seeing him would have guessed he was hurt, though. Brawley had never understood why injured people complained or made faces. It didn’t help a thing.
Besides, the damage he’d taken didn’t matter.
Only Nina mattered now.
People cried out with surprise as he cut abruptly across the sidewalk and shot into the street. Drivers screeched to a stop, narrowly missing him, and horns blared as he crossed the busy boulevard.
Reaching the other side, he raced down the sidewalk, apologizing to those he bumped on his way, hung a hard left at the intersection and started pounding up the cross street as fast as he could.
Hang on, Nina. I’m coming, baby.
17
Nina ran.
The hat Brawley had given her flew off her head as she sprinted, weaving in and out of tourists, scared shitless and racing against time, her purple hair fluttering behind her like a purple streamer.
She cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she warned her father? Because she’d been so rankled by his telepathic prying that it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might be in danger. That’s why. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And now they had him.
She couldn’t say who, exactly, had kidnapped her father, because his voice had broken off sharply immediately after screaming, Run, Nina, run! They’re coming for you!
But she had an idea who they were. The thought chilled her, even as she sprinted at top speed through the sweltering afternoon heat.
Junior Dutchman and his crew had taken her father. How they had managed to strong-arm a telepath in a bar, she couldn’t begin to imagine, but they had done it, and now they would squeeze whatever information they could from him. By any means necessary.
Anything and everything, including the existence and location of a person whose well-being she wouldn’t have endangered for anything in the world.
