They vaulted the fence and were on her in seconds, pushing her into the shadows of an alley way.
She slammed one into the wall behind her and elbowed one in the head, knocking him out cold. The third one she picked up, lifting him above her head and slamming him to the ground. The fourth one pulled out a 9mm automatic. She was on him in two steps, grabbing his pistol hand and crushing the bones. He screamed as she pulled the pistol from his mangled hand.
She pulled the slide back jacking a round into the pistol’s chamber. She then shot the mugger in both knees. She turned and did the same to the other three muggers.
She turned to the thug writhing at her feet and said, “Where’s your cell phone?”
All he did was whine and groan.
She put her foot on one of his shattered knees and leaned into it.
He screamed in pain and she asked him again, “Where is you cell phone?”
He gasped, “In my right front pocket.”
She bent down and retrieved the phone and dialed 911, handing the phone back to him. “Tell the operator where you are and the four of you have been shot.”
When he had done that, his hand shook and he dropped the phone. She stepped on it, crushing it. She then said, “After tonight, I think your life in crime just took a turn. If my aim was true, which it always is, you and your buddies will never walk the same again and every step you take will put you in pain. You might want to enter a less active career.”
She turned to go and turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. When the police ask you what happened, you tell them a short, fat, bald head man did this to you.
If you tell them anything else, I’ll find you and make sure you never walk again and have difficulty using your hands. Tell your friends the same thing and keep your stories straight. Do you understand?”
All he did was groan.
She took a step towards him and he said, “I understand! I understand!”
She leaned down and patted him on the cheek and said, “Good.” And walked away.
Back in her condo, she showered, put on her pajamas and bunny slippers. She went to the bar and pour a stiff scotch. Outside on the balcony she looked up into the clear sky at the stars and said as she did most nights, “Take me back.” And she wept. She put her hands on the deck’s railing and bowed her head sobbing.
When she finished her drink, she went back to bar for a refill. As she poured the drink, the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She was not alone. Someone or something was standing behind her in the shadows.
She turned to face it and saw what looked like an outline of a man and said, “I don’t know who you are, but this is about to turn into the worst day of your life.”
“I hope not.” answered the shadow.
She dropped her drink and threw herself into his arms screaming, “Peter!”. She buried her face in his shoulder and in between gasping sobs, she said, “You’ve come for me.”
Her body shook with her uncontrollable sobbing.
He wrapped his arms around her and with one hand stroked her head. “We’ve missed you.” he said.
“And I’ve missed you.” she whined.
She pulled away, wiped her eyes and took his hand and led him to a living room couch. He sat down and she snuggled up against him. He put his arm around her and held close.
With his free hand he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She wiped the tears off her face and blew her nose. Like Zoe, when she blew her nose it sounded like a ship’s horn.
“I have followed your journalistic progress and congratulate you on your successes. What else have you been doing?”
This brought about more loud wailing. Between great wailing sobs she managed to get out, “I beat people up.” More wailing.
He said, “That’s interesting.”
She hit him in the chest and said, “Don’t make fun of me. It’s true. I beat people up. That’s the only excitement in my life. The only way I get an adrenalin rush.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. I’m sure you have a good excuse for your bad behavior.”
She smiled and thumped him on chest again. She jumped up and said, “How gauche of me. What kind of hostess am I?”
She walked over to the bar, pick her glass up off the floor and poured them both a drink. She handed him his drink and sat down in an overstuffed chair next to the couch.
“Well if you must know, I have a good excuse.
About a year ago, I was walking home late at night and I was jumped by two men. They pushed me into an alley way, threaten to do unpleasant things to me so I beat them to a pulp.
At first it upset me because I got so much pleasure out of it. But then I got to thinking about it. Those creeps deserved what they got, so whenever possible, I started walking home.
It payed off. In a year, I’ve demolished at least two dozen bad guys from one guy with a knife to six thugs at a time. I did permanent damage to all of these bums and I didn’t kill one of them. But when I finished with them, they were wishing they were dead. I’m pathetic.” And she teared up again.
He reached over, took her hand and said, “No you’re not. You’re a credit to your sex.”
She jerked her hand away and said, “Don’t you make fun of me.” She smiled and said, “You’re right. I am a credit to my sex.” They both laughed.
He took her hand, and said, “I want to take you back with me. ……………….We’re at war.”
If you like my book, please leave a review on Amazon and on Good Reads. This is so important to a new author such as myself.
If you wish to contact me, email me at [email protected]. (Internationally Unknown Author) I will respond to your emails and when Book 4 is published I will let you know.
Lee Hunnicutt
The Travelers 3 Page 18
