“Negative. We don’t know who she is. I thought you said they got her?” Bill asked.
“They did, but like you said, she’s a super. Who knows what her powers are?” Whiskey replied.
She had saved him though… and looked damn good doing it.
Chapter 7
“Wake up,” I said to the tied-up man. I punctuated with a bucket of ice and water dumped over his head. He screamed awake, struggling against his bonds. It was no use; I knew what I was doing. His wrists and ankles were tied to the metal chair, which in turn was bolted to the floor. Even if he could dislocate his thumbs he’d never get out of those ropes. Of course, no matter what he did, he wasn’t getting out.
He stopped screaming for a moment and looked around, trying to free his hands. I’d left his clothes on, but took all his stuff: wallet, phone, knives, and the RFID tracker he hid in his boot. Sophisticated tech for a gangster.
“What do you want?” he asked finally as his eyes cleared. I didn’t say anything. I crouched on the floor, my scarf still covering my face, and pulled out my knives, one by one, setting them on the ground in front of me. Then my guns, same thing. “Is that s-supposed to intimidate me?”
He can’t see my grin. His bluff would have been more successful without the stutter. “Tell me, Peter,” I said as I laid the last of my ordinance on the ground, “How many women have you killed in your life?”
I was riding high on my Wraith powers and I feel the lies in his words.
“None,” he spit out.
“Liar,” I said. Without another word, I pick up the first knife and jam it hard into his thigh, carefully avoiding the artery that would cause him to bleed out. He screamed. I know how painful it is.
“You crazy bitch!” he yelled.
“Wrong answer.” My voice had the eerie Wraith effect, giving it a reverberation that no human could hope to create. I pulled the knife out and stabbed his other thigh.
“Five. Only five,” he screamed out. I felt something when people lied to me, a certain surety that they were lying Another mystery of my Wraith powers that I needed to unwind.
“What’s your name?”
“Peter. Peter Mando,” he said.
Truth. I nodded. Standing up I walked a full circle around him, leaving the Ka-Bar protruding from his leg while he whimpered.
“Who are you in ISO-1?”
“No one.”
Lie. I rushed past him, grabbed the next knife off the floor and raised it above my head, pausing for a second to give him the chance to change his mind.
“Second! I’m the Second here in New Orleans. I run the day to day crap,” he said in a hurry, tripping over his words as he spoke.
I nodded and lowered the knife. “I’m going to ask you questions and you are going to answer them. Remember,” I said leaning in so close the blue light of my eyes reflected off of his, “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Why should I tell you anything,” he sobbed. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”
I knelt down in front of him, making sure he could see my eyes as I pulled my mask down. “You’re right, Peter, I am going to kill you. You’ve murdered, tortured, maimed, and destroyed lives for your own petty selfish ambitions. Justice is a scale, and the only currency you have to pay with… is your life. The question you need to ask yourself is, do you want to do one good thing before you die and help me protect other innocents from the merciless hands of your employers? Or do you want your last moments to be filled with agony? It is entirely up to you.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the transponder he had hidden in his boot. His eyes went wide and his whole body started to shake.
“Please,” he begged.
“I’m sure that’s what all your victims said. Shall we begin?”
♦♦♦
Two hours later I pulled out of the abandoned parking lot in the Dodge Hellcat, leaving the building burning behind me. I had left all the clothes I was wearing—plus the guns, knives, everything that had come into contact with my body—behind, covered in gasoline and lit by the Thermite grenade. I wore the identical spare clothes I carried in my trunk. I liked to think of it as my costume.
I couldn’t let myself become attached to things if I was going to succeed in my mission. I also didn’t want anyone using forensics to track something back to me. Even if they did manage to find me, or identify me, they could never prove I had anything to do with the deaths in Detroit or here. There simply wasn’t any physical evidence linking me to any crimes, and that was the way it was going to stay.
The streets of New Orleans were heating up as the day went on and the storm passed. I zoned out, driving on autopilot while traffic filled the streets. I absently turned on the radio and listened to music, drumming my hands on the steering wheel. Despite my car’s gorgeous exterior, it virtually disappeared in the crowd of modern sports cars and SUVs on the road. Not that I minded at all. The slow drive west on Interstate 10 heading for Kenner provided me with a much-needed opportunity to think, plan, and let my mind wander.
If I believed Peter, and I did, then his older brother, Vaas, was the head of ISO-1 in New Orleans. He was also the man who gave the orders to murder my family. No matter what happened from this point forward, two people had to die; My ex-husband Henry, and Vaas Mando.
I hadn’t thought much about my ex-husband since I returned—I’d been trying to avoid thinking about him, honestly. I can’t believe I ever loved such a dirtbag, let alone slept with him. I shuddered just thinking about it.
I pushed that aside for the moment. Henry was on the list but he was far down it, and he could wait. The only person he was likely to hurt in the meantime was me. ISO, on the other hand, was going to hurt a lot more people every hour I delayed stopping them. I had more death and destruction on my mind.
It’s a good thing you feel like a million bucks.
My post-killing high hadn’t worn off yet; I was only heading back to my little apartment above the Peruvian restaurant for food, a shower, and some fresh weapons. After that, I would be back on the streets. Part of my strategy was to hit them hard and fast. Keep them off balance and not give them time to formulate a plan.
My place was in Kenner, an odd little neighborhood that really flourished in the last few years. The trademark Cajun flavor of the city gave way to Hispanic culture here. Not just from Mexico, but from a dozen countries south of the border. My place was nestled in between a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and a bait shop.
I parked the expensive car in the narrow alley in the back. The apartment had alley access and I didn’t ever have to go through the restaurant if I didn’t want too. The food always smelled amazing though, and I was hungry. Tonight, I decided a quick bite was in order before the rest of the evening’s work.
The metal back door was cracked open, leaking the aroma of fried foods that aroused my senses and sent my stomach into revolt. I love fried chicken as much as the next southerner, but there was certainly something special about A Taste of Peru.
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I knew something was wrong. It was dinnertime—this place was usually packed at dinner. There were pots boiling over on the stove and meat frying without any supervision. I picked this place for a very specific reason; I should have thought about the possibility of crime in the neighborhood.
Fine. You want to cost me dinner? I’ll take it out of your hides.
I went into stealth mode, instantly moving against the wall to avoid the little window in the door to the dining room. Once there I peeked out to see what the situation was.
Alessandro was held at gunpoint by two thugs with red bandannas wrapped around their heads like this was a 1980’s action movie. His wife, Jahaira, was pushed face down on a table while the apparent leader of this little band held a knife to her throat and threatened them. I didn’t see any customers; they must have scared them off along with the other two employees. But there would be no local authorities riding to the rescue. This was clear
ly a shakedown. Local gangs wanting their “protection” money.
They would have gotten away with it too if I wasn’t here. I took one more glance to make sure there weren’t any hidden surprises, then went with my plan. I grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge, pulled the tab, took a long swig, dumped some on my clothes, then pushed my way into the main room, swaying a little as I drank the last of the beer.
I froze about ten feet from Alessandro. His eyes pleaded with me to run.
“Who’s this? I thought you said no one else was here old man?”
Old? The dude’s barely fifty and his wife could still pass for her thirties. Punks.
I had to remind myself I couldn’t kill them. It was a weird thing to have to do, especially since a part of me was noticeably disappointed about it… which was really… disturbing. I know I tend to have a very clinical view of this. Bad people do bad things and they deserve to have bad things happen to them in turn. I could wait for fate or karma to take care of it, but I’m an impatient person by nature.
“She’s nobody, our tenant, she isn’t part of this, let her go.”
The man holding Jahaira laughed and pushed her down on the floor. He took two steps and slammed his fist into Alessandro’s stomach causing the kind man to collapse. I breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t stabbed. I put the beer down on the nearest table as I passed, heading right for the leader. As I expected, they saw no threat in the sudden appearance of a drunk black girl.
“Okay honey, if you’re real good we’ll trea—”
You know, I had this big plan about convincing them I was harmless and then taking them when their defenses were down. But this…
“Frag it,” I said. I hopped up and shot my booted foot out with blinding speed. The heel caught him in the chin, snapping his jaw shut with a spurt of blood as his teeth severed his tongue. I followed through by spinning and switching legs to kick number two right in the chest. He flew through the air and slammed into the pillar dividing the dining room. The final guy shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
That was okay, I didn’t need him to. I leaped forward and brought my fist down on his jaw, spinning him around and knocking him out with one blow. I’d like to say it was my technique, but no, it was my Wraith strength.
Even as they fell, one right after another, the first hitting the ground a second before the third, my blood screamed out at me to finish them, kill them now before they became a problem. I found myself picking up the discarded knife and kneeling down on the leader’s chest, pushing the five-dollar discount blade against his throat.
Blood and broken teeth leaked out of his mouth as he tried to speak. I had the blade an eighth of an inch into his throat before I stopped myself. As much as I wanted to, I had a plan and killing him would mean having to find a new place to live. And this felt wrong.
“It isn’t,” Sara said from beside me. She knelt in one of her school uniforms, her finger tracing the path along the scumbag’s throat. “Cut here. He’ll be dead and you’ll feel great.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to kill him just yet, Spice. And when did you get so bloodthirsty?” I asked her.
“He might as well be one of the men who killed me Madi. You remember that don’t you?”
I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, she was gone.
“Don’t kill me,” the gang member said.
I looked at the knife I held and saw how close I was to killing him—as if he wasn’t a person. I didn’t feel bad. Not at all. I could snuff his life and move on to the other two as smooth and easy as the beer went down.
What’s wrong with me?
I leaned down real close to him and whispered, “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you and everyone you care about. Do you understand?”
He nodded, his eyes going scary wide as a primal fear he’d never felt before invaded him. I knew that fear well; after all, I was the one causing it.
“Good. Now get out.” I climbed off him, kicking his stomach as I did, and walked over to Jahaira. “You okay?” I asked as I helped her up. Neither one of the Peruvian immigrants spoke as the three gang members shuffled out.
Once they were gone a wave of relief fell over Jahaira.
“You just made it so much worse for us,” Alessandro said. His wife slapped him so fast I didn’t even register the movement.
“They would have hurt me,” she said.
He hugged her close and looked up at me. His pride was hurt; he couldn’t protect his family. I got it. I know the feeling.
“They won’t be back. I promise. At least, not looking for you. Now, any chance I can get some Ceviche?”
After several bowls and more beer than I should have consumed, I made my way upstairs. My original plan was still on my mind but with each step, my legs grew heavy and my eyes shut for longer and longer periods.
“You should have killed them. If you had, this wouldn’t be happening,” Spice said from the top of the stairs.
I was so deliriously tired I couldn’t tell if she was real or a figment of my imagination.
“I’m real. Only you can see or hear me though,” she said.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
She laughed. It sounded just like my Spice. Sara had an infectious laugh. She was dead though—this couldn’t be her. Could it?
“I can’t read your mind, but it’s an obvious question to ask. Let me help you,” she said as she bounced down the stairs and slipped under my arm. I could feel her, smell her, hear her, and see her. She was also strong, far stronger than Spice was in real life.
As a model, I never weighed more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds. I stayed rail thin for the job. Since I’d met Joseph, I’d packed on almost forty pounds, all muscle. Even with the Wraith superpowers, I needed the muscle memory, the reactions, the endurance that muscle brought. Besides, while I could shadow step whenever I wanted and see in the dark to some degree, the strength and speed only seemed to come after the rush of killing someone.
We made it to my room, and I managed to get the key I the door on the third try. Once open, she guided me into the bed and I collapsed in a heap. With an effort, I rolled over and looked up at her. “You going to be here when I wake up?”
“Nope,” she said. Then I blacked out.
Chapter 8
“You okay, boss?” Zim asked.
Bill sat on the end of the ambulance with an oxygen mask on his face. He was stripped down to the waist so the EMT could tape ribs. Thankfully, the rain had finally stopped and now it was a balmy sixty-five as the sun went down. His ribs ached like a son of a gun, but other than that he was okay.
“Yeah, any idea who that was?”
Zim shook his head. “I checked the database; no record of her from what I could tell. Rico’s going over the footage right now, seeing if he can isolate her face. Between the red mask and the glowing eyes though…”
Bill nodded. The government database of superpowered people was woefully inadequate from a law enforcement perspective. The only time anyone made it into the files was when they were arrested or volunteered to register.
“She’s an operator, whoever she is. I don’t care what powers she has, nobody moves like that by accident,” he said. Zim nodded, letting his boss talk without interrupting, knowing he was just working things out. “Probably a Navy Seal or Army Spec-force… something like that. Start there. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, so start with the dropouts or the people who didn’t complete for medical reasons and go from there.
“On it,” Zim said as he headed back for their van.
Whoever she was, she had killed at least twenty armed and dangerous gang members and arms dealers tonight. She also saved Bill’s life. Instead of an ambulance, he would be in a coroner’s van.
“Sergeant Farrell?” a woman with a sweet soprano called out to him.
“Master Sergeant,” he said automatically. He liked to make sure civilians knew who
was in charge, and if she were local law he didn’t want a jurisdictional pissing match. When he looked up, though, he realized she wasn’t a cop. If he had to guess, the attractive woman with the brown hair and green eyes was a reporter.
Great.
“Master Sergeant, I’m Krisan Swahili. I’m covering stories of vigilante activity in the area. What did you see tonight?” she asked. Her eyes had the quality of an intelligent woman—one who knew how to ask a question.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Swahili. I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing operations.”
She smiled. “Of course. I’m not so much interested in what you are doing here, Master Sergeant—”
“Call me Bill,” he interrupted with a wave of his hand. She wasn’t aggressive, angry, or entitled; she was far more likely to have a civil conversation and he was too tired to turn this into an argument about security clearance.
“Bill,” she said with a smile. He liked her smile. Shaking his head, he ran one hand over his face and through his crew cut. Bill was easily a decade older than her and he felt his age at the moment. But damn if she wasn’t attractive. “Can you tell me if you saw… how should I put this, anything strange? Unusual?”
That piqued his interest more than her very pretty face. He thought for a moment, trying to decide what he could and could not say. After all, the vigilante, whoever she was, wasn’t part of his operation. No opsec would be violated by talking about her. She did save his life though, which made him want to protect her.
“I’m pretty good with people, Bill, and I can tell you’re warring with what to share. Let me make it easy for you; how about I tell you what I know, then you can tell me?”
He nodded. Damn, he liked this woman.
She smiled. “Great. There was some kind of arms buy here tonight. Since you’re here, I’m guessing it was Army surplus— don’t worry, I have no intention of putting that in my story, or you and your men. Like I said I’m here for another reason.”
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