by Avet, Danica
Gyda’s gaze slid to the black box resting on the edge of the nightstand. It was the first thing she unpacked when she arrived anywhere new and apparently the last item Sixteen put away when she left any location. She didn’t know how much time she had before her others made their appearance, but she also didn’t give a rat’s ass. It wasn’t as though they gave her much time to build a new life anywhere they went. Some days she hated the women who crowded her mind, but at least she wasn’t lonely. Much.
Like a crackhead reaching for the pipe, Gyda caressed the box with trembling fingers. She wanted to dive right into the pleasurable pain, but knew she couldn’t afford to mess up her clothes. With that in mind, she hopped off the mattress and hurried to the bathroom to grab a couple threadbare towels from the rack. It would help catch any blood that spilled. She returned to the bed and shimmied free of her clothes. Leaving the black material puddled on the floor and ritual complete, she snatched up the box and sat in the center of the bed with it. Heart pounding with anticipation, she opened the lid and let out a sigh.
The crappy lighting couldn’t detract from the beauty of the stainless steel seated in black velvet like some kind of lethal work of art. The gold-plated handle and elegant scrollwork gave it an old-world charm. It’s what had attracted her attention to it when she saw it sitting in the pawn shop’s window all those years ago. She carefully lifted it from the velvet and held it up to the light.
It was funny in a sad way. After all she’d lived through, she would’ve thought inviting more pain into her life would be the last thing she’d want to do. But this blade had come to mean as much to her as air. When the memories of her captivity invaded her mind, when the feelings of the people around her beat down on her because Sixteen was slumbering and when Tora’s actions left her skin crawling, this razorblade was the only thing that kept her level.
A shuddery sigh escaped her as she opened the blade, exposing the deadly edge to her hungry gaze. It was perfect and sharp. Tora had tried to stop Gyda from doing this, had attempted to muscle her way forward several times in the beginning, but in this one activity Gyda refused to budge. She needed this release the way a junkie needed another ride on the pony. In the beginning, before she’d discovered the delightful bite of the blade, she’d tried every drug out there and had hated the loss of control. With this razor though, she controlled everything. Where to cut, how deep, how often, everything was at her command. And in a world where she never knew when Sixteen would move them again or Tora would rise up for an attack or something worse, this little bit of control was better than any drug on the street.
Gyda could feel Tora finally awaken, realize what was happening and sit back with a sulk. She ignored her feral self, carefully placing the towels across her lap and brought the razorblade to the scar-riddled skin of her arm. And sliced. Pain and bliss mingled into an intoxicating cocktail that went straight to her head. Blood flowed. Yeah, some people would think this was fucked-up, but until they’d been held like a chained sacrifice to the lusts of others, they could all piss off.
* * * * *
“Hey, baby, you want some company tonight?”
The woman who called out the question did so in a deadpan voice, as though she didn’t give a shit either way. Britton Harper glanced at her and verified the woman was skating the fine line between the living and walking dead. Her hollow eyes, gaunt face and track marks in the bends of her arms told her story in gritty detail. His energy flashed supernova blue before he got it back under control, but it was enough to cause the woman to back up with wide eyes.
She disappeared into the darkness of an alley before he could call her back, not for sex, but for information. He shook his head and refused to feel slighted by the unfair judgment from a hooker. Yeah, his tattoos and muscles pretty much guaranteed people feared him, but nothing put people off as much as his abilities. He suppressed the telling crackle of electricity that hummed in the air around him, pulling it back into himself. He hadn’t intended to broadcast his electric manipulation powers, but seeing evidence of Mendoza’s depravity brought out his protective instincts. And those instincts urged him to put off this sting operation and just electrocute the bastard, save the taxpayers some money.
But he couldn’t be the judge and jury on this case. That wasn’t how the Order of Themis worked. Sure, his position in the hierarchy was a bit murky. He wasn’t on one of the tactical units or street teams, he wasn’t administration and his position as a trainer was more of a way for his boss to justify his presence at The Office. Despite his shadowy foothold in the O.T., he refused to go against what they believed in. The Order of Themis wasn’t a vigilante group no matter what their naysayers might believe. If they operated outside of the law the way many believed, there wouldn’t be prisons overflowing with the criminals the supes brought in every day.
As he continued his deceptively casual stroll down the sidewalk, he kept his attention on his surroundings. This mission wasn’t for guts and glory. As much as he wanted to protect the girls working on the streets, that wasn’t his priority today. No, he was trolling the streets in the hopes of hooking up with Mendoza. It’d taken Brit weeks of buying crap he had no intention of selling or using to get close enough to the fucker to meet face-to-face. As far as Mendoza was concerned, Brit was a dealer looking for a new supplier to expand into Arkansas. It’d helped to have his crazy uncle’s infrequent letters to fall back on when he needed to toss a few well-known names into his conversations. Who would’ve thought having a relative who’d spent thirty years in the pen would come in handy? But it had and if Brit played his cards right, he could send Mendoza to the same fate.
A massive figure appeared out of the shadows of a building, the face familiar since it belonged to one of the dealers Brit had bought from a week before. Bull, Mendoza’s lieutenant, motioned for him to come closer. The big bastard patted him down, searching for wires, weapons and anything else that could harm Mendoza’s precious hide. He could’ve saved the man time by telling him he didn’t need to carry a weapon since his body produced its own, but that would’ve been counterproductive. He was here to appear harmless and willing to push the drugs Mendoza was selling onto his own mama.
“You’re clear,” Bull said in a voice as deep as a well. He jerked his head to the right. “Down the alley, third door on your left. He’s waiting for you.”
“Sure thing, man,” Brit drawled, thickly laying on the accent. “How’s that new car you got? Taken it up to speed yet?”
The big man shook his head. “Not yet. It’s been busy around here lately. We’re expanding.” He turned away and then stopped. “Oh. Mendoza’s got a new girl back there he’s trying out. If you’re lucky, he’ll let you have a taste before she hits the street.”
Brit was lucky the big man was facing away from him because he would’ve blown his cover right then and there. It was hard as fuck running this sting when he was the kind of man who protected women. Growing up with six beautiful younger sisters had made him into something of a defender of all females and knowing that he couldn’t do anything about the prostitutes Mendoza ran, killed him. Nausea churned in his stomach as he strolled down the alley. He had to play this cool. If he went ballistic on Mendoza because he was trying out one of his women, he’d ruin the entire operation.
Still, he was barely able to contain the energy bouncing around his body like a kid hopped up on sugar. He wanted to race to that door, throw it open, fry Mendoza and save the unknown girl. But he forced his legs to walk slowly as though he wasn’t bothered by anything, not the refuse in the alley, not the stench of garbage and not the choked sounds of pain coming behind the door he’d been directed to. He paused, not certain what he’d find when he went inside. A glance back down the alley showed Bull standing with his arms folded across his chest, his head turning left and right as he watched the street.
You can do this. It won’t be easy, but you can do this. Just think of the people you’ll be saving from Mendoza’s corruption if you
can bring him down.
He wanted to tell that voice to shut the fuck up. Instead, he shook his head as another gasping, muffled moan reached out to him. He had to see this to the end. Brit sucked in a deep breath and opened the door, proud his hand wasn’t shaking with the rage beating against his mind.
As he stepped into a small foyer that led to a doorway, the moans were louder, deeper. His throat tightened at the thick scent of blood in the air and his heart began to pound with a sudden surge of adrenaline. The electricity carried in every cell of his body rushed to his skin as the hair stood up on his neck. There was no mistaking the smell of sex and blood and death, the rank odor causing his throat to click with every swallow.
He didn’t want to walk into that room and see some poor girl dead because of Mendoza’s sick and twisted perversions. Yeah, he’d heard some things while he worked his angle, things that made him want to rip Mendoza’s head off, but as satisfying as the man’s death would be, the ultimate goal was to get him imprisoned and find out who was the real power behind Mendoza’s empire.
Brit prayed for strength and took the three long strides that brought him into Mendoza’s office. At first glance all he saw was ridiculously expensive furnishings, as though Mendoza saw himself as a modern-day Tony Montana. For a shitty building, the floors were marble, the furniture was all dark, heavy wood with what were no doubt priceless—and ugly—pieces of artwork on the walls and tables. The bastard had a wall of monitors showing parts of the city that were known as Mendoza’s territory, the girls who worked for him strolling in and out of line of sight, the pushers on the street dealing in back alleys, all of it played before Mendoza’s eyes. The bastard was better set up than Brit and the O.T. had realized.
But that quick glance became a startled stare as he finally focused on the scene in front of him. Mendoza was splayed on a red velvet fainting couch, his pants and boxers around his ankles. A woman stood over him, rather than beneath him the way Brit originally feared. The big dealer, the monster who’d killed dozens of men, had raped and beaten hundreds of women who worked for him, gasped and moaned as blood poured out of a gaping slash in his throat.
“What the fuck,” Brit breathed in shock, his gaze darting from Mendoza to the woman standing over him.
Brit’s brain snapped to attention, cataloging the scene in the blink of an eye. And found himself caught captive by a pair of feral green eyes. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties, her sharp face with high cheekbones, a short nose and full lips giving her a lived-in look. Tendrils of dark hair fell into her eyes, freed from her thick braid. Numerous piercings shone along her ears, while a delicate hoop dangled from one nostril.
Unable to help himself, Brit let his gaze trail down her petite, lean body and felt his heart leap. She was an easy five foot five with legs that seemed to go on forever and the short skirt she wore only emphasized their length. Lean, but not emaciated, the woman had curves displayed by her clothing and tattoos that marched down her biceps to her elbows. They were all grayscale, which showed to perfection against her pale skin that showed smears of red and the early signs of bruising.
That was what shook Brit out of his daze, that and the big frigging knife she held with practiced ease. It dripped blood, but from the size of the blade and the amount of blood, he knew it had been what ripped open Mendoza’s throat. Mendoza, whose gaze had left the woman and drifted to Brit. He held a bloody hand out to Brit, making those moaning, gasping sounds he’d heard before he entered the building.
The girl took a step back, once again drawing Brit’s gaze. Her expression dared him to come after her and the way she balanced on the balls of her feet, it was obvious she expected him to do just that. Instead, he held his hands out to show her he was unarmed.
“It’s okay, honey,” he tried to soothe as he stepped forward. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She curled her lip at him and backed up, her gaze darting between Brit and Mendoza. Now that she’d moved out of the way, he was able to see even more blood on the dealer’s body, lots and lots of it had pooled on the floor next to the lounge. He couldn’t see where the bastard was bleeding from, but judging by the smell in the air, the tears and sweat trickling down Mendoza’s face, it was bad. Very bad.
I need help here, he thought even as he tried to figure out how to keep the girl from running and Mendoza from dying on his watch. The bastard needed to be taken in alive so they could find out who his employer was, but there was no way he’d let this woman leave. Something about her called to him, urged him to forget about duty and honor so he could follow her anywhere she went.
She took another step back.
“Don’t,” he tried again, taking two steps forward. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m with—”
But he never got the chance to tell her anything else because another door banged open. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mendoza’s other lieutenant, Big Rob, step into the room. The man took in the scene with one look and immediately reached for his gun.
“No!” Brit shouted, turning his attention to the new threat, conjuring a ball of electricity in his hand.
Before he could do anything to stop Big Rob from shooting anyone, a knife whizzed by his head close enough to ruffle his hair and buried itself in Rob’s shoulder. The gun fell to the floor and the big man let out a scream of pain. Another blade quickly followed the first and found its mark in the man’s throat, cutting short another shout.
This entire operation was going to hell in a handbag and there was only one way to salvage it. Drawing back some of the power from the ball of energy, he spun around and flung it at the woman sprinting away from him. It hit her square between the shoulder blades, but other than sucking in a hissing breath and stumbling, she kept her balance and disappeared around a wall he hadn’t noticed. Brit wanted to go after her, to stop her and find out what she was doing here, but duty stopped him.
We’re fucked and we need a cleanup team, pronto. And some healers. I don’t know if Mendoza is going to make it. He sent the thought off to his superior who’d tapped into his mind for this operation. Mendoza is in bad shape, Joe, and I didn’t do it.
Her heavy sigh echoed around his mind. How bad is he? And who was that woman? I’d love to know where she got her skirt from.
Brit shook his head and approached the sofa where Mendoza lay bleeding from— He stopped and gagged, his dick and balls shriveling up from the sight before him. The woman, whoever she was, had worked the dealer over good, slicing him in key places to make him bleed out slowly but surely. But it was what was missing that made Brit want to cover his jewels protectively. Mendoza’s balls were gone. Chopped off and left within reach of the dying man as a silent taunt.
I like her style, Joe purred in the back of his mind. I think we need to figure out who she is and ask if she takes requests. I know a few men who deserve to have their balls cut off.
Brit shuddered and reached out to check Mendoza for a pulse, but the bastard was dead. He’s gone, he told his boss and the Director of the Order of Themis.
That’s disappointing, she sighed. Okay, secure the other guy, Murphy has Bull in restraints and in the back of the van. He’ll be with you in a few and we can start looking through Mendoza’s files. It would’ve been nice to get the information from him, but since he’s dead, we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll send in Beta Tactical Unit to get as much information from the scene as we can.
Pissed because they’d lost the chance to question Mendoza, Brit turned his attention to Rob, who was also slowly bleeding out. He raced to the man and did his best to stem the blood until the tactical unit could make it. There was a medic on each team who could patch the fucker up enough to find out who that girl had been. She’d single-handedly destroyed the sting and brought down one of the most prolific pimps Kansas City had seen in decades. He wanted to know who she was, where she was and why she’d done it. And he wanted to know yesterday.
* * * * *
Sixteen watche
d from the shadows of a building as several people converged upon Mendoza’s hideout. She’d shoved Tora out of the driver’s seat of Gyda’s body, more able to plot and plan their escape than the Beast. The team, and there was no other way to describe them, arrived in mean-looking SUVs with tinted glass and big grills on the front. The first vehicle carried six people, four men and two women, all dressed in clothing she’d seen on SWAT teams over the years. The women stormed down the alley with the men right behind them, providing cover. Two more black SUVs arrived with even more official-looking people, but it was the violent-pink Hummer that caught her attention.
A woman stepped out. She had to be at least six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. The vehicle, the obviously expensive cut of her suit and the platforms she wore looked out of place in the squalor that was Mendoza’s territory. She looked as though she should’ve been strolling Rodeo Drive rather than marching into the slums.
The woman stopped suddenly and looked in the direction of Sixteen’s hiding spot. She eased deeper into the shadows, even though there was no way the woman could see her. But the hair standing straight on the back of her neck warned her not to underestimate this woman with the prissy appearance. A low growl formed in her throat at the possible threat facing her.
She wanted to charge out of the shadows and take the woman down, take the threat out before it could get her, but she could feel Gyda pushing back to the surface. After that little stunt Gyda had pulled in their hotel room, the cutting bullshit, she’d had to work twice as hard to be accurate when she threw her knives. The activity had pulled at the cuts and caused them to bleed again. If she didn’t get back to the hotel soon, she’d probably pass out from blood loss and she could just imagine how freaked out Gyda would be to wake up in an alley. Again.
