Damaged Hope (Street Games Book 3)

by L. K. Hill

  “I’ll be back with the reply,” she said.

  “See dat you are,” Josie said darkly.

  Still confused, Kyra started toward B Street. It wasn’t such a strange request—she ran messages for him all the time—but any of his runners could have done so. Why the line about urgent work if she did the same work as always? A vague unease writhed in Kyra's belly.

  Triumph flitted across Josie’s face before she left. She'd seen it. He wasn't happy to see her, right? Maybe he was glad she’d returned for some reason, and didn’t want her to know, so he’d made up the excuse about needing workers badly tonight. Nothing else made sense. What would make him glad? Josie was up to something. Kyra wasn't willing to burn her bridges with him just yet, so she'd have to risk staying and doing the job, despite the odd behavior. She was determined to be on watch for whatever Josie was up to when she returned with his reply.

  B street sprawled roughly three miles' walk from Josie's place. Kyra moved briskly through the Mire, glad for the time to think.

  Her mind turned in such a jumble, she could hardly keep to one subject. Gabe, Chris, Manny, Dillon. She’d come to Abstreuse envisioning finding her brother and going home. Now things were so complicated, she hardly remembered her original plan.

  Half way to her destination, she came to an intersection of alleyways. As always, she paused in the shadows, eyes sweeping for threats, before pressing forward. These alleys weren't wide enough for vehicles, but she wanted to make certain she wouldn’t run into any questionable Mirelings who might make tonight’s task—and therefore her relationship with Josie—more difficult.

  Utter silence and emptiness greeted her from both directions. She crossed the intersection. As she moved down the alley on the other side, a soft, grinding sound caught her attention. She froze, and listened. It came from the left direction of the intersection, and sounded a lot like a shoe scraping the pavement. The next moment, she couldn't hear it anymore.

  Kyra waited a full thirty seconds before moving forward again. She walked heel to toe, as lightly as possible. Not two minutes later, the scraping sound came again, from somewhere behind her. She froze, and turned slowly. Shadows and emptiness loomed. It felt too quiet now.

  She turned and moved forward again, at a faster gait. Soon enough, the scraping came again, more often and faster now, to match her pace.

  Shit. Someone followed. No doubt about it. She quickened her stride. Up ahead, another intersection loomed. To get to her destination, she ought to go straight through it, as she had the last one. If she reached it ahead of her stalker, she could veer to the right and break into a run. Perhaps lose them in the twists and shadows of the Mire.

  It could be anyone. A random assailant who’d seen her passing and thought her easy prey. The killer whose warehouse she’d invaded two weeks before, prompting Dellaire to save her.

  The scraping shoes drew closer. She walked faster. The stalker closed the distanced between them too quickly for her to keep up her charade—if one existed to begin with—all the way to the intersection. Twenty feet before he reached it, she broke into a sprint. The shoes behind her did the same, slamming down on the pavement behind her. Her hands felt weak with fear, but her adrenaline spiked. She felt like she ran on air.

  Reaching the intersection, she swung around the right corner. From her left, a massive, dark shadow crashed into her, smashing her into the corner of the brick wall. Pain lanced out from the impact sight, radiating through every part of her body, making her fingers and toes and lips numb.

  The assailant held her there a few seconds before stepping back. Every muscle in Kyra’s body felt like water. She crumpled to the ground.

  When she brought her head up a few seconds later, three pairs of shoes stood level with her eyes. She slowly craned her neck back to find the faces that went with them. The two men on the sides were guards she recognized, though she didn’t know their names. Standing between them, leering down at her with a sinister grin, stood Josie.

  One of the guards yanked Kyra up by the front of her baggy black sweatshirt, shoving her roughly into the brick wall. Josie stepped forward to thrust his ugly face into hers, while the second guard turned his back, obviously keeping watch.

  “What are you doing here, Supra?” he sneered. His breath smelled of the weed that stained his teeth. “I doubt dat’s your real name. You don’t belong here. I could never quite figure you out. You’re entirely too intelligent to want to work for me. Don’t suppose you’d do me de courtesy of telling me why?”

  Kyra wanted to tell him to go to hell, but didn’t understand what he wanted. “Goes…both…ways,” she choked around the guard’s thick arm, which pressed against her throat.

  Josie frowned, then his brows lifted in mild surprise. “You don’t know? Hmm. Perhaps not so intelligent. I’ve wanted to kill you since we met. You did my family a solid and I owed you one. Still, I knew right away you couldn’t be trusted. You made me look a fool the other night."

  “Didn’t…mean to,” she gagged out, knowing it sounded lame. She didn’t care. She only thought about air. It came as though she sucked it through a mini-straw.

  “You t'ink dat matters?” Josie chucked darkly. “Your turn. Why are you in Abstreuse?”

  Kyra clamped her teeth together stubbornly. A dull thud sounded deep in her ear drums and stars glittered in front of her eyes for five seconds. It took another five to register that Josie had hit her in the face. The entire right side felt numb and sore.

  Josie looked angry. A moment later, his face smoothed and he shrugged. “Have it your way, den. I only felt mild curiosity anyway.” He reached behind him and pulled a huge, sinister-looking knife from his belt. Panic grew in Kyra's chest. This wouldn't be a quick or painless death.

  She kicked and squirmed. The guard, easily three times her size, held her easily.

  Josie reached around and dug his fingers into her hair, his knuckles right up against her scalp and yanked her head back. The black, spiky wig came loose in his hands.

  Josie’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He ripped the wig the rest of the way off. The clips were still attached and chunks of Kyra’s hair went with it. It hurt more than when he’d hit her in the face.

  “I knew it,” Josie screeched. He dug his fingers into her true hair, ripping it back and forth until the flattened bun came loose.

  Kyra gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. When her hair hung limply around her shoulders, he stepped back. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? Undercover?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not a cop!” she yelled.

  Josie’s frown said he didn’t believe her. “Investigative journalist?’

  Kyra rolled her eyes. “No,” she gasped.

  “Who are you?” Josie’s eyes held a sinister light.

  Kyra leaned against the guard’s forearm, gritted her teeth and gave him her best snarl. “Can’t breathe.” It sounded weak.

  After a hesitation, Josie nodded at the guard, who dropped his arm from Kyra’s throat to her clavicle. He still pinned her against the wall, but at least she could breathe. She drew several deep breaths before speaking. “I'm looking for someone. Who might be inside your organization somewhere.”

  Josie raised an eyebrow. “Why not tell me?”

  “Would you have helped me? Or given me a job?”

  Josie gave her a considering look, then shrugged. “No.”

  He reached behind her again, this time grabbing a handful of her real hair, and jerked her head back, exposing her throat. She fought harder, not gaining an inch.

  Rather than holding the knife against her throat to slice it, he held it up, over his shoulder, with the pointy end toward her. He planned to stab her straight through the throat, and she could do nothing to stop it.

  Gabe’s name came, unbidden, to her lips.

  A soft thunk met her ears and hot liquid sprayed onto her exposed throat and chest. The guard dropped her and whirled. Kyra hit t
he ground an instant before Josie did. His eyes stared blankly and one side of his skull looked like it had exploded.

  Another soft thunk and the guard to Kyra’s left, who'd kept watch, joined Josie on the ground. The third, realizing he had no chance against the invisible sniper, turned to run. A dark shadow landed on his back before he took his second step. The two wrestled violently, rolling, slamming one another's heads into the pavement, one gaining the advantage, then the other. Eventually both struggled to their feet, but were locked in a death grip.

  They staggered toward where Kyra still sat, stunned, on the pavement. Crab-walking backward, she tried to move out of their way, but froze when her hands slid on something sticky. Josie’s blood. She wanted to vomit. Strange. She'd seen worse things in the Mire, but the urge wouldn't go away.

  She’d lost track of which shadow belonged to Josie's guard and which to her rescuer, whoever he was. He couldn’t be Gabe. Too tall. Not thick enough through the shoulders and chest.

  One of the shadows moved behind the other and wrapped an arm around the second one’s throat. The second one struggled mightily against the suffocation tactic, pushing back with his feet. The first man’s back slammed into the brick wall directly beside Kyra. She found herself wedged in a protruding corner.

  She started to climb over Josie's lifeless body to get away, but then recognized her rescuer. He appeared to be winning.

  Tense seconds ticked by while the two men struggled. Kyra fought to make her thoughts coherent.

  The two men fell onto the ground, Kyra’s rescuer practically laying on top of her. She feared if she kicked away from the struggle, she'd kick him in the back, and he'd lose his fight. Josie’s guard’s movements slowed and stopped. His head fell to one side and his eyes closed. Kyra wondered if he lay dead, or only unconscious.

  As though reading her thoughts, her attacker released his grip on the man’s throat, took the guard’s head in both his palms and twisted violently to one side. The snap echoed through the alley.

  Kyra turned her face away, resting her cheek against the filthy, yet cool brick of the wall. Movement against her arm brought her head back around.

  Jerome Dellaire pushed the body away and slid smoothly to his feet, staying in a squat. He turned, his face so close to hers, she felt his breath mingle with her own. Dellaire’s silky dark hair had come lose from its usual pony tail and hung around his shoulders, longer than Kyra’s. Sweat dripped from his aquiline nose.

  Shoes skidding on pavement brought Dellaire to his feet. Kyra snapped out of her trance. Dellaire snatched up Josie’s knife and stood ready to meet whoever came toward them. Kyra didn't think she had time to stand. The shoes were too close. She reached toward the first guard's belt and palmed the hilt of a small dagger.

  A short, dark-complexioned man with a large nose came into view. As soon as Dellaire saw him, he relaxed. Kyra had never seen the man before. Dellaire obviously recognized him. Not that the air between them seemed friendly. The tension felt thick, not homicidal.

  “Clean this up,” Dellaire said softly, darkly. “Including anyone watching. I’ll report it myself.”

  The man swallowed, nodding. “Yes, sir.”

  Abruptly Dellaire whirled and grabbed Kyra roughly beneath the arms and hauled her to her feet. He dragged her away from the three bodies and deeper into the Mire, practically carrying her down alleys and around corners, stopping in a spot much darker than where Josie attacked her. She could barely make out the outlines of Dellaire’s features in the dimness.

  Despite purposely bringing her into the darkness, he pulled a phone from his pocket and switched it on, producing a blinding light. He tilted her chin upward, using the light to examine her neck. “You hurt? Did he cut you?”

  Kyra gasped. Dellaire wasn’t rough, but after having Josie yank her neck back twice, the motion of letting her head fall back hurt. “Yes. I’m fine.” He kept searching, fingers gently brushing her throat. She shoved his hands away. “I said I'm fine. Why do you care if I'm cut anyway?” she mumbled. “I’m obviously not dying.”

  Dellaire stepped back and switched off the phone. “His blood is all over you. I’d wash it off as soon as possible. Josie McNeal was not a clean man.”

  A whole new reality Kyra hadn’t considered opened up for her. “Did you see any cuts?”

  “Your face is swelling up. Only bruises. He didn’t break the skin.”

  Kyra looked down at her baggy clothes. The blood wasn't visible in this light, but she sensed it, slowly soaking through her clothes and settling into her pores. Crossing her arms, she grasped her sweatshirt on both sides by the bottom and pulled it over her head. Underneath she wore a black tank top. She used the dry parts of the shirt to wipe away the blood on her neck and chest. She had a feeling the shirt only smeared it around.

  Dellaire stepped close to her again and offered her something. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she made out the outline of a water bottle. She took it, wet the sleeve of her shirt, and more effectively wiped the blood away.

  When she glanced up, she found Dellaire staring at her. He held out his hand, offering her a second item. She frowned, unable to discern it in the dim light, but took it. Her Supra wig. Somewhere between killing Josie’s guard and hauling her away from the scene, he’d picked it up.

  “Put it back on,” he said roughly, “before you walk through the Mire further.”

  The implications of what happened crashed down on Kyra. Josie McNeal was dead. Dead. She couldn't believe it. Her hand, holding the wig, dropped to her side. “I doubt it matters anymore. My employer is dead. Who knows if anyone saw him pull this off me? Saw my real look. If anyone watched from the shadows—”

  “Someone usually does.”

  “I know.” Kyra threw her hands up. “My identity is compromised. My only way into the gang, my only way to look for my brother, is gone. I’m back to square one. Really square one, because I can’t use this disguise again. I’ll have to find a new one.”

  “True one way or the other," Dellaire said softly. "You couldn’t have gone back to work for Josie even if I hadn’t killed him. He intended to murder you. He took your choice away. You were back to square one either way.”

  The accuracy of his logic didn’t make her feel any better.

  Dellaire stared at her another minute before turning. “I trust you can make your way to safety from here?”

  He walked away.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped, turning his head down and to the left.

  “You saved me. Why?”

  He turned his gaze straight ahead again, not answering.

  Kyra stepped toward him. “This wasn’t the first time. You saved me in that warehouse in Old Abstreuse. From the man who's been killing hookers in the Mire. Why?” Still nothing. “Who's the guy with the big nose?” When he didn’t answer, she walked around to face him. His eyes were hooded. “Boss said you wouldn’t be following me anymore. Someone lower in the hierarchy would do it. So why is it still you?”

  Dellaire rolled his shoulders back. He seemed to think this a safer subject. He answered, sounding relaxed. “I didn’t follow you tonight. I heard you cry out.”

  “But why? Boss doesn’t want you saving me, Dellaire. I know he doesn’t. His life would be easier if I disappeared.”

  His next words came more softly. “Don’t be so sure.”

  It took Kyra a moment to process them. “What does that mean? Why would he want me around?”

  Dellaire looked away, his jaw turning to stone.

  Kyra ran her hand through her hair in frustration. “Fine, you heard me and came to my rescue tonight. You couldn’t have heard me in Old Abstreuse. I didn’t make any noise. You must have followed me there.”

  “I wasn’t following you.”

  The emphasis he put on the last word caught her attention. “Do you mean…you were following him? The killer?”

  Dellaire still wouldn’t look at her. Confirmation enough.

  “Why?
” she asked.

  He did look her in the eye then, though still said nothing. Things clicked into place for her. “You’re hunting this killer too. Boss’s show of nonchalance was an act. He wants this guy dead, doesn’t he? He’s killing your clientele. Threatening revenue streams.”

  “See? You have it all figured out. You don’t need Josie McNeal to find your brother. You never did.”

  He moved around her. She grabbed his arm. “What? Is this your way of changing the subject? Or are you trying to tell me something about Manny?”

  He gazed down at her, cocking his head to one side. “What do you think?”

  “Ugh.” She threw her hands up.

  “You have everything you need to figure this out. What Boss wants, where your brother is, and probably who the killer is as well.”

  "How did you know that man with the gimp leg was the killer?"

  "I do research too, and talk to Mirelings. More than one reported strange behavior from a man with a gimp leg. I thought perhaps he was the one hunting the working girls. I followed him, and then you were there. How did you come to know it was him?"

  Kyra hesitated. He was talking, and had shared. She might as well do the same. Not that she had much to say that was helpful. "I didn't. Not at all. I crossed paths—or almost crossed paths—with that man months ago during a different set of events. When I saw him again, I decided to follow. Mostly out of curiosity. I just wanted to know who he was. I didn't dream he was the killer.

  He gazed at her, unblinking in the red light. "Josie was right about one thing: you truly don't belong here." He moved to walk around her again.

  She lunged in front of him. “That still doesn’t explain why you saved me in Old Abstreuse. Even if you were following the killer, why did you save me? You could have killed him, but you left him and helped me.”