Or not. She sighed. She did not need the complication of romantic entanglements.
Her home, a three-story house, had been just right for her parents and her. They had passed away six months prior, but she had not been able to bring herself to sell the house. It was too full of memories, of Thanksgiving dinners around the scuffed up oak dining table, and Christmas Eves on the rug in front of the fireplace. The house was empty now, and quiet, but it retained all its memories. It was still a home.
The stairs creaked as she climbed up to the second floor, passing by her parents’ bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The green bathrobe that her mother had carelessly tossed on the bed lay there, untouched. Her mother’s jewelry and her father’s cufflinks lay on the dresser, next to a picture of them—two people still deeply in love—their arms around each other, in front of a swirl of cherry blossoms. She had taken that picture of them in the spring, a few months before they were killed during a terrorist assault on Washington, D.C.
The three of them visited D.C. often, staying at the small town house they owned overlooking Dupont Circle. Independence Day celebrations always drew them to D.C., and she had been with them in the early hours of July Fourth when the members of the mutant terrorist group, Sakti, broke into homes and slaughtered parents in front of their children. Sakti’s actions were decried as its psychotic leader’s grudge against his father, but it provided no consolation for the children who lost their parents that day.
She had put the D.C. town house on the market almost immediately. Buyers had yet to show interest even though she had priced the home well below its market value. It appeared, she concluded with a grimace, that death devalued house prices.
The house in Chapel Hill, however, was still home, untainted by death, alive with memories.
She paused as she always did for a few minutes in her parents’ bedroom, using a feather duster to brush off the thin layer of dust that accumulated each day. Time was determined to march on. She would have to move on as well someday.
She climbed the steep steps to her loft bedroom on the third floor. Her room had low, slanted wood ceilings, a pale green carpet, and a green-gold dusted wallpaper that evoked images of a fairy meadow. Sighing softly, she tossed her backpack on the bed and stepped into the bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath her feet, and she grumbled under her breath. The water was hot though, and soon, the small bathroom fogged up. She scrubbed shampoo liberally into her brown hair and followed up with wads of conditioner. She closed her eyes. The water ran down her face, mingling with the salt of her tears.
The scientist’s terror-filled face blended with her father’s. The scientist’s final rasping breath became her father’s. She had held him as he died. Shaken and deeply traumatized, she had gone back to school and enrolled in a nursing program. She did not want to stand by helplessly as someone died in her arms, but tonight, it had happened again. She had stood by helplessly as another man died.
She dragged her hand across her eyes. Damn it!
Sofia turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a thick towel around her body. She rubbed her hand across the surface of the mirror and scowled at her appearance. She did not consider herself vain, but she looked like hell, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed.
It was just as well she was not trying to impress anyone. She twisted the doorknob and swung the bathroom door open. Perhaps if she—
She gasped.
The man browsing through the books on her shelf looked up.
She swept her hand out, flinging the female clutter from her dressing table into his face. Fueled and strengthened by panic, her weak telekinetic powers fluttered, sending a cloud of powder into the air. As he recoiled in apparent surprise, she dashed past him and ran down the stairs, but got no farther than the second-floor landing.
He threw himself over the third-floor bannister and landed in a crouch in front of her. She backed away in alarm.
He lunged at her, seizing her hands.
The towel fell away from her body as she pulled back, but his grip tightened. “Stop,” he said, his voice low. “I’m here to help.”
She stared at him, focusing on his green eyes set in a face of harsh, sculptured good looks. “Kyle?”
His eyes narrowed. “You know my name?”
“Yes…yes, the man who died called you Kyle.”
“You are much too observant,” he said. It did not sound like a compliment. His eyes raked over her naked body, and a smile, wicked and appreciative, curved his lips.
Sofia swallowed hard. She would have covered herself if she could get her hands free of his tight grip.
He released her, picked up the towel she had dropped to the ground, and wrapped it around her body. “Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
“Much time for what?”
“To get out of here before the IGEC or Sanchez and his men show up.”
“Sanchez? Is he one of the gangsters who came to the club?”
He shoved her up the stairs. “Yes. Move it.”
She stood her ground. “How do I know you’re not one of the bad guys?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Because I haven’t hurt you. Yet.”
She definitely heard the hint of a threat in his deep voice. It was, however, offset by the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why would—?”
“Because you’re carrying a microchip containing the genetic data that Sanchez paid dearly for.”
“A micro—” Sofia pressed a hand to her bicep. The sharp pain.
Kyle grasped her arm gently and ran his callused fingers over her skin. The sensation charged down her spine. Heat coiled in the pit of her stomach at his touch. “Is that where he injected you?” His tone was strictly business.
The man was turning her into a hormonal pile of mush, and he did not even know it.
He met her gaze, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. Perhaps he knew it, but just did not care.
She yanked her arm out of his grip and stalked up the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster, which was difficult, seeing how he had already seen her scrawny ass. At least he had the decency to wait outside her bedroom as she dressed, quickly pulling on a sweatshirt and a pair of faded denim jeans over her bra and underwear. She grabbed her backpack and stuffed into it a few changes of clothes, toiletries, her cell phone, and electronic tablet. Sofia turned around and jolted with shock to see him standing behind her.
She hissed with irritation. “Don’t you ever—?”
He pressed a finger to her lips.
She raised her head slightly and heard the soft tread of feet upon the creaky stairs.
Chapter 3
Only Kyle’s training, so ingrained as to be instinctive, helped keep his mind off the small and neatly packaged female who scowled ferociously at him. He flung open the window and he was greeted by a blast of cold air. He gritted his teeth. It was a twenty-four-foot drop to the ground. He reached into his leather jacket for his handgun. They would have to fight their way out, and the only advantage he had was that whoever was in the house had no idea that Sofia was not alone and unprotected.
Sofia slung her backpack over her shoulders, tugged on a pair of sneakers, and followed. Her breath came quickly, but her composure was steady. Her hands did not tremble too visibly. Girl has guts, he admitted reluctantly. He pressed against the wall and caught a glimpse of a shadow moving on the second-floor landing. In a moment, it would be in view.
He fired. The pistol spit out a single bullet in a near soundless hiss, thanks to the silencer. The first assailant fell back with a cry of surprise and pain. Another pair of heavy feet raced past, dashing up the stairs. A man in black fatigues scrambled around the curve in the staircase, a pistol in his hand. His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of Kyle.
He swung up his hand, but Kyle kicked out, knocking the gun out of the man’s hands.
The man lunged for his fallen weapon.
Kyle leaped over the railing. His weight slammed i
nto the man, knocking him down the steps. Momentum tumbled the man down two flights of stairs. His head smashed into the wooden floor. He lay there, sprawled over another man, both unmoving.
They were not dead. Kyle knew better than to hope for as much. He seized Sofia’s hand, dragged her down the stairs, past the two unconscious men, and out of the door. The icy bite of the wind slapped him as he dug into his pocket for his car keys. He pressed on the remote, unlocking the doors of a dark blue BMW parked three doors down from Sofia’s town house. Its headlights blinked.
The doors of a black sedan parked across the street opened, and two men stepped out. Streetlights reflected off the metal highlights of the guns in their hands.
Kyle yanked Sofia down behind a vehicle as the muzzles of guns flashed. Windows and windscreens on nearby cars shattered in a spray of glass.
Glass shards like tiny icicles dusted the black of his leather jacket as he shoved her to the pavement and crouched over her. He threw her a glance. Her eyes were wide with alarm, and her jaw was tense, but she had not fallen apart on him yet. The last thing he needed was a fainting female.
He pressed his car keys into her hand. His other hand tightened around his Glock. “When I say go, run for the car. Get it started.”
“You want me to drive?” She sounded incredulous.
“No, just get it started.”
She nodded. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
The sound of gunfire fell briefly silent.
“Go!” Kyle shot to his feet and twisted around to fire at the black sedan.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sofia scramble away. Moments later, a car door slammed. The low hum of a BMW engine purred through the night.
Now it was his turn to run the gauntlet, without the support of cover fire.
Teeth gritted, he fired twice more at the sedan.
A sharp pop. Air hissed out of a tire.
Kyle dashed for his car.
Bullets sparked against asphalt. Shards of bitumen skittered against his denim-clad legs. A sharp pain shot through his side. For a moment, his vision flashed white before blurring into normal hues.
The door on the driver’s side swung open.
What the hell was she thinking, exposing herself to gunfire?
He lunged in through the open car door and slammed his foot down on the pedal.
Wheels screeched. The smell of burning rubber scorched the night, and the BMW accelerated away from the curb. Momentum slammed the door shut moments before he swung the steering wheel. The car swerved, skidding as it rounded a corner. His attention was focused on the road ahead, but he was vaguely aware of the tiny-framed woman huddled in the passenger seat. She gripped the edge of the leather seat, her knuckles white.
The car raced down dimly lit suburban streets, past charming row houses and charmless apartment complexes. Kyle spared the rearview mirror a quick glance. The black sedan’s flat tire promised him a five-minute head start, certainly no more. He looked at Sofia. “What’s the fastest way to Highway 54?”
She swallowed hard. “Take the next left. You’ll avoid two lights.”
He did not slow down until he swung the car onto Raleigh Road and merged into traffic. Headlights pockmarked the street. Kyle released his breath in a quiet sigh. He had doubled their lead, though ten minutes was hardly anything worth bragging about. In his experience, fortunes and lives could be lost in less than ten minutes.
Sofia threw him a sideways glance. “Was that the IGEC or—?”
“The Rue Marcha.”
“The Rue Marcha. The Colombian cartel?”
Kyle frowned. She had heard of the Rue Marcha. Granted, the Rue Marcha did not exactly keep a low profile, but he had not expected the cartel to register in the worldview of the typical suburban American, especially not one who looked like she had never before contemplated drug use in her entire squeaky-clean life.
“How do you—?”
“Dad was from Brazil, Mom from Venezuela. We were on a first-name basis with all the cartels in the area. So, this Sanchez works for the Rue Marcha? Was he one of the men in the house?”
“Unfortunately not.” Or he would almost certainly have fired his gun with intent to kill.
“How did they find me?”
“The same way I did. The microchip has a heat-activated tracking device. It’s feeding off your body heat.”
“Okay…” She drew in a deep breath. “So we get it out of me. I have a friend who’s a paramedic—”
“Smith used the latest model, the RX-27. The microchip is going to go deep, as far as it can until it hits bone.”
He did not have to take his gaze off the road to know that she had turned to look at him, her brown eyes wide and face pale. “So, to get it out, we’d have to cut through muscle?”
He nodded.
She pressed her lips together. “Take me to a hospital.”
“And go through all kinds of explanations on what you’re doing with top secret military technology embedded in your arm?” His low grunt concealed the sharp inhalation of pain as he pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and told it to connect him with Zara Itani.
It was three in the morning, but she answered on the third ring, her voice briskly professional and not in the least bit sleepy. “What is it, Kyle?”
“The drop went bad.”
“Define bad.”
“Turns out, the customers were the Rue Marcha. Sanchez himself showed up. The IGEC was there too, and at least one of its agents got killed in the firefight.”
“I see…” Her voice was cool. “I think Proficere Labs’ agency fees just climbed several notches, and its right to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ just got revoked.”
“You’re going to have to collect from someone other than Smith. He’s dead too.”
“I’ll take it out of Reynard’s hide. Did the IGEC claim the drop?”
“No, it’s sitting in a waitress’s arm. Smith shot her up with the microchip before he died. I have the cooler with the test tubes, but that’s useless without the information on the microchip. I have to get the chip out of her. Sanchez’s goons and the IGEC will be able to track her as long as it’s in her.”
Zara was briefly silent. “Take her to the free clinic in Anacostia.”
“In D.C.?”
“The only doctor I trust is in Anacostia. The clinic is on Good Hope Road and Seventeenth. Call me when you get into D.C., and you can give me an ETA. I’ll have him meet you there, regardless of the time.”
Kyle hung up the phone and glanced at Sofia. “We have to get to D.C. There’s a doctor at a free clinic who can help you.”
“D.C.? But that’s five hours away.”
“Four. We’ll be there before dawn.”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I want it out of me now. There are hospitals in Chapel Hill, and I have classes in the afternoon, damn it.”
She had just been shot at, and all she could think about were her classes? Either her self-equilibrium was out of the world, or she was completely lacking perspective. Likely both. “Your life is in danger. Just roll with me on this one. I can get you out of this, but not gracefully or well if you’re going to fight me every step of the way.”
“It’s my arm, damn it. The free clinics are terrible. The doctors there are terrible. They’re the ones who can’t get jobs anywhere else. You can’t just take me to a clinic so that a hack of a doctor who’s too stupid to ask questions can cut the microchip out of me.”
He did not hesitate. “Zara doesn’t give her trust easily, and if she trusts this doctor, it’s where we’re going.”
“Who’s Zara?” She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. “What…what do you do anyway?”
“Whatever needs to get done.”
“Like shoot up a club?”
He snorted and shook his head. “It was supposed to be a transfer. Proficere Labs wanted a neutral intermediary in the transfer of goods.”
“What kinds of goods?”
“Information. Proficere—”
“Is almost as bad as Pioneer Labs was,” Sofia said. Her voice was low and firm. “The kind of genetic research it does is wrong, and worse, the scientists are proud of it. They’re always taunting the IGEC. No wonder the agents showed up to stop the transfer of whatever it was. What was it?”
He shrugged.
She turned wondering eyes on him. “You don’t even know what it was? And you work for them?”
Her censuring tone set him on the defensive. “I work for Three Fates. We do contract work.”
“You’re mercenaries.”
It was the first time he had heard of his profession spoken of with that much disdain. “Do you have something against trying to make a living?”
“Make a living, no, but you don’t seem too selective in your choice of clients.”
“Zara chooses the clients and hands out the work.”
She huffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Right. Go ahead and blame the boss. It’s the standard cop out.”
Kyle shook his head, gritting his teeth against the sharp stab of pain in his right side. He would have to assess his injury before making the drive to D.C. If there was any chance of passing out from eventual blood loss, he would prefer to know about it sooner rather than later.
He pulled into a gas station. “Stay in the car,” he told her. Grateful that the crimson stain would not easily show up against his black shirt and pants, he stepped out of the car and started filling the car with gas. He then walked into the attached convenience store.
The young man behind the counter did not look up when Kyle walked around the poorly stocked aisles into the restroom at the far end of the store, next to a door marked Exit. The restroom was filthy, but the stall was large and had a sink, which was all he needed. Kyle stripped off his shirt and grimaced at the deep cut in his side. Fortunately, the bullet had not ripped through organs or major blood vessels. He would be all right, at least long enough to make it to D.C. Perhaps the doctor there could help.
Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection Page 51
