by Fiona Quinn
She slammed into the diner’s cement wall, her head making a stomach-churning crack.
“Please.” Her knees buckled. Sliding to the ground, she gripped the garbage bags, using them to form a barricade in front of her.
She looked young. Vulnerable. About the right age to be Modesty…
I wished Finley had given me something beyond a name.
I wished she’d let go of the garbage bags already to have her hands free. Instead, she was all but hugging them against her as if the restaurant waste was the buffer she needed to stay safe.
She eyed the kitchen door and licked her lips as if she could taste freedom on the other side. Her gaze bounced to each man and back to the door, quick glances as if she were trying to gauge if she took off running, could she make it inside?
But also telegraphing her intent to the men.
The guy with the white shirt and the lizard logo moved between her and her escape route.
There was really nowhere else to run. All of the other businesses in the strip mall stretched along the far side of the parking lot.
“Go ahead and hand over the money,” the guy with the turquoise blue shirt said, low and reasonable. “We need to eat, too. I’m hungry. You hungry, Benji?” His gaze shot to the smallest of the three.
“Starved.” He sent a lascivious lick of the lips the woman’s way. “I think good things are coming. A morning quicky and full belly after. You’re going to be nice to us, aren’t you?”
The waitress worked the disgust from her face. Manipulating her lips as if trying to remember how to form words. “If you come inside, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
I strained to hear her. She was barely audible as she put together the men’s intent.
Blue T-shirt sent his gaze first to one of his band and then the other.
It seemed to me that he was assuring himself they were all heading toward the same goal. Then he sent a broader sweep to make sure no one was around to interfere in what would happen next.
His eyes slid right over me, where I held in the shadow of the dumpster.
It was getting closer to decision time. What was I going to do?
How far away were the cops?
While this shadow walking was a massive tool in my spy craft toolbox, it took enormous concentration. It was hard to compartmentalize, holding both the shadow and thinking strategically about what needed to happen.
All three of them glanced over at the yellow abomination of a car.
“Come on now.” The guy with the blue T-shirt took two long strides in the waitress’s direction, reaching down to her. “Let’s go for a ride.”
She slapped his hand away and cowered behind her garbage bags like a toddler behind her blankie.
“Throw her over your shoulder,” Blue T-shirt ordered the guy he’d called Benji.
“The car’s too far for me to carry her,” Benji whined.
“Go git it,” Blue said as if Benji was the dolt of his three-man crew. “Drive over here, and we’ll just shove her in.”
Benji pulled a set of car keys from his pocket.
If I let him get over to their car before I acted, it would be one less adversary, should I have to get in the mix.
“No,” the woman wailed out. The one word held, rising in volume as it slid up the scale.
Good job! That should bring out some curious eyes if anyone was near that back door.
Someone who could help.
A chef with a butcher knife or cast-iron skillet…
I didn’t want it to be me. That would make my next step in this FBI task harder. I wouldn’t blend in later if I stepped into this mess now.
I’m not a superhero, I reminded myself, again.
These were three beefy guys with steel-toed boots. They obviously enjoyed hurting women and weren’t afraid to commit a crime.
And too, it was highly plausible that if I stepped in, the men would still be successful at what they’d determined to do, then her fate could also become mine.
Chapter Six
A galloping heart pumped adrenaline through my system. Sweat slicked my skin. I was having trouble maintaining my breath—a crucial component to retaining my shadow walking protection.
I definitely didn’t want to be spotted before I chose to be seen.
One thing I knew—cops coming or no cops coming—if the men shoved this woman in their car, things would turn very badly for her. The chances of getting her out of that situation unharmed were slim to none.
Not that I’d allow them to take this woman without somehow trying to protect her.
This so totally sucked.
Benji took off at a jog toward their vehicle.
Lizard grinned like a mad man.
Blue reached for the woman’s wrist, dragging her toward him.
She pressed her hips down to the ground. Hoisted a few inches up, her feet made odd duck-like paddles toward him to keep from tipping over.
If she faceplanted, she was done.
There were very few moves that could get you up and safe if you were face down with weight at the small of your back. Even with my experience and training, that was the position I called “mercy” because the attacker’s benevolence was really the only thing that allowed someone to survive.
Still, she gripped the garbage bags.
Did she even know she was doing that?
Terror made the brain do odd, short-circuity things.
Let go of the darned garbage! I sent her thought commands.
As she opened her mouth in what looked like it might form a scream, Blue yanked her arm, pulling her to her feet, and in a single, almost dancerly move, he spun her into him, slapping a hand across her mouth.
Her eyes stretched wide and unblinking. Her forehead was etched with a lattice of frown lines. She snorted like a bull as she tried to drag enough oxygen up through her nostrils and exhale.
Her limbic system was obviously lit on fire.
Mine was getting there, too.
There was no way I was letting these men push that woman into their car. I no longer cared about consequences. The evil in front of me took precedence over the evil I was supposed to be stalking.
Blue wrapped his free arm around the woman’s waist and lifted her off her feet. His lips were pressing kisses onto the woman’s neck.
Benji had reached the car.
Lizard had circled in front of me, away from the waitress’s flailing legs.
Let. The. Garbage. Go. Already! I pushed out the thought command. It had zero effect.
Okay, with Benji at the car, this looked like the best scenario I would get.
Dropping the shadow walking technique, I took a step forward, using my momentum to raise my leg in a front kick that I aimed between Lizard’s legs, lifting him off the ground as I aimed for the sky.
He shrieked out in high-pitched horror of pain and surprise, grabbing at his crotch.
Bent over, gasping, he gave me the perfect target for a push kick. I tugged my knee into my chest. Leaning backward, I thrust out to catch him in the ass.
His arms flew wide and flailing against the momentum of my attack.
He skidded face-first into the black top.
Blue spun toward me. His face red, eyes bulging with rage. He tossed the waitress to the ground with such vehemence that she rolled with her bags and lay there, stunned.
Blue clapped his hands together, a body language signal of impending violence.
There were two things I needed to be hyper-aware of—avoiding blows to my head and Lizard grabbing at my legs. Their steel-toed boots could be lethal in a fight.
Lizard was still clutching at his crotch, eyes streaming, gasping for air.
“Looks like we’re going to have two treats instead of just the one.” Blue’s snarling words were designed to intimidate me into cooperation.
Fear of physical pain made most female crime victims compliant.
This was obviously not his first rodeo. He knew how to intimidate and control
.
Blue’s eyes slid to Lizard. “Get off the damned ground,” he spat.
Benji had made it into the car; I could hear the engine turn over.
The screech of tires assaulted the air with its nerve-torturing cacophony. As Benji’s too heavy foot pressed the gas, the balding tires finally found their grip on the black top.
The danger quotient just went up exponentially.
The bad guys’ car rocketing toward us, I took advantage of Blue’s inattention.
He still hadn’t figured out that I was a trained adversary. And I knew now that he was the kingpin, the others his lackeys. Slice the head off the king, and the others would flail.
I spun like a dancer to cover the space between us.
It was a martial arts move that I loved because it wasn’t at all the norm one saw in a street brawl. It would confuse his brain.
I needed every advantage I could get.
Distant sirens told me that I’d have help soon. Would it be soon enough?
In a fight, a lot of harm could fall in a very short time frame.
My calculations didn’t slow me. They were part of my training. A fight wasn’t physical moves by themselves. It was a chess match. It was about keeping a cool head in a heated exchange.
The opponent with ice in their veins conquered the hot head.
Still, I had no illusions. My success wasn’t a given.
This was still a three against one fight. And size and number matter.
You’re not immortal, I reminded myself. Mostly, that was Spyder in my ear, teaching me to be humble and strategic, or my ego might just put me into a scenario that I couldn’t control.
On my last spin, I balled my fist, pulling my hand to my shoulder and exposing the boney cudgel of my elbow, the hardest part of the body.
Elbow strikes were my favorite strikes. I could do a lot of damage to my opponent with little danger to myself.
I clipped across his chin.
The force twisted his head to the full extent his neck would allow, like an owl with bulging surprised eyes.
His reaction was more information. He should have spun with the strike to sap the blow of its power.
Now perfectly positioned, my fist against my shoulder, I flung my arm outward, my knuckles catching his temple in a back fist that pitched his head in the other direction, throwing him off balance.
“Fuck you, bitch.” I heard Lizard off to my right. Still crawling on the ground, he was part of my awareness, but he wasn’t my focus.
Blue chambered a punch, stepping into it to give his arm the power of major muscle groups. He swung at me. Street brawler with experience. That twist to the shoulder gave him a longer reach and used his back muscles and glutes.
I was a much smaller, much lighter adversary.
And it occurred to me, this was no longer about trapping two women and putting them in his car to take us off to do what they willed. Blue now had to save face in front of his posse.
That might make him reckless, throwing haymakers instead of jabs and hooks.
I was able to duck under the next poorly executed punch.
That kind of swing happened when you didn’t have a plan.
As I pressed up from the squat, I blocked his arm, making sure he couldn’t grab at me. My ponytail, which made me look younger for this assignment, was a fighting liability—nothing I could do about it now.
Using my own momentum as I rose to my full height, I tipped to the side, my weight on my stability leg, my right leg pulled to my chest. Instantly, I extended my round house, aiming the top of my foot to line up just under his ribs. If I were lucky, I’d kick the wind out of him, leaving his diaphragm convulsing so he couldn’t inhale.
The trick was to get my foot out of the way before he could grab my leg and drop me to the ground.
Oof. He coughed and wretched as I spun again outside of his reach.
From my peripheral vision, I saw the waitress scrambling to her feet.
Still, she hugged the garbage bags to her like shields.
Lizard was up on all fours, making strained moans.
I took the opportunity to kick him in the gut. He arched up like a cat then vomited.
When I stepped down and swung back to find Blue, there was his fist crashing into my cheekbone. But unlike Blue, I didn’t just let a punch land, or it would have knocked me out cold.
Spinning. Spinning.
Where were the police?
Blue grabbed my shirt and dragged me into a bear hug, lifting my feet from the ground.
His hands were meaty and powerful, the kind of hands that built strength through use.
I was mighty protective of my head. I’d had two major head traumas in succession, and unless I wanted to be spoon-fed from a wheelchair, I needed to protect my brain at all costs.
I couldn’t grapple with this guy. He stood almost as tall as Striker did.
I grabbed his pinky fingers and bent them backward as I dropped my chin to my chest, then flung my head back, breaking his nose.
That level of pain surprises the nervous system and freaks it out. For a split second, his power grid was knocked offline.
He dropped me.
I scooped my foot behind him, placing the sole of my tennis shoe on his calf as I rose up to stand on his leg, driving his knee into the pavement, his weight and mine coming down, hopefully crushing his knee cap.
Benji was out of the car with a baseball bat in his hand.
Nope, that was my line. I wasn’t going to die here today.
I grabbed the waitress by her uniform and tried to lift her and move her toward the back door and the relative safety of more people.
She curled in tighter around her trash bag.
Shit.
“Help,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Help!” And knowing that the word help rarely got people involved, I added, “Fire! The diner’s on fire!”
The bat was lifted over Benji’s shoulder. He was ready to knock one out of the ballpark.
I ducked under the blow, pushing the waitress's head down further.
Benji shifted tactics. He swung the bat over his head and was going to cudgel me with it.
It was the move I had anticipated.
What I had processed, and Benji had not, was that his buddy, Lizard, was behind me, his hands splayed on the black top as he tried to rise to the fight.
I spun, dove, and rolled over Lizard. It hurt like hell. But it was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that Benji inflicted on his buddy as that bat crashed against Lizard’s spine.
The wood made a sickening thwack.
Lizard dropped unconscious. Possibly dead.
That had been a vicious blow aimed at me.
Benji didn’t seem to register that he’d probably paralyzed his friend. Benji was hard focused on me.
The waitress laid in the path to the door on my left.
The dumpster was to my right.
Two men on the ground and an enraged Benji in front of me.
Their car, with the engine still coughing and choking, cut off my only line of escape.
I scrambled in the only direction that would keep the waitress safe, and me too. I planted my foot on the bumper. Praying that the rust could hold my weight, I scrambled up the hood of the car to the roof.
“Get down off there,” Benji yelled.
“Help!” I screamed.
“Get down off my goddamned car.”
“Help!”
Suddenly more engine roars, more tire squeals. This time it was the good guys. Iniquus had sent the calvary, and the D.C. P.D. were screeching their brakes as they came to a halt.
The waitress had finally gotten herself together. Dropping the garbage bags behind her, she pulled open the back door and slung herself inside.
Huh. Well, you’re welcome, I guess.
I had my India Alexis Sobado ID on me.
Did I just blow my op?
Chapter Seven
I slid from the car’s roof
, keeping the vehicle between the officers and me.
Benji scrambled to get back in the driver’s seat, but the officers popped their doors, pulled their weapons, and shouted, “Hands where I can see them.”
I didn’t want to be involved in everything that would happen next. I didn’t want to give them my ID, or a statement, or my contact information when I’d be summoned to court to testify.
None of it.
I glanced around me and focused on the mud-splattered cement block wall behind me, painted in cheap “whatever’s in that there bucket” tan paint.
Shadow walking with prep time and an even countenance was one thing. But my adrenaline was a geyser.
My heart was pumping so hard I could almost hear the squeeze and release.
When I was younger and working with Master Wang on this skill, he made me sprint until I could hardly breathe, then I was supposed to disappear.
We would have sparring matches that put me on the mat, gasping in pain and exhaustion, and he’d command me to shadow walk. And I did.
This wasn’t exactly like riding a bicycle.
This was a fine-tuned skill that had required me to put biofeedback sensors on my fingers and learn to drop my pulse and respiration rates after extreme exertion just like the Olympic biathlon folks did when they had to cross country ski to their mark, unstrap their rifle and shoot a bull’s eye, before taking off for their next target.
I was sorely out of practice.
Still, I tried.
Standing against the wall, I projected the colors out in front of me like a mask. I slowed my inhale, moving my trembling hands behind my back. Any movement, any movement at all, would pull the human eye in my direction—a holdover from our caveman days when wild animals were our greatest threats.
In the whole “fight or flight” limbic response, it was the reason why we also developed “freeze.”
We self-paralyze when our survival-brain thinks stillness might protect us best.
Please, don’t let me freeze up here and now. I begged my brain.
Luckily for me, Blue was enraged, pinning attention to him. The cops didn’t have time to do but the most cursory scans of the environment.
He didn’t get to kidnap the girl, didn’t get to steal her tips, had a broken nose, broken kneecap—I was betting—and from the way he was clutching his chest, I’d say I broke a couple of his ribs as well.
