by Rob Preece
Danielle raised the doctored drink to her lips, pretended to swallow, then put it down.
"Was that your friend over there?"
"Where?"
She gestured and, when he looked away for a moment, switched to the undoctored drink.
"He's just a guy I met,” the blond told her.
Danielle didn't think so. Guys who were looking for a clean pickup didn't make buddies at the bar. These two were fishing together and she was their catch.
"I'm, uh, Leslie.
"Jeff,” the blond replied.
Danielle took a deep swallow. “So, you want to dance?"
"Sure. Better drink up first, though. That bartender will probably scoop up your glass when you step away."
She took a swallow, then wobbled to her feet.
"I feel a little funny. Maybe we could just—"
"It's okay, honey. I'll take good care of you."
The man Jeff had dismissed as just a guy appeared and the two men draped Danielle's arms around their necks and headed for the exit. Exactly as if she was a friend who'd drunk too much.
"You were right, that was easy,” the second man said.
"We're not home yet,” Jeff murmured.
They headed for a fire door, avoiding the bouncers lined up outside the front.
A sign indicated that an alarm would sound if the door was opened. The sign lied.
The two men had an unmarked white van parked just outside the club in an alley. They bundled Danielle in, letting her collapse onto the carpeted back. So far so good. Now get a move on, she mentally commanded. She hoped that their base was far from downtown.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?” the second man asked, the truck's cargo door still open in his hand. “We never had to drug one before."
"Are you kidding, Fred? Check her out. None of the chicks we picked up had half the looks of this one. You see her chest? Those have to be D cups. With her in the video, we'll make a fortune."
"Well, I guess."
The two men climbed into the cab leaving Danielle sprawled across the back.
She faked unconsciousness as the two men drove her away from danger. She might be heading into more danger, of course. They'd spoken of a video. Which could mean more men. Possibly men with weapons. Still, what choice did she have? Staying with these men was a risk. Waiting around for the Warders to catch up to her was no risk at all—it was guaranteed disaster.
The men drove north, away from the dubious safety of the zone and toward the Dallas suburbs that had been showcases of wealth at the turn of the twenty-first century when telecom had been the future and Dallas had been the Telecom Corridor. Despite the economic depression that the return of magic had created, the north still held traces of the glamour of that lost era.
The men turned their radio to a call-in show that seemed targeted directly at them. The D.J. laughed uproariously at his own jokes, which lampooned stupid magics and slutty women.
A few minutes into the show, a public service announcement described Danielle as wanted for impersonating a Warder. The description was accurate, but it didn't match her current appearance. Oddly, she felt safer being taken to an unknown destination. If it was unknown to her, it would be unknown to the Warders as well. All of their profiling technology would be worthless.
The van shifted off the freeway onto a side street.
Once, the City of Plano had been home to broad boulevards, endless green lawns, shopping malls, and miles of luxury SUVs. Now, the kidnappers’ van lurched over swelling potholes and veered around vehicles that had been abandoned in the road and were too much trouble for the city to tow away.
Until she'd met Carl, Danielle had believed that the economic depression of the past decade was a side effect of the huge costs imposed on normal society by the maintenance of the zones and protection of the normals.
Her experience with Carl, first watching him transform the zone, and then watching the riots, had eliminated her certainty. Was the myth of magical responsibility for bad economic times just another of the lies that perpetuated the Warder system?
* * * *
"Cuff her and carry her,” Jeff commanded.
Fred jingled an old-fashioned pair of handcuffs and opened the back door to the van. They'd parked in a garage and quickly lowered the automatic garage door.
Danielle considered letting Fred cuff her so that she could enter the building without suspicion but decided against it. Regardless of how flimsy the handcuffs might be, they would slow her down, especially if he was smart enough to cuff her hands behind her back. The delay wasn't worth the risk.
As Fred opened the door, she reached for his groin. Reached, grabbed, and pulled.
Fred's high-pitched screech cut off abruptly when she brought her free hand up and put a finger to her lips. “Quiet."
"What—"
"I say, you do. Understand?” She gave Fred a bonus squeeze to make sure he was paying attention.
He nodded abruptly.
"How many men in the house?” Squeeze.
"Two more.” He looked pained enough to be telling the truth.
"Fred. What's the holdup? Come on, we've got a movie to film. I'm hot to get started if you know what I mean."
"Tell him you're coming."
"Coming, Jeff,” Fred parroted.
"Hey, what's going on back there?"
Danielle didn't know whether Fred had signaled or Jeff just got suspicious, and she didn't wait around to figure it out. She yanked hard on Fred's scrotum and slammed a ridge-hand into his temple. He folded, giving her the opportunity to seize the handcuffs and cuff his hands. He had the keys somewhere—she wasn't about to search his pockets for them—but she didn't think he would be able to get free in time to be much help.
She'd just finished with Fred when Jeff rounded the van. He carried a police-style truncheon and, when he saw her rising from the semi-conscious Fred, he swung it at her awkwardly, like a baseball batter.
If he'd turned and run, Jeff might have been able to warn the others. Well, Danielle hadn't picked him for intelligence.
She stepped outside his reach and gave his arm just a little extra momentum and a slight angle change—driving the club directly into his kneecap.
Jeff joined Fred on the floor. Danielle picked up the short club, judged its balance, and applied it to the back of his head. Good stick. She'd keep it.
The entire operation had barely taken fifty seconds. Just enough time for the men inside to start to worry why Fred and Jeff hadn't appeared.
Danielle tested the connecting door between the garage and the main portion of the building. Locked.
She launched a turning back kick into the door directly to the left of the latch.
The builders had obviously counted on the heavy garage door for security because they'd used a cheap hollow interior door here. The flimsy wood shattered under Danielle's kick.
She let her body spin through the kick and charged through the disintegrating portal.
The building was a three-story colonial-style brick monstrosity. It had probably been built as a Mc-mansion for one of the Dot-Com executives of turn-of-the-century Dallas. Repossessed by a bank and left empty, it had now been converted into a crude video studio.
She found the two men Fred had told her about sitting in a maze of computers, flat screen video monitors lining the walls. Images of naked and bound women writhed all too convincingly on several of the screens.
One of the men reached for a gun when she stepped into the video room.
He moved so slowly, she didn't even have to use the blur as she brushed Jeff's club against his hand and the gun, then caught the automatic pistol as it flew from his forcibly relaxed grip.
"Freeze, assholes,” she ordered.
"Jeez. What the heck did those losers bring home this time? Wonder Woman?” the second man, the one with his hands high in the air, demanded.
"Warder Agent Goodman. You're under arrest,” she stated. She flashed h
er I.D. card in their direction, then returned it to her pocket before they could get a good look.
"Hey, we heard about you on the web. You're wanted for impersonating an officer. Terrible description, though. They didn't say anything about purple hair. Or those big breasts. Gotta give Jeff credit for spotting those honkers."
It was unfortunate that they recognized her, but there wasn't anything she could do about that. She'd just improvise.
"All right, you two. Lead the way out to the garage. You're going to carry in Fred and Jeff. Then we're all going to sit down and talk about what happens next."
"Just forget about ever seeing us and we'll make it worth your while,” the man who'd gone for his gun offered.
"Shut up, Harry,” the other man ordered. “She may be a warder, but she's on the run. She isn't going to turn us in."
"Hey, great,” Harry started. “Why don't we—"
"She might kill us, though."
"Oh.” Harry thought about that. “Not so great."
The other man shook his head then turned his attention back to Danielle. “I'm guessing you're looking for a safe house, right? Someplace to lay low until the heat lets up."
Danielle glared at him. “I'd worry more about yourself than about me."
"I'm worried, all right. Because I figure the only thing keeping us alive right now is that you'd rather avoid the stink of four rotting bodies."
Harry started to laugh, took a good look at Danielle's face. He froze. “You serious?"
"Would you want the four of us hanging around with you if you were trying to hide?"
Sweat beaded on Harry's face. He turned a pale shade of green, turned, and quietly vomited in the corner.
"Don't mess on the equipment,” the second man ordered.
"Shit, Simon. We're going to die and you're worried about a lousy camera."
"Everybody's going to die someday. We just need to find a way to convince the warder that she'd be better off letting us live for a while, and then convincing her to keep letting us live once she leaves."
"And you can start by doing what I tell you,” Danielle ordered. “Now get out to the garage and carry in Fred and Jeff before they wake up. Because any trouble they cause is going to be big trouble for you two."
"Right, boss,” Simon said.
Fred was struggling a little when they made it out to the garage but he hadn't dislodged Jeff's unconscious form.
"Simon, you carry Jeff. Harry, get Fred."
Harry whined something about his sore arm but stopped complaining when Danielle chambered a bullet in the gun she'd taken from him. Danielle didn't especially want to kill these men. On the other hand, she wouldn't feel any terrible guilt about it if they pushed too hard. Even if she was the first woman they'd actually tried to drug, they'd been ready to drug, rape, and film their disgusting activities. Their business sickened her.
With her encouragement, Harry and Simon carried their semiconscious counterparts back into the house.
What had once been a living room had been converted into a bedroom-appearing movie set, a huge bed set out in the middle of the room. Three cameras surrounded the bed allowing for explicit angles in whatever perverse sexual behavior they might decide to perpetrate.
Danielle gestured toward that bed and Harry and Simon dumped Fred and Jeff.
"Sit on the floor,” she ordered the two carriers.
They complied, letting Danielle find a comfortable chair for herself.
"Now let's talk about the next couple of days,” she suggested. “I'm looking for a reason to keep the four of you alive. But I'm coming up empty. Anybody have a suggestion?"
Harry started off indignant. “You can't just kill us. I mean, it would be murder. It isn't as if we've done anything to you."
Danielle laughed. “You're a funny man, Harry.” She paused. “The problem is, I don't have a very good sense of humor. I'm a warder. I kill for a living."
"But...” he stumbled for the word, then repeated it. “But you're only supposed to kill the impaired."
"Shut up, Harry. You're going to make her mad.” Simon lounged against the bed, but he kept his eyes focused on Danielle.
"I'm already plenty mad,” Danielle observed. “Your nasty business of drugging women, dragging them back here, raping them and then what, killing them? It sickens me."
"We don't kill anybody,” Simon said. “And you're the first one Jeff actually drugged, if he drugged you at all."
"Snuff video pays more than rape,” Harry observed. “Jeff wanted us to do them. But we, well, I mean, that is beyond gross, don't you think? Besides, you have to be careful who you sell them to."
Of the two men, Simon was the more intelligent and more dangerous. But Harry was the more annoying.
"Harry, if you want to get yourself killed, that's all right with me,” Simon observed. “Try not to make her kill the rest of us, though, will you?"
"I'm still looking for a reason to keep you alive,” Danielle told Simon. “So far, your friend has only given me more reasons to kill you. Your turn."
She could almost see the wheels turning in Simon's mind. If they could somehow turn her in, they might get whatever reward the warders offered. Danielle doubted that the warders would shut down their studio. Even if they did, the four men could simply set up business elsewhere.
"You're going to need food, changes of clothing, maybe a false identity,” Simon said. “We've got money and contacts. We can help."
"Go on."
Simon considered. Sweat trickled down his forehead.
Danielle guessed he'd had contact with warders before. If so, he would know that their training drove out all moral compunction about killing.
"I am a graduate of the Warder Academy,” she mentioned casually.
Simon shuddered and even Harry seemed to sit up and take notice. The Academy trained the elite of the warders. Its four-year post-college program was featured on multiple entertainment webs that focused on how academy students were brutalized and transformed into killing machines.
The Academy's reputation served to make its graduates more fearsome, but the reputation also reflected the truth. No one graduated without a confirmed kill to her name.
"We can write full confessions,” Simon suggested. “Detailing what we've done."
"Why would I care?"
"It makes you safe from us. If we turn you in, you'll be able to get us back. They wouldn't ignore written confessions."
"She's just trying to trick you into confessing,” Harry protested. “She doesn't have anything on us."
"If you don't shut up, I'm going to kill you myself,” Simon said. “She doesn't need evidence. She's a warder."
Danielle stood up, yanked a stack of paper from a printer, and tossed it to Simon. “Start writing."
Simon grabbed the paper and pen from the air. It was a smooth catch. So smooth that Danielle raised him another notch in her risk meter.
"What about after?” Harry demanded as Simon bent over his paper and started to write.
"I thought I told you to shut up!"
"Afterwards, I turn in your confessions, of course,” Danielle explained.
"But—"
"That's it, Harry. Shut your goddamned mouth.” Simon let anger creep into the cool tone of his voice. “Think about it. This place is finished. When she leaves, we leave. She wouldn't have to turn in our confessions if she killed us, right?"
"But what will we do?"
"We find someplace else, some other line of work. The thing is, we'll be alive."
* * * *
For three days, the city of Dallas suffered from door-to-door searches, roadblocks, and heavily armed patrols. Best of all, there were no new incursions into the zone. Danielle's disappearance, or maybe the friendly rearrangements she'd made in the work assignments, seemed to have unnerved the local warders.
Eventually, Danielle knew, pursuit would stretch all the way to Plano. But the ever-widening circles meant that the search would become les
s intense and the searchers would grow increasingly discouraged. It gave her a chance.
Harry and Jeff spent most of their time in the room where Danielle locked them every night. Simon, on the other hand, trailed behind her with his video camera.
She drew the line at his filming her asleep, in the shower, or dressing, but otherwise allowed him to amuse himself. She didn't trust the pornographers, wouldn't trust Simon out of her sight. Still, if following her around with his video camera amused him, it was better than worrying about what he was up to.
She retreated into the routine of martial arts, trying to fuse what Carl had shown her into her own style.
After three consecutive meals of delivered pizza, Fred announced that he was sick of it and that he would cook them real food.
Danielle had gritted her teeth but she knew that if she let them have some activities and outlets, they were less likely to turn on her. She was pleasantly surprised when Fred showed an unexpected talent for cooking and brought out meals that would have made any restaurant proud.
"You know you'll have to change jobs once I leave,” she told them as they sat down for one of Fred's masterpieces. “I won't let you go back to that nasty business of yours."
"But you've got a suggestion,” Simon observed.
"Not for all of you,” she admitted. “For Fred. He could be a chef. This is incredible.” She poked at the fluffy pastry that Fred had whipped up.
"Oh yeah. Sure. Who would hire me?” Fred demanded. “They're all looking for people who went to one of those fancy schools. I just read books and experiment."
Once, that wouldn't have mattered. But after the Return, society had retreated behind increasingly rigid rules—rules that were supposed to protect, but that often kept people from finding a job or business that suited them.
Something flashed in her brain. It was one of those ah-ha moments that seem to change everything. “You're right,” she admitted. “Anywhere normal, you're just another criminal."
"Just what I said."
"In the zone, though, nobody cares about those rules."
All four men jerked in their seats as if she'd electrocuted them. “The zone? That's for the impaired."
Danielle's sense of excitement swelled. This was the biggest idea she'd ever had. What if the zone wasn't only for the impaired? What if the zone could be the real world, relegating the portion of the country controlled by the so-called normals to irrelevance?
