by Karen Diem
Pretorius disappeared behind the screen of the autumn treetops, thinned but not yet barren of leaves.
She swore mentally. Pretorius could do the most damage… I’ll turn into an owl and see what he’s doing. These guys are just sitting here. The shopping center is close, so I can’t take two at once as they could fire their guns and accidentally hit someone. Maybe I can help the kid get away and weaken Zeus’ merry band of thugs, Zita thought, her mind churning through plans.
The Brazilian guard abruptly lowered his weapon. “I’m going to grab some food. Both of us don’t need to watch him, so I’ll bring you something. Smells better than the slop at the compound,” he told his friend.
His American buddy nodded. “Make sure mine has cheese. The last time we hit a place like that, the grub had pickles and cabbage and green stuff on it. I’ll keep an eye on the boss’ pet. He’s going to be a good little boy and stay here.” He cuffed Janus.
“You don’t appreciate tacos done right, but sure, I’ll get a few americano style.” With a harsh laugh, the Brazilian walked away toward the taqueria. His stride was all strength and swagger, with no grace.
Probably lifts and does hodgepodge street fighting, but he’s comfortable with a gun. If American Taco Thug is similar, I might be able to take him if I’m fast enough. Once he’s down, I can set Janus free and knock out Brazilian Taco Thug when he comes back with his hands full. Maybe I can take out Pretorius too while he’s searching for his pets. Zita slunk around to get behind the guard and the boy, and crept closer, so low that grass and twigs brushed against her furred chest. Changing shape to a gorilla, she picked up a pebble and threw it at the sleeve of the guard, on the arm farthest from the boy.
He turned, changing to a one-handed grip on the gun and slapping at where her projectile had hit.
Zita bounded the couple steps that separated them and seized his gun, one hairy arm on either side of his head. She curled one hand around the trigger guard to prevent him from firing. With a sharp yank, she smashed the Uzi against his face, though she held back to avoid killing him.
With a curse, American Taco Thug tried to punch her and pull his weapon away. The pain accompanying his hit was greater than she had expected, given his poor angle and leverage.
Super strength? Their thugs at the museum a month ago were extra tough and strong too. Zita smashed the gun in the guard’s face again, this time eliciting a scream and a crunch that had her wincing.
When he released the Uzi, she tossed it aside and wrapped her arms around his throat in a chokehold. Even with the increased size of a gorilla, the guard was still taller, but the extra few inches afforded her the leverage she needed to keep the hold, despite the pain of him clawing at her arms. She held on until his struggles ceased, counting the seconds mentally.
Janus stared at her, wide-eyed and backing away.
Not for the first time, Zita wished she could speak in animal form. After easing the unconscious American Taco Thug to the ground, she shifted to Arca and checked his pulse. Still alive, good. Now I can try to convince the kid to escape.
“Stay back,” Janus warned her. A large rectangle opened to someplace sunny and green, too green for autumn, accompanied by the distant screeches of howler monkeys and macaws.
That’s the second time I’ve heard howlers. Since those are only in Central or South America, I wonder if his range is the whole world like mine. She held out empty hands, palm up, and said, “This is your chance, Janus. Go be free. You don’t need to work for them anymore.”
His face wild and desperate, Janus laughed. “Shows what you know.” He shuffled his feet.
Keeping her voice low and soothing, she made no move to approach. “You’re in lousy shape, and you’re more miserable every time I see you. Based on today and at the museum, they’ve got you handling transportation for their crimes. Go, go somewhere they can’t find you. If you’re worried about it, you can try going to the cops. They’d love to have you tell them everything about the bad guys, but I wouldn’t suggest staying there for long.”
He squared his shoulders, his face revealing hopelessness he should be too young to know. “No, I really can’t.” His portal flickered.
The sharp report of a gun echoed from the direction of the restaurant, following by people screaming.
Zita swore. “It’s Taco Tuesday. Is nothing sacred? They can’t even order food like a normal person? Everything has to be a crime.” She eyed Janus and his portal, then turned and ran toward the sound.
As she approached, people in both street clothes and cooking whites stampeded from the brightly lit back entrance, spilling out past the dumpster and a collection of dented metal trash cans. A wave of scent, cooking food heavy with cilantro and familiar spices, poured out of the kitchen as the door slammed closed. When she got closer, a car peeled out of the parking lot.
“Go, go, go! And someone call the cops!” she urged the fleeing staff as she slowed. Pushing herself up against the dingy white siding of the converted house, she inched toward the window until she could see in the gap between two beer posters.
With his back to her, Brazilian Taco Thug stood in the middle of a cramped dining area. His Uzi was in one hand, and the other clenched the tangled, bleached hair of a pretty woman in a short skirt and puffy jacket. Neon from a tequila sign threw red and blue shadows across the faces only visible in the long mirror lining the scratched bar.
Must’ve been a warning shot. He’s taking cash and tacos. Rude and stupid. As much as I want to know what Pretorius is doing, I can’t run off and leave these people in danger. Zita exhaled and forced her racing thoughts to calm. He can’t carry his loot, the woman, and his gun out of there. I’ll jump him when he leaves with his hands full, and if he’s still got the woman, that gives me a chance to free her.
As she crept along the wall, Zita kept checking inside to keep track of the gunman and to assess the location. Half the dining room was a bar with wicker stools. The ones in front of Brazilian Taco Thug had been knocked akimbo, and the other half held tiny tables crammed tight together and decorated with yellow vinyl tablecloths and drooping fake flowers. With relief, she noted the white popcorn ceiling had a hole in it, and no one seemed to be bleeding yet. Behind the bar, a chunky waitress in a too-small polo shirt that matched the tablecloths shoveled cash into a bag. A short, stocky man with angry eyes and a staff shirt stuffed a stack of foam containers into a bag beside her. All the other customers must have fled. Abandoned coats and half-eaten food remained at the tables, nestled next to decimated baskets of chips and tiny bowls of salsa and guacamole. Steam still rose from a pan of fajitas near the door, tilted as if jarred in a hasty departure. Snippets of a ranchera song, heavy on the accordion and El Rey, escaped through the peeling window frame, but none of the conversation inside was intelligible.
I need to wait. I hate waiting. The guy in the woods is probably awake by now, and Dios knows when Pretorius is coming back. Hurry up, loser. Pursing her lips, Zita ghosted along the wall until she stood just outside the entrance. She peeked in again.
The captive woman held the food and the sack of money and stumbled as they moved. Brazilian Taco Thug still gripped her hair, hauling her body left and right like a large toy. Backing toward the exit, he stopped next to the doors. He lifted his gun, aiming at the staff members behind the bar.
Zita bolted into action, afraid he meant to fire. When she pulled open the door, a wave of richly scented air and a flourish of musical trumpets washed over her as she dashed in and knocked his arm upward, aiming for the pressure point on his wrist.
A burst of gunfire peppered more holes in the ceiling and made her ears ring, so her voice was louder than necessary when she taunted him, “Shot too soon? I’ve heard a lot of guys have that problem.” She whirled, kicking his already-weakened hand hard enough to make him release his weapon, and then spinning to send the Uzi flying with another strike.
Brazilian Taco Thug turned toward her, tossing his captive aside. He wasted ti
me swearing and then grabbed for Zita.
Dancing backward, she seized the fajita pan from a nearby table, heat from it burning through the frayed red handle cover and threw the food at him.
As he howled, he swiped at his face with one arm, trying to clean it.
Zita pushed the blond woman out of the way and threw her weight behind a hit on his dominant arm with the cast-iron fajita pan, then reversed her strike to hit him in the face again. “Run!” she shouted to the others in the restaurant.
Brazilian Taco Thug yelped and swung at her, an uncoordinated haymaker.
Zita held the pan in front of her face, and his fist landed on the iron skillet with a painful-sounding thud. The force of his hit drove Zita back against the door and actually dented the pan. Another super strong one, great.
The gunman roared, shaking his injured limb. He struck out at her again, this time clumsily with his off hand, his other one cradled close to his chest.
Letting herself drop, Zita dove between his legs to dodge. She spun around and kicked him with both feet.
Brazilian Taco Thug collided with the door, cracking the glass and leaving a red smear behind. Staggering forward, he swiped at her again, blood running down his forehead and trickling onto his shirt.
After leaping onto a table, she kicked the tiny bowls of food at him, jumping up to evade his increasingly wild swings. Gun. I should move it before he remembers he brought one. Zita scanned the room.
The enraged man wiped salsa and guacamole from himself and lunged for her again.
Need to get him out of here. Spotting his Uzi, she hopped along the tables until she reached it, then rolled off (to avoid another attack) and picked it up from the floor. “Catch me if you can!” she said. Gun in hand, she shoved the door open and darted outside.
He chased after her, blood dripping with every step.
Picking up speed as she rounded the corner, she ran toward the back of the restaurant. When she had almost reached it, she did a wall run for four steps, getting high enough to dump the gun into the dumpster, leap off the springy siding of the building, and roll to her feet. She whirled around and fell into a ginga.
Her pursuer thundered up. “I thought you’d be taller. Well, I’ll crush you underfoot, little girl.” He sneered.
“Promises, promises, but not likely with that crappy footwork,” she said, feinting at him.
He lunged, his whole body behind a powerful uppercut.
Too bad she had done an esquiva, dropping low to dodge him, and then used her position to hook his ankle. She pulled.
Brazilian Taco Thug fell on his back and rolled to one side.
She kicked him in the chest.
Gasping, he curled up.
Faint sirens sounded.
Keeping herself ready for an attack, she flicked her gaze to the street. No cops yet, but I hope that means they’re on their way. Her skin prickled as if she were being watched, and she threw herself to the ground.
An eye-searing blast of heat and force wailed overhead and into the building behind her. Splinters went flying, and a strange liquid sound began.
“Retreat!” Pretorius shouted.
Zita rolled under a bush.
As she lifted her head, she could see through a blackened, scorched hole in the siding. Water gushed from the now cracked and broken toilet, the source of the odd noise. Someone screamed from inside the restaurant.
She swore and hesitated.
Brazilian Taco Thug scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the woods, but the screaming from the taqueria drew her attention.
Abandoning her pursuit, she ran back into the building to ensure the people were safe. As she entered, she dropped to the floor in an instinctive move.
A shotgun blasted over her head, and a nearby table toppled, pouring food on her.
“I came to help! Don’t shoot me!” she shouted in English, repeating herself in Spanish and rolling to her feet.
From behind the bar, a man said, “Get up slow.” His words were even more heavily accented than her own had been.
Zita stood and brushed as much food and debris off herself as she could manage. Chips and chunks of tomato rained down, and the scent of guacamole rose from her hair. “Sorry about the mess. I did try to take it outside,” she said.
The man behind the bar lowered his gun. “Where is the robber?”
“He got away. I heard screaming from in here and came to help,” she said.
The waitress emerged, a baseball bat in her hands. “Our guest got overexcited.”
Beside her, the former hostage peeked over the bar and offered a sheepish smile. “I thought he was returning to kill us.”
Zita eyed their weapons. “I see. I’ll just be on my way, then.”
The man lowered his weapon. “Yes, you do that. You’ve done enough damage.”
She held up her hands in protest. “Hey, I just spilled some food. The dude who broke your place throws hot goop balls. Plasma, I think. Tell the cops the robber’s gun is in your dumpster, and you might want to turn off water to the toilet.”
Flashing light poured in through the front door, and she glanced that direction. “Really sorry. The food smelled great. Bye.” She ran through the restaurant and out the back door even as tires screeched and police pulled up, sirens roaring. The woods beckoned her, and she fled, scooping up her abandoned shoes as she passed them.
***
Four days later, Zita strode through the grassy commons toward her apartment, eager to get home and start dinner. The chilly air bore the strong sting of exhaust from the road nearby, mingled with the spicy autumn scent of the trees and a hint of… carrion?
She stopped and sniffed, wrinkled her nose, then resumed her walk. Poor creature must’ve just been hit to smell this awful in the cold weather. Hope that’s a squirrel and not someone’s pet. For a second, she considered a place farther away from the city, but then laughed at herself. In addition to being within a few miles of the metro trains, an easy walking distance, her complex was quiet and affordable. Since her brother actually owned the apartment, her landlord was also good if her rent was late. Not to mention, the condo association let her trade work for a space in an equipment shed to store her beloved motorcycle during the winter. Most places wouldn’t allow her that luxury.
A scream split the air, followed by a string of old-fashioned profanity in Spanish and English and loud sobbing.
Zita ran toward the sound, her heart pounding and her eyes squinting. As usual, the visitor parking areas were unlit, save for a single light here and there. Up close to the buildings, though, overhead lamps burned as bright, cheap, incandescent suns. Since she and Quentin had installed them, she knew the lights had two purposes. They allowed the low-end security cameras to work, and they reduced slip and fall lawsuits by the apartment residents, most of whom had passed sixty a long time ago. As the odors of metallic blood and stomach-churning death grew stronger, she skidded to a stop on the sidewalk by an elderly couple from her building. She held out her hands. “Are you okay? Is someone hurt?”
One of the two men there nodded toward resident parking. The guy’s arms were tight around his weeping partner, and his eyes were misty. “Miss Gloria must’ve let her little yappers outside alone again,” he said.
Zita followed his gaze, realizing the issue was in her assigned spot. Two very dead small dogs in matching collars, one pink, one blue, festooned the metal panniers of her bike, gray-brown leashes trailing down to rest by four large, shriveled leaves. She stared at it for a minute before her mind made sense of what she was seeing. Those aren’t leashes and leaves. Those are entrails and ears. Acid burned in her throat as her empty stomach revolted, and a hand rose to her mouth.
A blood-smeared paper heart was taped to each of them. The first held a phrase, painted in ink she suspected the dogs had supplied, and the other had a horrid smiley face on it, one with the jagged teeth of a shark… or a crocodile.
Gagging, Zita pulled her shirt up over her nos
e to blunt the stench and forced herself to move toward the horrible scene. She swallowed the bile in her throat, stepping just close enough to read the five words printed on the paper. ‘Sorry to have missed you?’ Sobek must not be too busy as an escaped felon to have time to harass us. Quentin! I need to check on my brother. What if it’s too late? I wouldn’t have even seen this until morning since I was coming through the commons instead of the parking lot. After a hasty retreat to the sidewalk, Zita patted her pockets for her phone.
“Will you be all right, Miss Zita? Why don’t you come with us while I get Hector to his chair, and we’ll call the police together,” one of the men said.
She shook her head, turning her back on the gory remains. “I got the cops. Do you have Miss Gloria’s number? Can you call her and see if she’s okay?” Please don’t let Sobek have butchered her too.
He nodded. “I’ll do that, but I can see her television through her patio curtains, so she probably just let the dogs out and assumed someone would bring them home.”
His companion sniffled, a trembling hand over his mouth. “Last night, I complained about having to bring them to her again. This will break her heart.”
Zita exhaled. “I know what you mean. I’ve dropped them off every morning this week and last.” She patted his back, two quick taps.
“Take care of each other and shout out your door if Miss Gloria doesn’t answer so I can tell the cops.” Pressing Quentin’s number, she said a quick prayer. Her right foot quivered with suppressed energy, and she forced it to stop tapping.
“You know where we are if you want company.” Supporting each other, the men scurried into the apartment building with enviable speed given their ages.
When her brother answered, she took a deep, relieved breath. “¡Gracias a Dios!”
“Zita? This better be good. I have a hot date to get ready for,” Quentin said.
