by Karen Diem
Chapter 12
Miguel meant to keep her imprisoned forever, locked in a succession of miniscule conference rooms pungent with burnt coffee and stinky feet. Zita lacked the clearance to sit anywhere that she might see anything of interest; apparently, she also lacked the authorization to sit in chairs that worked. Careful experimentation had determined that the chairs in every room had been scavenged and replaced with defective ones that leaned, tilted, or slumped like drunks at closing time. Not that I want to sit, she fumed, I want to do something, anything! Since they had reported Quentin missing the previous evening, Miguel had remained by her side, or had her corralled by other cops. The only respite from utter boredom had been the few minutes she had spent retrieving Quentin’s messages and forwarding jobs to his apprentice and other locksmiths. Out of desperation, she tested the watchfulness of her guard dogs, slipping in and out of rooms in the building. She could escape them, but the problem was exiting the building through security.
Zita inhaled what might be her last breaths of fresh air, or at least D.C. city air, and thought furiously. Miguel squashed her between himself and a pillar, her body partially shielded from the press cameras by his larger form and the fluttering black suits of his associates. Annoyance turned her lips downward. The only reason she was outside now was that her brother could not finagle their way out of attending the press conference. As relatives of one of the missing, she and Miguel were supposed to stand in the background.
Midday sunlight glinted off silver hair, and worry grooved care lines deeper into the face of the father of Quentin’s date. Sympathy plucked at Zita, tempered by the knowledge he, at least, could do something. Even now, he offered outrageous rewards for his daughter’s safe return, and lesser rewards for information leading to her return.
Miguel must have felt it too. He shifted, sliding his arm around her shoulders, as if she were a delicate flower requiring support. “Poor man,” he murmured.
His words were a catalyst, and Zita knew what she had to do—what Quentin needed—and Miguel could not be involved with it. It’s better for him if he doesn’t know. I can’t explain I recognized one would-be kidnapper from the zoo incident. “I need out,” she whispered.
He blinked. His eyes were wary, and he whispered so the cameras would not pick up their conversation. “Zita, I don’t have time to argue this with you.”
“Yeah, I got that. Nobody needs me to help. I been going crazy here, and you wouldn’t be keeping me so close if you weren’t afraid of a leak. Staying here isn’t the safest place. Your killer tortures both the male and female captives, but starts with her. If he doesn’t have me, Quentin stays breathing.” She withdrew from under his arm.
Miguel interrupted, hissing his words. “Who told you that? Jennifer Stone is missing, so he may not wait for you.”
“Our brother barely knows her, and it was your teammate Parzarri earlier today. He came by to question me and to insinuate Quentin is dirty.” She continued, ignoring the fury that intimation ignited. “I’ll take any chance that’ll extend Quentin’s life. The best place for me is off the official grid. Pues, I can do that. No hay bronca. I’ll check in with you. If you’ve got a problem on your team, they won’t see me leave.” Zita willed the Miguel of her childhood, who could occasionally be teased into joining her on her escapades, to help her out.
“This is—” he began.
With a glance at cameras more interested in the emotional pleas of Jen’s father than a pair lost in the herd of background agents, she interjected, “Sensible. It makes sense, hermano. I’ll call you later so you know I’m safe. You leave a message as soon as you find Quentin. I’d rather you concentrated on getting him back.” She punched his arm and drew away.
“Absolutely not. You will stay here!” Miguel had his business face on, but the tic in his cheek was twitching overtime, and his fingers clenched as he pulled her closer again.
She narrowed her eyes, studying his face. Poor guy, it’s better if he can honestly say he tried to stop me. Zita looked away and swore in Spanish, hating the subterfuge.
Her brother accepted that as capitulation and squeezed her shoulders. “It’s for your safety.” One hand ruffled her hair.
“Got it,” she grumbled, pushing away, her mind spinning with plans.
The agent in charge stepped forward to spin the reward and missing person information in the Bureau’s favor. Her chance came when he signaled Miguel to come forward to answer questions. Lights flashed their direction as an astute cameraman caught the motion.
“Watch her,” Miguel growled at the man next her, and handed her arm to the other fellow. Striding through the crowd, he stepped in front of the group. His words rang out, strong, reassuring, and lacking any useful information. The cameras turned to him.
Seriously? I’m not waiting. “Ow, not so hard!” Zita complained to his coworker.
He loosened his grip on her arm. “Sorry about that,” the poor sap whispered.
She nodded. “I’ll deal. Nothing personal,” Zita apologized, hitting the pressure point in his hand to make his fingers loosen further. He yelped. In the seconds that afforded her, she slipped free, squeezing past the pillar thanks to her small size, and darted into the crowd. From behind her, the crowd stirred, but made no major outcry. Jaywalking across the street, she darted around the corner. Victory was sweet, and only a little bitter when she slowed later to find she had lost any pursuit, if any had existed. Since my duffel is in Miguel’s office, I’ll stop by my place and get things. It will have to wait until later, so I can surprise anyone waiting there. I’ll want a phone to call my friends and one to call the cops if I find something. Time to do something! At the first park she passed, she shifted to wear the face and hair of a woman no one in this hemisphere should recognize.
***
Hours later, Zita did a pop vault to scale Jerome’s wall, and stopped at the top to survey the tiny, ornate garden within. A minute waterfall burbled in the center of a rectangular koi pond, where flashes of orange and white hinted at fish. Gray stone cobbles poured down the center from the patio, splitting to go around the water. Topiary animals and stranger creatures grew from substantial pots, providing the only real cover in the yard and framing the stonework. She contemplated the cameras. Every camera emplacement had blind spots; she just had to find them to minimize her exposure. Satisfied, she flipped down from the wall.
From her angle, his immaculate kitchen and dining room had the picture-perfect appearance of a magazine, saved by sunglasses and other junk on the table. A crooked sweatshirt draped on a chair helped. She knocked on the patio door, pulling out a paper she had cadged earlier from a college artist and written on.
Jerome charged out of a room off the kitchen, a saber in his hand. His surprised expression was worth the wait. Whatever he exclaimed was lost by the door separating them, but the tone and volume were audible if not the words.
She lifted the paper higher as he disabled his alarms and came over.
He slid the door open. “That’s an interesting note. You have thirty seconds to explain since I have an appointment—”. His doorbell rang. Jerome exhaled. “Now. If it’s him, it may take a few. If it’s important, you can sit on the patio. Don’t touch anything and leave my fish alone.”
She bobbed her head.
He paused, and then he walked away, depositing his sword in the kitchen as he went.
She huffed at his back. The gap he had left in the door was enough for her to pick up his heavy footfalls and a murmured exchange of greetings. Did he have Thai food last night? Zita sniffed the air. I could eat. Throw a girl a steak with some of that peanut sauce.
Jerome’s voice boomed out. “Yeah, have a seat. You want a beer? I’ve been running around all morning and could use one myself, and I have a great new microbrew you’ll love.” Leather creaked as a familiar voice murmured assent.
Moving quickly, Jerome came back and pulled out a couple of glass bottles from the fridge. As he yanked off the caps
on the bottles, he came to the door. He opened his mouth to speak. The doorbell rang before he could say anything. Still holding the beers, he called over his shoulder. “Can you grab the door, man? If it’s a curvy woman with glasses and crazy eyes, don’t let her in!”
A clicking came from the other room, and the other man exclaimed. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Stop! Jerome, watch out!” Something fell.
Jerome sighed. He complained, “Some people don’t understand what the words ‘restraining order’ mean. Give me a sec.” He mostly closed the door. Carrying the bottles by their necks, he strolled out into the living room.
Guilt lanced through her for all of a second as she eased the door open and eavesdropped.
He stopped in the doorway to the living room. “Well, shit.” Setting the bottles down with exaggerated ease on something, Jerome strode out of sight. “Things just got serious. Why don’t you all run on home now and leave me be?”
Zita pushed the door further open. A muffled curse followed a noisy click. She recoiled, as something crashed, and followed by a painful sounding series of thuds, breaking glass, and a hard object rolling across the hardwood floors.
A harsh male voice hissed, “Cuff him while he’s down. You, take the other one!” Another click sounded, this one followed by a dull clunk and a crack like a whip.
An unfamiliar voice said, “What the?”
She retreated a few steps, hopefully into a camera blind spot, as she shoved off clothing. When Zita shifted to jaguar and went to run, her claws tangled in fabric. As she tore her leg free, the clothing became airborne as she sprang forward to squeeze into the house. Her paws were silent on the carpet, and she held her form low, in stalking position, as she eased into the living room. Jerome lay on the ground, with the remains of a glass object, a shattered side table, and two beer bottles bleeding alcohol around him. Three others stood around him. Two held TASERs, and the third held a stun gun and plastic zip ties. The last looked hesitant to approach. Hops and yeast perfumed the air.
Closer to the door, Remus faced a fourth man. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he begged. His face was pale beneath the luscious caramel of his skin.
The man facing him—6’0 and 225 pounds, she judged, more genetic and pizza than effort—held a TASER in one hand. He tossed it and pulled a real gun. “We don’t need you alive. Try to hit this away.”
Jerome’s eyes opened and his muscles tensed.
Her tail lashed the air, and she yowled. Several sets of eyes turned to her. Zita waved a paw.
Using the shock of her appearance, Jerome surged to his feet and gave the man trying to cuff him a powerful uppercut. He followed with a quick jab that disarmed the man of his stun gun. His opponent reeled back, hit the wall, and slid down to the floor, cuffs falling from his hand.
Zita pounced one of the surprised men with TASERs, pushing him back into the back of a leather sofa. He tripped and fell with a whimper. Lithe and sinuous, she regained her feet as a TASER cartridge clattered to the ground.
With another whip-like crack of sound, Remus was suddenly next to Jerome. His lips crossed over his chest. “Please, I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The runner’s scent was acrid with sweat and emotion.
“Mind the leather!” Jerome barked. He cracked his knuckles and advanced on the remaining male by him who stood holding an exhausted TASER. An odor she could only label as annoyance sang in his scent as he loomed over the man with the TASER.
The man with the gun stood in the doorway. “Why won’t you people surrender!” he shouted.
The one Jerome had knocked down sobbed a little and held his jaw.
She crawled up the sofa and snarled at the man with the gun. Her tail whipped the air. Please run away, she prayed, or be sidetracked. I don’t want to kill anyone.
The thug she had knocked down raised his TASER to aim, and then yelped, dropping the weapon when the air snapped.
Remus stood next to the other sofa. “I really am sorry about your hand,” he said, tipping the furniture over on the thug.
The last one on Jerome threw a wild hook at her friend’s head, which the black man avoided and countered with a jab that left his attacker gasping. While his assailant was still distracted, Jerome seized him and spun him around, propelling him into the gunman.
Zita pounced on the gunman’s arm, sending the weapon rattling across the floor. The tiled foyer was cool under her paws as she leapt away and raced to the gun. A series of cracks sounded. The gun disappeared before she got there, and she bounded up a step or two to prepare to spring again. Wrinkling her muzzle, she lowered her chin and let air rush in to her mouth, as much to show her teeth as to gather scents.
The attackers on the floor disentangled themselves. Their gazes stopped at her, poised on the stairs, moved to Jerome, and ended on Remus next to a heap of TASERs, plastic restraints, stun guns, and a pistol. The moans and sobs of their disabled teammates were a soft chorus of misery.
“I told you to stop,” Remus said, his voice quiet. The Puerto Rican held a gun clenched in one white-knuckled hand. His legs, so sexy in tight spandex, tensed as if he were ready to run.
She sucked in an audible breath, air whistling past her teeth as she flehmed again. Her felid senses recognized fear and anger in the jumble of smells and identified each of the individuals in the room. Her tail cut through the air.
The last two scrambled to their feet and raced for their car. Jerome started to follow, but the one under the sofa shoved the furniture off. The big black man booted the furniture away with a swift kick. “You want another round?”
Cradling his right hand, the man on the floor shook his head.
With a graceful leap to reach him, Zita sat by the man holding his jaw, whose sobbing had died down. His eyes met hers, and he whimpered. “Please, don’t let it eat me.”
Jerome snorted. “You think I could or would want to stop it? I’m not even certain it’s on our side.”
She chuffed. Tires squealed from outside, accompanied by the scent of burnt rubber. Not that I would ever condone eating a human, but a steak would alleviate the poor kitty cat’s hunger, she thought. With what she hoped was a soulful look, she waited until she had Jerome’s attention and looked toward the kitchen and then back at him. Zita made a chirping sound.
Oblivious or pretending to be so, her friend made no move to fetch food. “Remus?” Jerome asked. “Would you use their restraints to tie up our new friends until the police get here?”
Between one blink and another, plastic restraints hampered both intruders at the wrists and ankles, and her ears stung from the repeated snaps of sound. Remus dusted off his hands in the foyer. “I got the license number on the van. Now what?” He waved a piece of paper. His eyes were glued to her. “You never mentioned a pet.”
Zita narrowed her eyes at him, and her ears lay flat on her head. A growl escaped. Sexy legs or not, I’m nobody’s possession.
“It’s not mine.” Jerome kept a wary eye on her, and Remus tensed.
She inclined her head. With as much dignity as she could muster, Zita minced her way out of the room, stepping carefully to avoid shards of glass. In the backyard, she dragged her clothes to what she hoped was a camera blind spot, and changed to human form, again using the disguise face and hair she had chosen earlier. Color sprang up around her even as her sense of smell and sound decreased. When she went to put on her clothing, she noted with dismay that her pants and shoes had fallen into the pond. She tugged at her shirt; it barely covered her butt. Guess I should be glad not to have much culo, she thought as she retrieved her sodden things, dropping them on the flagstones with a squelch. An extensive rip rendered the pants incapable of staying up as well. Since the kidnappers attacked already, my warning might be superfluous. As she considered leaving, her eye caught on the gray shirt on the chair.
After she reentered, she pulled Jerome’s hooded sweatshirt off the chair. Zita threw it on and tugged the hood as far as it would go over her face. It hung to her
knees like a dress. The process finished with her rolling up the sleeves and zipping the hoodie shut before padding in bare feet back into the living room.
Jerome and Remus were standing by the righted sofa, having a hushed discussion when she returned. Two captives shivered in a pile in the foyer. Despite everything that had happened, other than the shattered mess by the entry to the kitchen and the pervasive beer aroma, most of the room was untouched.
Using a thick Mexican accent, she said, “I guess I am late to tell you that quarantine people are being kidnapped.” The voice of this form, an octave lower than her normal one, sounded odd. She tilted her face down to let the oversized hood further hide her, even though a part of her fretted over the obscured visibility.
“No shit,” Jerome answered. “Thanks for the assist?” Appearing aggravated, he turned the bottle in his hands around.
“No problem. I was hoping they would run if they saw a jaguar. The police probably prefer you not clean up,” Zita answered. “Are you both okay?”
He shook his head. “You misread me. I’m not picking up. I’m mourning the loss of a beer and a day that had a promising start at the early hour of noon and a date with my girl later. Yeah, I took a dive when they shot at me with the stun gun, so I’m fine and grateful they missed.”
Remus licked his lips and smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners with pleasure. Zita forgot her plan to advise Jerome on the difference between stun guns and TASERs. “I am fine, thanks.”
Ay, yes, you are, she thought.
Unaware of her internal drooling, he continued. “I came to hire Jerome because people have been disappearing from my group for business people with powers. Now you say quarantined people?” Although he clutched the other empty bottle, his color was back, and his question suggested his mind was recovering.
“My super detective powers, ratified by a secret agent ring I got in my cereal and a fan letter from Bruce Wayne, tell me they’re after people. To be specific, they want people with powers and people who got all the great coma, but none of the great abilities.” He still seemed suspicious. “Is that my Batman sweatshirt?”
