by Karen Diem
“Can you tell if he’s in there? He was supposed to be on shift from ten,” she whispered, though the pulsing bass that leaked out each time the door opened made it unnecessary. Her shoulders twitched; her current voice still seemed alien. To minimize the risk of failed athletic moves, Zita had chosen to shift only her hair, face, and voice to match the ones she had used at Jerome’s home. She had even given herself pointy ears to avoid identification; Wyn, who had spent quality time with Miguel’s forensics book during quarantine, had suggested it. The thigh-length hair was distraction enough, though she liked it. If nothing else, it would keep prudes like Andy from squealing if she ripped her clothing again. Well, Wyn’s clothing. Zita grimaced. A nine-inch height difference and different body shapes had made clothing selection a torment. They had given up on shoes completely and just painted her rainbow leopard print slippers black.
Her friend shot her an exasperated look and coiled hair around a finger. “No. Unless he suddenly starts ruminating on why his parents hated him enough to name him Boris, I cannot differentiate him from rest of the crowd. The only minds I can identify are you and the terrifying man in the white vehicle down the street.” Even whispering, the soft soprano voice sounded musical.
Zita craned her neck and looked at the pickup to see if the truck contents had changed. “The sleeping guy? He looks cuddly if you like your men big and furry.”
Wyn sniffed. “He’s faking. The sleeping is subterfuge while he waits for someone and he intends to beat his prey until they tell him something. His mind is almost incoherent with rage about a girl. I’m endeavoring not to listen.”
“He’s snoring.” Zita stared at the nondescript truck and the giant pretending to sleep within. “Seriously?” The heavy braid of hair down her back shifted, and she shoved it back into position.
“Bloodcurdlingly so.”
She shuddered. “Is he waiting for our target? If the angry guy is connected to one of his previous victims, he could be after Boris too.”
Wyn shrugged, silvery hair sliding over the almost-nonexistent shoulders of the fluttering scrap of a dress she wore. Illusory green gems wove their way through her hair and matched the dress and high-heeled shoes. She had refused to wear a black dress instead of the emerald and silver thing she had on. When Zita had suggested something less noticeable, she had claimed that a distraction and a honey trap both dressed to distract, and she would do so. Her friend bit her lip every time she looked at the truck.
Plucking at her borrowed clothes to separate the sweaty fabric from her skin, Zita tugged the strained neckline up again on the borrowed, long-sleeved black top. Her conscience nagged. It seems wrong to leave a feral man waiting for prey. “Oye, can you make his appearance reality? He can sleep off the hissy fit, whoever he’s after will be safe, and everyone else will be too! A nap might even sweeten his temper.” Self-preservation stopped her from mentioning how homicidal Wyn got when awakened for anything less than an invasion of gunmen. When Zita tilted her head, sparkling glitter and minute blue feather tufts shed everywhere from the mask she had borrowed, the only usable one in the closet.
Amethyst eyes wide, Wyn whirled around. She hissed, “How am I supposed to do that? I don’t want to be in proximity to him! He will go ballistic at the next opportunity!”
Glitter flaked when Zita shrugged. “You could sing a lullaby in his head? Or use the shiny woo-woo stuff, like when you heal.”
“It’s magic. Can’t you call it that?” her friend snarled. “Snapping my fingers does not constitute a spell, not to mention, a major tenet of my magic is that it harms no one.”
Zita raised both hands in the air. “Are you asking me or having a panic attack out loud? I know shit about magic. You wave your hand to heal and chant words to turn a two-inch chili pepper into a giant bush that’s even now sitting on my balcony. It can’t hurt to try snapping your fingers for a solution that doesn’t hurt anyone… can it?”
Lips in a moue, Wyn shivered despite the heat of the night as her attention returned to the white truck. “I suppose. Sleeping spells aren’t that uncommon, and it would be for the greater benefit.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Give me a couple minutes.”
Punching down impatience, Zita waved her hand, keeping her tone casual to pacify her ruffled friend. “Sure, I have nothing better to do. Help him sleep off his mad.”
It took ten minutes, but a pink cloud twined itself around the ursine man and soon his snores rang out in a counterpoint to the throbbing bass beat. “He must have amazing lung capacity to get that loud. Before, you had to walk by his open window to hear him,” Zita murmured, impressed.
Wyn turned her head and looked at her. “I put someone to sleep with an improvised sleep spell, and you’re awed by the volume of his snoring?”
She slapped her friend on the back. “Claro que sí, I knew you could do it. The snoring was a surprise. If he can belch that loud, he probably walks into bars, belches, and all the other dudes buy drinks for the king.” At her friend’s annoyed look, Zita tacked on, “Good work! Okay, so you go on in, and once you’re in safe, I’ll pussyfoot around back and we’ll look for Boris. If he goes out the back with you, we’ll talk to him there. If you go out the front with him, haul him over here and I’ll meet you.”
Still muttering complaints under her breath, her friend slung a handbag over her shoulder and sauntered across the street, veering wide to avoid the white pickup. The snoring did not change in cadence or volume. Within a minute, her friend set a hand on the muscle-bound bouncer’s arm, and smiled up at him. He escorted her inside. A snippy mental comment from within verified her friend was in the VIP section, and without a cover charge.
Right girl for the job, Zita gloated. Satisfied, she crept through the alley, darted across the street, and moved toward the back of the club from a couple shadowy alleys down. She adjusted her mask, now damp from sweat and the humidity of the hot night, more firmly over her face. Part of a feather drifted down during her rapid march to the nightspot, as she avoided lights and cameras as much as possible. As she neared the right alley, she slowed. The number of cigarettes Boris smoked at the zoo makes me suspect he’ll be heading out back on a regular basis. Wyn may miss him inside, but I’ll catch him out here—momentito, what’s that?
With a quick step behind the cover of the dumpster for another shop, she peered toward the door. Fragments of music and pulsing bass rose and fell weakly. Uniform navy paint, interrupted only by a crooked Employee Only sign, covered the entire rear wall the club, making it hard to ascertain the door from a distance. Burger and pizza aromas warred with the harsher odors of alcohol, cigarettes, urine, and trash. The light over the door was out. A billboard facing away from the alley threw light from atop a neighboring building, but only where light escaped the corners of the advertisement. Each time an overhead strobe turned the right direction, flickers of light flared and then failed to overcome the dimness, only fading black to gray. While the loading dock and dumpster for the club were on another side of the building, old liquor boxes and other assorted refuse warred with massive pots holding dead greenery. Deeper shadows pooled in the gloom thrown by the containers. Those shadows made her press deeper under the cover of the dumpster. Depressing. Even a cat would have trouble seeing in this light! Zita slapped control over her shape before she could shift. I didn’t take all that time to pick out a form to wear to lose it over a passing thought!
Still, her momentary distraction proved useful; the world brightened, and scents grew richer, darker, and more pungent. Her enhanced eyesight picked out the paint’s age and dinginess and allowed identification of the trash on the ground. Oh, gross. Thanks to the cat visual and olfactory senses, I can play count the condom and what’s that smell while I wait. The darkness beneath one pot resolved into a man’s form in a crouch, a long gun cradled in his arms like a lover. Her eyes widened, and she followed the point of the gun to the door. Shotgun on a sling, Zita recognized, her mind whirling. Sobek must be cutting Boris loose!
If that’s the case, Quentin and Jen may not have much longer!
Wyn! Can you hear me? Zita pretended to shout in her head. Wyn had claimed that she had stopped listening to everything, so unless Zita thought “loudly”—whatever that meant—she had privacy in her own mind again. She eased back further into the dark until her back almost touched the grimy wall of a building.
The reply carried irritable undertones. Yes, stop shouting! I said we were linked. Try to point the thought at me instead of whatever you’re doing. What is it? I’m chatting him up. The VIP area is decadent.
She narrowed her eyes. This mind crap is a pain. How do you “point” a thought? Zita tried stage whispering in her head; her lips moved, but it was the best she could do. A masked man with a gun is hiding out back. What if he’s partners with Sleepy in the truck? Could Sobek be taking out Boris because the cops are onto him? Can you put the gunman to sleep? Glitter flaked off into her fingernails when she scratched the itchy top of the mask, and she grimaced. She wiped her hand on her pants to get it off.
Much better! No, I have to see him to cast the sleep spell. Just keep away from him. I almost have Boris willing to leave, Wyn sent. Irritation did not accompany her friend’s words, so she must have adjusted the “volume” to Wyn’s satisfaction.
She eased her shirt away from her skin to allow respite from the sticky fabric. I got this, she began indignantly. No time. Find Boris and take him out the front to somewhere safe to question him. Let me know where and I’ll join you when I finish distracting this guy. Quentin’s location is more important, Zita sent back. She crept closer, ignoring the part of her brain berating her for getting closer to a man with a shotgun. Her feline instincts rumbled with delight in the stalk as did a more human part of her. Taking her time and full advantage of the shadows, she moved closer. If I can get to that pot, I can jump him.
His black clothing was cut close enough to his body to reveal where padding—bulletproof vest plates?—blurred a honed figure, an unyielding weapon of little excess fat or anything else, simply muscle and intent. He was immobile in the manner of a predator, all coiled muscle poised to strike when vulnerable prey came into position. A corner of her mind purred admiration … My taste in men may be off. She yanked her mind away from the analysis of his physique and studied his gear. Nothing identified him as a cop of any kind. Besides the handgun strapped in a hip carry on one side, his belt hung heavy with gear, including handcuffs, a coil of rope, and an odd, boxy gun. Ay, is that a grapple gun? I’ve always wanted one of those. If he weren’t planning to murder the key to Quentin’s location, I’d ask his regimen or the shop that sells the neat toys. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have the cojones. Gloves hid his hands, though the glimmer of skin at his wrists was pale. A square of black darker than the shadows was almost lost on the edge of a pot. Ah, a coat to hide the guns and war gear. A mask and goggles hid his face and hair. Her mind whirled, planning angles. Right, so if I can jump SWAT Ninja Man before he sees me, I should be able to—
“Close enough. What do you want?” a deep voice ground out. Her improved hearing picked out a slight electronic buzz to it. With a deceptively casual movement, Sobek’s assassin aimed his handgun at her with his left hand. The shotgun hung in his other hand. His lean form tilted away from her.
So much for my crazy cat stealth. Zita straightened and angled her own body sideways to reduce the size of the target she made. He holds those guns as if he were born with them, despite having two out at once. What now? She let her mouth run away with her while she schemed. With a heavy Mexican accent, she replied, “Peace on earth, good will towards men, and cinnamon brownies. You seen my cat? His name is Chalupa.” Her stomach growled, ruining the line. She offered him a bright smile, anyway.
Although his goggles hid his eyes, she thought he blinked. She gave him an innocent look, remembering her mask only when she ran her hand over the top of her head, forward and back. Her stomach growled again, the noise loud in the alley. Neither of them spoke.
Just then, the back door to the club opened, and a blast of electronic music poured out. Boris began to step out with the slow swagger of a man on the prowl, with the silver moonlight of Wyn’s pale hair gleaming behind him. “No, baby, it is my club. No one would dare—” he boasted with that awful accent that slid between German and Russian and back again.
The assassin braced his shotgun against his shoulder and fired faster than she would have believed possible. He gave a low grunt at the recoil. Boris squealed and fell back into the club, writhing and whining. The tang of ozone hung in the air.
Too late to stop his shot, Zita was already in motion. Although he managed the one shot at Boris, she knocked the handgun from his hand with a fast, spinning kick while his attention was split. She danced out of his reach, performing a quick bandeira, before rolling into another kick in an attempt to rid him of his shotgun.
He dodged, reloaded, and tried a brutal strike back that narrowly missed her, but prevented her from connecting.
Zita circled away to find a better opening.
He fired the shotgun.
Leaping and twisting, she evaded the shot. Get his ass to safety and find out where my brother is! Zita shouted mentally to Wyn.
On it. He’s dazed. You? Her friend sent back.
He reloaded again.
She dropped into a careful ginga, moving away. Perfecto. Save Quentin. Busy here.
Raspy, low, and electronic, his soft voice held notes of derision and thoughtfulness. “What are you trying to accomplish? Is that… capoeira?” This time, he tracked her movements, bringing up his other hand to aim the shotgun.
As she danced to the side, she narrowed her eyes, and continued to move, putting as many things between them as possible. Keep moving before he gets a clean shot. “Stop you.” Her answer came in gasps. “Stop, not kill. Holding back. I’m not homicidal like your boss Sobek.”
Zita sprinted to the closest pot and jumped into it. Without pausing, she used her momentum to bounce off the wall and flip onto the roof of the building next to the alley. She ran the edge of the rooftop, peering over to follow his progress. He tracked her with his gun, but retreated to the pot that held the rest of his gear. As she ducked behind cover, she softened her footfalls and thought furiously. The more time I can buy Wyn, the better, but I can’t get his gun away from here. If I teleport away, he’ll go after Boris again. Quentin, I love your dumb ass, mano.
Zita scoped out the rooftop. It held a lit billboard, the advertisement facing away from her, and the revolving spotlight that had made the lighting so odd in the alley below. Other than a few large exhaust fans, it was bare of anything save dark asphalt tiles and bird poop. Tile shards lay scattered across the roof in plentiful abandon. A stairwell entrance was the largest object after the sign and the light. The day’s heat radiated from the rooftop to her feet, and it smelled of warmed tar and exhaust, a welcome change from the alley. An extension cord for the spotlight almost tripped her in her attempts to sneak and monitor the gunman. Roofing shifted underfoot, and she dropped to a crouch in case the gunman took a shot. She peeked over again. His goggles stared back from where he waited. Her hand landed on a broken piece of tile; the gloves Wyn had ridiculed stopped it from piercing her skin. Scooping up the one that had assaulted her hand, she hefted it to check the balance. With a deep breath, she leaned down and threw it at the gunman.
It hit, but his armored vest prevented it from penetrating. She ducked back. The balance is awful. I was going for his arm. With quiet steps, she moved to a new position, scooped up another, and threw again. This time she did not wait to see if it hit before ducking back.
Right, hope that keeps you wondering about my next shot. I know I’m worried about yours. Zita halted and tracked the extension cord over to the revolving spotlight. As she considered options, she collected more tiles. The light continued to turn and wink. After chucking another missile at the gunman, she ran over to it. Although she averted her eyes from the light itself, her
shadow loomed in giant relief when it turned toward her. She bent down, below the light level, and studied it. Accuracy is difficult if you can’t see your target. As soon as she spotted the power switch, she turned it off. Following the cord, she found a power switch by the stairs and the socket for the lights. With a smile, she turned off and unplugged everything. The billboard went out. Maybe I can tie him up with the spotlight extension cord, she thought, before sounds distracted her.
A soft chunk sounded, followed by a whirring hum from behind her. As she turned, the quiet man leapt nimbly onto the roof, gun in hand. Grapple gun confirmed. I want one of those so bad.
She threw another piece of tile, this one away from herself to distract, and vaulted over a fan. Why do rooftops in the movies always have more hiding places than the ones I end up on?
With a deep breath, she peeked out. He was taking cover, handgun at the ready, shotgun on back. His head was tilted her direction. Zita threw another piece of tile in the same direction as the last, and somersaulted behind the stairs. Teleporting to the opposite side of the roof, behind the looming billboard, she scaled the access ladder, black with the loss of the strobe. More importantly, it hid her from him. She crouched in front of the sign and listened for movement.
