by Karen Diem
Zita? Are you okay? Wyn asked mentally.
Busy. You away? Zita sent back. Easing forward, almost on all fours, she edged along the billboard.
Wyn’s reply was slow, as if she had considered and discarded answers. Yes, we’re out.
Get the info! Can’t talk. Zita considered her options. The last thing she needed was Boris to get away, so she needed to escape and help Wyn if she could do it without being shot or leaving evidence. The billboard and the dark should hide her, but neither would provide protection if he shot her. Her first priority should be to get rid of the handgun since the sling made disarming the shotgun problematic. The fewer guns he can shoot me with, the better! As she focused on a plan, she calculated angles. If he is still in his last position, I can knock him down and disarm him. It’ll combine aerial work and capoeira. I should try the combination again when lives are not at risk; it will be a sweet move. She risked a quick peek out. He was there, body sideways to reduce his silhouette to where she had been hiding previously. His head faced her last hiding spot, so his chest made an excellent target. Bending down, he picked up something, and began to straighten, slow and steady. Perfecto.
She swung off the edge of the billboard and used her momentum to add force and speed to her kick. Despite his crouch, she hit him in the chest, knocking him down while she regained her feet. Zita struck his gun arm hard, kicking his gun away while he gasped for air. It spun across the rooftop.
Up again in a second, he twisted with enviable agility. The dark man attacked in a flurry of arm strikes, varied by a few vicious kicks. Her arms ached where she had intercepted those punches and returned a few of her own.
He has mad skills. Krav Maga, I think. I can’t play too much with Quentin at risk though. Zita felt her mouth curl up to a smile when he blocked. “Glad I didn’t kick you too hard,” she commented.
His only reply was, “What do you know about Sobek?”
Spinning away in a flurry of cartwheels and movements that would have made her instructors proud, she ran for the gun. He was fast, but she had seen where it had gone while he had to look. She pounced upon it, and spun around, assuming a shooting stance. Miguel is never finding out he was right about the position being automatic when you’ve practiced enough. “Don’t make me find out what the kick is on this baby or if you’ve messed with the safety. Hands away from the shotgun,” she warned him. Belatedly, she realized she was still using the cheesy Mexican accent. “Gringo.” Go me, camouflage and comedy in one obnoxious stereotype.
He stopped advancing and balanced on the balls of his feet. Light reflected on his goggles as he tilted his head at her. Not a word escaped him, but at least his breathing had roughened with the exertion, like hers. Immobile, he watched her with his head tilted and magnificent body sloped away.
Zita backed toward the extension cord in cautious steps, never taking her eyes from him. If I can get to that side street, the buildings will provide cover. I can teleport away to join Wyn while he searches in the wrong direction. With his gun and her eyes still trained on the man, she felt with one hand for the extension cord. Grabbing it, she moved to the edge of the building. Other than swiveling to face her, he remained still.
She grinned at him and jumped backward off the edge. Using the cord like a rope, she twisted around and swung down toward the street. Her gloves protected her hands, and the building was low enough she bet she could reach the ground before the cord broke or the light toppled. Instinct blared warnings, but she was too focused on landing safely to dodge. A shotgun boomed, and the shell hit while she was in midair. The gun dropped from her hand, sliding down into the street storm drain. Zita could have sworn he cursed. Her muscles seized, and she fell into the agony.
When she could produce a coherent thought again, she was on the ground, and hands searched her with a cold efficiency. Based on the coated plastic feel, the extension cord restrained her arms behind her. Her shoulders hunched up almost to her ears, her teeth chattered, and she wheezed. Sobek’s man shook his head when he unfolded the plastic bag she had pocketed to hold her clothes if she had to shift. At the time she had chosen it, the smiley face and “Have a Nice Day” message had seemed cheerful; now, it mocked her. He let it fall at her side. The search continued, slow and methodical, pausing again only when he ripped off the bagged homemade protein bars taped to her calves. He might have sniffed them before resealing the bags and dropping them on the taunting happy face. All sensation muted but the hurt, he loomed closer, a large utility knife moving towards her neck. Unbidden, a tear leaked from an eye, and she felt anger ignite. “N-n-no,” she forced out. Don’t touch me. Zita ordered her legs to kick at him, but the disobedient appendages just laid there. The searing pain began to subside.
Instead of the slice she expected, black-clad fingers curled around the edges of her mask, and the knife freed it from her face. Glitter and feather tufts drifted downward and clung to his pant leg. He jammed it into one of his pockets. “No weapons? Go home, amateur. This isn’t a game. You may have cost someone her life. Don’t lose yours too,” the stranger rasped. He stepped away, and looked down at her, then back at the club. As he walked away, settling his coat over his arsenal, he paused. “My path goes past cameras, if you decide to be even more foolish.” Even electronically altered, the disdain in his voice stung.
“Morality… from Sobek’s man?” she managed a derisive whisper. Her teeth wanted to chatter despite the heat, and every muscle hurt. A whimper escaped. Now that the agony had receded to extremely sore, she attempted to get her body to move. One of her toes twitched.
He turned and looked at her. “I’m freelance,” he stated, striding back to her side. One gloved hand grabbed her head by the thick hair of her long braid. It might have hurt if her entire body had not already felt like a large stick had pummeled it. “Where does he keep prisoners?”
Her eyelids slid to half-mast. “I don’t know… yet,” she answered in slurred Spanish. The worst of the pain subsiding, she drew up one leg, then the other.
He released her even as she braced for a blow and stepped back, out of range of her feet, and then out of her line of sight.
By the time she regained sufficient motor control to raise herself up on an elbow and look for him, he was gone. Zita grumbled and felt for the ties at her wrists. Smooth plastic greeted her fingers, coiled in a knot with sharp metal threads at the ends. He knows how to tie a girl up, but not show her a good time. Skilled enough to do all that, and he doesn’t even give me credit for disarming him, she griped internally as she worked to release herself. It was not happening with her arms behind her, so she curled up tight, and brought her arms down. With a grunt of effort and a little more pain, she brought her arms over her feet so they were in front of her. The severed end of the extension cord waved at her from the tie. If he had used a better material, she would have had more trouble twisting out of it and getting the complicated knot undone.
Rubbing her wrists, she checked the side street. It was deserted, the reason she had wanted to escape down it. Her clothes bag laughed at her, looking up at her from where the dark man had dropped it at her side. She snatched up her protein bars from where they lay piled like a toupee on the happy face, wincing as her ribs protested. Most of her body felt as though she were one enormous bruise. The raw spots on her legs where the street had abraded her skin were only a minor annoyance in comparison. Zita moved back behind a dumpster, trying not to dwell on the stench. One of her legs and her ribs passed agony back and forth, so she endeavored to ignore that too; she must have landed badly or bounced when he shot her.
I should go to meet—no, what if someone innocent gets that gun? What if it washes out and kids play with it? She grimaced. Guilt rose. Am I so lazy that I can accept the chance? I suppose it couldn’t hurt to have a way to identify that superior pendejo if we cross paths again too. I’ll take one moment first. Zita leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, marshaling her will against the pain. Her own breathing sounded too loud
and fast; she forced it into a more regular pattern. One arm wound itself around her middle; the torture in her ribs at deeper breaths informed her that her fall had been worse than she had first guessed. Bad time for adrenaline to wear off.
“Are you alright?” A voice interrupted her self-absorption, coming from the street.
Zita forced her eyes open. She got a brief impression of light hair and shimmery fabric as someone touched her arm. Her breath hissed through her teeth as the Wyn turned her around and pain escalated. “Fine. Ribs got a bump.”
Cool hands grasped her wrist, fingers centered over where her pulse throbbed. “Were you shot? You need a thesaurus. Try ‘broken’ or ‘fractured.’ Thank the Goddess I came back.”
She blinked, and turned to the other woman, but the movement put additional stress on her sides. Zita gasped, even as purple eyes, surrounded by curling silver tendrils, met hers. “Wyn?” slipped out before she could stop herself. “What are you doing here?”
Her friend lifted a shoulder. “I disliked the content of your communication, and once he stopped vomiting from his seizure, Boris declined to speak to an undercover agent.” Green light began to emanate from her hand, sending a cooling frisson across Zita’s abused body.
Air broke from her throat in a gasp as she inhaled without accompanying discomfort. “Seizure? That was a stun bullet. They’re new and amazing if you enjoy agony. Why did he think you were a spy? You’re…” Her instincts shied from saying it aloud. You’re a research librarian at a university.
“I’m gorgeous and alleged that he kidnapped people, according to him. Additionally, when he asked if I worked for the government, I didn’t deny it.” Wyn’s eyes gleamed. Stop interrupting. The University is a state school; therefore, the government pays me. Back to Boris, his group took Quentin and a woman two nights ago. He sent the flyer to lure them here and called the others when your brother arrived. Sobek’s bodyguards hauled them off though, rather than sending them down the usual channels. More of Sobek’s people would have been here tonight, but they took a female cop earlier and the others are dropping her off. She frowned. Aideen invited me clubbing tonight, but I turned her down for this. I hope he didn’t mean her.
Zita winced, remembering the living flame eating up the hospital pavement with every step. “Thanks for the healing. Can you keep watch on the street for a minute?” Standing, she tried an experimental stretch. Her muscles were warm, but nothing hurt.
Wyn nodded and scurried to the street. “I got an address he dropped off his kidnap victims at. Can you try getting hurt less? It’s hard on your friends.”
Once she verified passersby and cameras could not see her, Zita took off her clothing, folded it, and set it in her bag. After shifting to a smaller yellow anaconda, she slithered over to the storm drain and dropped inside before she could consider her actions too much more. It sucks for me too. I haven’t had so many injuries so close together since the cancer. Wait… how’d you heal me without candles or your other paraphenalia?
Sheer desperation? I guess all I need is a few hand gestures and the intent to make the spell work, perhaps because of all the practice you’ve been giving me. Wyn stepped away from the street as a car passed.
I prefer less painful practicing! Zita asked the next question as she glided through the sewer. People are animals. So how’d you get all this information so fast?
If you ask a question, the truth floats to mind first, Wyn replied. I asked many questions quickly.
A few minutes later, Zita reemerged, carefully coiling to get the gun and her body out of the drain. She was grateful it had been a dry week, so the filth had been minimal, at least to her and the serpentine instincts she borrowed. Did you find out anything else?
“Sobek and his newest pet, one of his bodyguards, are freaks like us,” Wyn answered. She shifted from foot to foot.
Zita hissed. We’re not freaks, we’re awesome. What can they do? She moved the gun toward her bag.
Although her friend faced the street, Wyn tilted a shoulder in a shrug. “Sobek can do something with water.”
Zita’s answer was wry. He must be sorry none of that exists here on the East Coast, near a giant estuary.
Wyn choked on her laugh.
A college girl with big hair, a miniscule shirt, and no pants stumbled out of the bar, leaning on a man. She giggled. “I’m so…” she began, as her reddened eyes caught sight of the snake. She stopped, teetering. Her brows lowered as she struggled to comprehend what she saw.
Don’t let me stop you getting laid, lady. It’s not as if I’ve gotten any lately, Zita thought. This back exit is way busy. She flicked her tongue, a low hiss escaping.
When her eyes focused on the anaconda, the woman shrieked and fled, almost running down Wyn. Despite the stripper heels and inebriation, she had an impressive sprint. Without even looking to see what had frightened his companion, her suitor staggered after her, clumsy even in his more sensible shoes. Ay, no stamina. You’re better off without that one, blondie, Zita heckled mentally, gliding back to the dumpster. She shifted back to her disguise form.
Wyn turned around before she could dress. Grumbling, she said, “You should try keeping your clothes on for the entire day. That or charge for the shows.”
“Sounds like a boring-ass day,” Zita replied. After pulling on her borrowed clothing, she put the gun into her bag. She grinned and tore into a protein bar. The pair headed for the street.
The other woman shook her head, but her lips curved up, and the little worry line between her brows disappeared. As they passed under a lamp by the alley entrance, Wyn tittered. “Where’s your mask? Do you know you have a rip in the rear of those pants?”
“What?” Zita twisted and tried to see.
A hand rose to hover over rosebud lips. “Nice puppy panties. You know, you can keep those capris,” Wyn said.
Zita mumbled a profanity and moved forward again. The ground stung her feet through the thin soles of her shoes. She kicked trash out of the way and chewed. “I guess it’s good I don’t have much of an ass or it would be falling out of these pants.”
Bell-like laughter trickled out from the woman jogging to catch up. They peered out at the street in front of the club.
“Looks like your buddy got woken up. Hope he chilled out after his nap,” Zita said.
“Where’s Boris?” Wyn queried. She poked her head out further. “I left him hiding by the white truck! I couldn’t talk him into answering questions, but he was going to take my advice to run. He refused to do so without going back for a stash of money he has hidden, but he said he’d wait for me to scout for the assassin before he left.”Her friend rushed across the street and dodged into another alley.
Plastic bag banging against her leg, Zita followed. “Why are we wigging out? I mean, if it’s time to panic and all, cool, but I’d like to know why?”
“Wait here.” Wyn hustled to the bouncer. Light haloed her face as she consulted with the bouncer. When she returned, she sank down on the curb and lowered her head in her hands. “He woke up! The bouncer told me Boris and another man got into the pickup truck.” she wailed. Lowering her voice, she moaned, “Boris is going to be beaten to death because my spell was inadequate.”
Zita gave her back a tentative pat or two. The lights of occasional cars glowed in the distance, but this area was awash with the gaudy neon from the strip of bars and clubs. “Your spell was fine. He got woken up. Maybe a nap mellowed him or SWAT Ninja Man woke him.” Warm pavement and lavender began to seep through the dissipating cigarette smoke and exhaust.
“Who?” The other woman looked up at her.
“The hot gunman in the alley.” At the other woman’s incredulous look, she blathered. “His clothing was all leather and bulletproof. He had to be melting. His ass was the best I’ve seen in a while, though. Right! I’ll see what I can do.” Zita strode back toward the alley, her eyes scanning for cameras. Hooking her thumbs in her waistband, she began to shuck her clothing before h
er friend rushed up and grabbed her arm.
Wyn stepped in front of her. “What are you doing? They have minutes on us, and even an old car goes faster than a bird if they hit a highway. Even if you catch up, what will you do?”
Her mind raced. She had neglected to consider that. “Traffic could have delayed them. I’ll follow them and let you know where they’re going.” Genius.
Exasperation tinged Wyn’s voice. “And then what? You’re going to watch while they pound on Boris or worse? Do you think you can take that giant ball of fury?”
Her fingers stilled. “In a fair fight, no, he’d beat me any time. Fair fights are for show or for dead people. He might retreat from a jaguar or bear.” Zita took a deep breath. She hated it when her friend was all logical in her counterpoints, emphasizing how ill-conceived Zita’s plans were in contrast.
“Great, assume he’s frightened by exotic wildlife. What about the gun-toting assassin who has already beaten you once?” Releasing Zita’s arm, Wyn folded her arms across her chest.
“No, I, no, we beat him. We rescued Boris from him and got what we wanted. He only caught Boris after the moron refused our help. So go us!” She did a lame fist pump in the air.
Wyn shook her head. “Perhaps, but he has what he wanted. How badly did you hurt him?”
Zita looked away. “I bruised him, and he’s down one gun.”
“Right, and I healed far more serious injuries than that on you.” Wyn pointed a finger at Zita.
Zita began to put her clothes back on. “It’s not about who beat up who worse. We achieved our goal first, therefore we won.” She lifted her chin.
Wyn shook her head. “You couldn’t stop them, even if you found them. At worst, you’d lose your life trying to help a slime who kidnaps people. That old dog won’t hunt.”
Tilting her head, Zita asked, “What dog?” She tucked the plastic bag with the gun under an arm to disguise the distinctive shape of a weapon.
