by Karen Diem
The blond—Pretorius—grunted in negation as he turned back and spotted the alcohol. “The operation should have dedicated guards at all times, especially when you’ve got guests downstairs. No drinking on duty, either. Make the change. Are the samples in the bag?” He nodded at the lunch bag.
The other man nodded. “Yes, the blood is in there. I threw in a small bag of the best of the pink ice too. That shit turned out almost red.” He licked his lips and set the beer down.
Pretorius acknowledged the comment with a nod. He flicked another glance at the man patiently shaving matches in the next room. “Why is he in a surgical mask? Was there a spill?”
“Oh, him? He’s paranoid. The guest you came to pick up? She’s been running a high fever, and he’s worried he’ll catch it. Don’t worry, we dosed her with extra sleep juice, and that brings it down. Figure it’ll break soon.” The drug dealer waved Pretorius’ concern away with his hand.
Carajo. Some woman they’re holding is way sick. That might be why Jen’s dad was frantic.
Flaxen eyebrows climbed. Pretorius swore in a patois Zita did not recognize, but she understood the tone. Her ears buzzed, and she shook her head to clear it.
When Pretorius ran out of invectives, he let the other man know his opinion in plainer language. “You lot may kill her or make her brain damaged if you’ve given her that much. The point of taking and keeping them healthy is to maximize profit. Take an extra blood sample and then dispose of her. Don’t waste any more drugs on her.”
“Shit. That’s how they brought her to us. We were trying to keep the merchandise ready to go. She’ll be fine when it goes down.” The drug dealer ran a hand over his greasy scalp and propped his other hand on his hip. He seemed ready to continue when the bodyguard speared him with a flat, cold gaze.
“Dead or brain-damaged has no value. If she infects the others, we’ll go from being short on what was promised to no shipment.” Pretorius’ voice dropped, and she had to press her ear against the window for the next few words. “Do you want to explain that to our buyers or to Sobek?”
His face pallid, his scruffy companion shook his head. Sweat beaded on his brow. “No… No, sir.”
Pretorius nodded.
Zita eased down from the window and flattened against the side of the house. We need to get her out before they kill her, she sent, shaking out her arms. The other two sent their assent, with Wyn’s wavering. Her stomach churned. Is Quentin one of the others she could infect? After catching hold of the window, she pulled herself back up to continue watching.
The drug dealer stared at the empty television screen and took a deep breath. “Look. I don’t have a problem getting rid of her, but we’ve been using blood samples from the prisoners to make the pink ice. The cost of the drugs is nothing compared to what we’re raking in. Regular blood won’t work like theirs. Can we keep her until her condition requires too much care or we get another group to use for the pink shit?”
She recoiled. Eww. They’re making a drug using blood from people. They’re storing people in the basement.
Wyn’s tone was bitter. This keeps getting better and better, kidnapped people, drugs, and Soylent Green. I refuse to discuss the unhygienic nature of that or the blood borne disease vectors that creates.
We have to help the captives, Andy sent.
Pretorius tapped his fingers on the oversized knife on his leg. After a moment, he withdrew a phone from his pant pocket. “That’s the secret ingredient? Interesting. Perhaps you can keep her for a few days then. I’ll check with Sobek, but my advice is to kill her.” He sent a quick text and then pocketed the phone. “The passage is upstairs? I’ll go explain the change in procedures to your men, and then evaluate the amount of trouble your patient will cause.”
The drug dealer nodded, tension easing out of his shoulders. “Aiight. She’s due for another hit soon anyway. This way,” he answered, ambling out of sight.
As soon as Pretorius followed him, Zita dropped to the ground. Andy, I’m going to need your help. If Jen’s unconscious with this fever or the tranquilizers they’ve been giving her, you may need to carry her. I’ll check the basement of the place on the right first, and switch to the left if she’s not there. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can slip inside and join me. When she slipped over to the darkened door, she pulled out her spare picks, blessing the urge that had prompted her to bring them. A few seconds, and the door clicked open.
Andy’s tone was brisk. On my way.
I’ll follow in case I need to heal the poor girl, Wyn inserted.
Opening the door as little as possible, she slid into the blackness of the kitchen. The glow of several cell phones charging provided the only illumination. After appropriating a phone, she clutched it to her chest and continued a few more steps. With the assumption that this kitchen was a mirror image of the lit one on the other side, Zita snuck to where she thought the door would be. When she found a handle, she pulled. Light and cold air splattered her as she stared into an old fridge filled with test tubes of blood, junk food, and colorful banded bundles of cash. With an internal sigh, she held the fridge open so she could use the light to find the basement door. Not completely symmetrical row houses. She closed the fridge.
When she went to ease the basement door open, it stuck. Creaking sounded from upstairs or next door. Zita ran her fingertips over the lock until she felt the bump of the thumb turn. After unlocking it, utter darkness challenged her. Fumbling with the unfamiliar phone, she turned it on, and used the light from the screen to go into the basement. Paint flaked under her hand as she touched the metal rail that ran down one side of the bare wooden stairs. The basement held an ancient furnace, a fuse box, a table with scattered medical paraphernalia, and two cots. A form shifted on one cot, moving beneath a cover. Exposed pipes and wiring ran the ceiling and unfinished walls while the floor had the cool solidity of cement underfoot.
“Jen Stone? Is that you?” She hurried over to the motionless form. The warmth emanating from the unconscious person, even through the blanket, was alarming. Hurry, I think she needs a hospital. Steeling herself, she turned the person onto their back, and pushed the phone close to their face. The face was familiar, but not one she had been expecting. It’s Aideen! The sick woman is Aideen!
Surprise came through the link with her friends. I’m heading in now, Andy sent.
Her brain offered an alternative to a fever, and Zita felt herself go pale. We need to get her somewhere safe and nonflammable before she wakes!
Sounding puzzled, Wyn said, Of course.
A loud thud sounded upstairs. Wood creaked.
When she went to drag Aideen away, something prevented her from moving far. The light of the phone revealed the handcuffs holding the cop to the bed. “Ironic, and I don’t have the right tools for this,” she muttered. She tucked the phone into her cleavage, struggling to work with the weak light glowing through her shirt. Pulling her smallest pick, she set to work on the handcuffs.
Aideen’s eyes fought their way open, pupils dilated and unfocused. She made a querulous noise.
“You were kidnapped. I’m trying to rescue you. Be quiet so I can free you,” Zita murmured, slipping into her Mexican accent. The last thing she needed was Aideen to recognize her. The ceiling creaked again. She looked upward. “You’d think he’d know how to walk quietly with all the martial arts,” she whispered in complaint. As the other woman’s eyes slid shut again, she pulled off the blanket to better reach the other cuff.
As the second cuff released, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and the light clicked on. Tears sprang to her eyes at the sudden light, and she turned partially toward the stairs to give Andy a piece of her mind. Startled, Pretorius and his drug-dealing companion stared at her as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The bodyguard dropped into a combat-ready crouch closer to the furnace; the drug dealer opened and closed his mouth. She touched her face—the fabric of her mask met her fingers. “Oh, hey, how you doing?” she dela
yed, inserting a genial tone to her voice. Zita fiddled with Aideen’s blanket to cover her movements as she surreptitiously slid the pick back into her fanny pack, keeping turned away. The fake Mexican accent had thickened as well. Other people had comfort food, or lucky clothing; she had a cheesy accent. Go figure. She would have to remember that any last words would be unintelligible due to it. Straightening, she faced them, with Aideen at her increasingly sweaty back.
Pretorius started to go for his gun, but paused. He straightened. The dealer stared at her and stumbled over to stand next to the tense bodyguard. Zita liked the way he was in Pretorius’ path if the big man chose to charge her.
“So,” she stalled, injecting a cheerful note into her voice. Zita smoothed her pants, wiping sweat off her hands. “I am collecting for the Ninja Widows and Orphans Fund and was trying to see if the lady wanted to contribute. She seems to be a deep sleeper, so would you be interested in donating? Cash only, please.” Hurry, Andy, I have company. Two men, the tall blond one moves like a soldier, the other is a street brawler, and they both have guns.
The big blond man sighed. “I’m not paid enough for this.”
The drug dealer scoffed. “A Mexican ninja? There’s no such thing.”
Zita sniffed. “Of course there is. No one has seen us, because, duh, we’re ninja. That’s our thing. Makes it hard to collect for charity though.” Despite the precariousness of the situation, she grinned under her mask. Two guys cornered me in an enclosed space, and they both have reach on me. Andy? Where are you, mano? The fierce heat at her back reminded her she might have other backup if the other woman woke. That or another problem.
“This is why I called your security pathetic,” Pretorius said in a calm tone. “If this nut job—”
“Ninja,” Zita interrupted, enjoyment easing awake. It was wrong, it was dangerous, but it was fun.
“Can get in, your security needs serious work,” he finished.
Busy, Andy replied.
Brows lowered, the drug dealer continued to gawk at her, and drew his gun.
Pretorius slapped the gun down without taking his eyes from her. “Unless you have rubber bullets in there, no, not with what you’ve got on the other side of that wall, you idiot.”
Most of the time I wish people would take me seriously. Now someone is, and I wish he wouldn’t. Also, chalk up another idiot who doesn’t know how to hold his gun. Does no one know how to handle a firearm these days? She held her hands in the air, the blanket hanging from one hand. “Don’t mind me. Let each other know how you really feel. That shit’s good for the soul. I got time.”
The drug dealer holstered his gun and pulled out a switchblade. It was a sad and dingy little thing compared to the massive combat knife the other man had belted at his waist.
Never one to let an opportunity pass by, Zita held a hand to her mouth, as if shielding it from Pretorius. “Hombre, you might want to put that away. It doesn’t look right next to the knife porn he’s got going on,” Zita stage whispered, pointing a finger at Pretorius’ compensation toy. Andy? You coming?
“How many of you are there?” Pretorius demanded.
The drug dealer looked at Pretorius’ knife and then back at his own. He looked… sheepish.
Fighting… Trying not to kill anyone. Andy sent. Stay… alive.
Aideen stirred behind her. You too. Zita shifted position to hide the motion, mind whirling. The dealer would lose it soon; she would keep up the absurdity until then. If he blocked Pretorius from getting to her, her chances improved. “Ninjas? No one knows. It is one of the many mysteries of my people. The problem with counting ninja is that someone sneaks off and hides, and then jumps out to get the census taker. Then they have to start again later, because you have to have a massive kung fu fight at that point. Anyone within a mile has to join in. It’s required. In the bylaws even.” It had to be wrong to enjoy this so much.
Pretorius pinched his forehead again as if the pain would aid him. “Right, a comedian. Why is she not already down and giving us answers or dead yet? How many of you are in the building?”
“She sounds like she’s on the pink crystal,” the drug dealer commented. “I don’t believe in Mexican ninjas.” He was sweating more than she was, she noticed, and she had the excuse of standing in front of the human furnace.
Zita tried prodding. “Oye, pendejo, the proof is standing in front of you. How dumb you got to be to ignore what’s right in front of your face?” She angled her body to present less of a target and scanned the room. Another thud sounded upstairs.
“I can see the tag on the shirt you used for your mask. Real ninjas don’t have wash instructions on their head,” the drug dealer argued.
Zita resisted the urge to check for a tag, but it was close. She blinked. “Why do you think we need a fundraiser?” Her fingers itched to check.
“Enough humor. How many of you are in the building right now?” Pretorius ground out his question.
The drug dealer’s face was a mix of emotions, and she wished he would choose an action. “It’s just me, unless others are horning in on my territory. If they are, they’re hiding because, you know, sneaky bastards. So are you going to donate or what?” Another thud sounded, this one accompanied by a shriek.
When their eyes flicked upward, she tossed the blanket at the drug dealer, using him as cover to get to the stairs. Zita leapt up, grabbing the rail and pulling herself up. She slid under the rail and came to her feet on the stairs. Need to keep them from killing Aideen. “I’ll collect your donation for you,” she suggested as she ran up the stairs. When she reached the top, she glanced around the barren kitchen, and then slipped behind the door. The light from below was enough to keep her from having to work blind. Heavy footfalls raced up the stairs. When a shape appeared in the crack between the door and the frame, she slammed the door into his face, once, twice, and then again. Whoever she hit fell, and she heard exclamations and a series of thuds as they fell back down the steep stairs. She grinned at the swearing. Distraction outside, coming up! After confiscating two cash bundles from the fridge, she ran across the kitchen and flung open the back door. If you’re out back, get out or hide well, Wyn, and not near the cars.
Heavy feet raced back up the stairs, and the door exploded backwards. If she had still been behind it, she might have been seeing little birds, or pies, or whatever one saw when concussed. Birds were interesting, but pie had more appeal. Pretorius, blood smeared on his shoulder, panted at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, hey. How’s it going? I got your donation, thanks!” she said lightly, fanning herself with the money and then tucking one block into her fanny pack in slow motion. The wall connecting to the other half of the duplex shuddered, and wailing began, a panicked, high-pitched sound.
I’m in the living room. Where is the basement? Wyn said.
“Take off your clothes! Wash it off!” a man—it sounded like Andy—shouted through the wall.
Zita’s smile dropped off. She had to get her friends out of the house. So much for the fun. Get out the front door, Wyn! Forget the basement. I’ll teleport with Aideen once we lose these jerks, and figure out how to lie to her later.
Pretorius ripped the microwave off the wall. Hefting it in one hand, he threw it at her. Her eyes went wide as she ducked, rolling onto the porch. The microwave flew past her, taking a chunk off the doorframe and landing on the stairs.
Remember Boris was mad about Sobek’s new friend with powers? I think I found him—super strong. Get out, Wyn! In preparation to leap, she perched on the porch rail, using a hand to hold a post for better balance.
Right next to her, the door to the other kitchen bounced open, letting the light inside and the man who had been scraping matches pour out. He sprinted like a frightened rabbit, unwilling or unable to waste breath on screaming, instead displaying his lack of running prowess.
The open door allowed her peripheral vision to see Andy holding a mostly naked man’s head under the sink faucet. Her friend
batted at a few other men with his free arm. His pants were missing; his boxers displayed in all their Batman glory. The loser in the sink coughed and sputtered. Are you out yet, Wyn?
She lost interest in Andy’s sudden fetish for dunking drug dealers when Pretorius thundered out the doorway after her. Waiting for him to get closer, Zita vaulted off the rail before he could lunge, spinning to her feet.
He jumped after her, landing heavily.
Zita leapt on top of the Mustang to avoid him, shoving the remaining block of cash into her shirt to free up her hands.
Pretorius grabbed for her and missed.
From there, she leapt to the top of the SUV, and balanced, taking a moment to look behind her. The light let her see the frustration on his face—or was he glowing? “Are you glowing or are you just that white? The sun’s not your enemy, hombre,” she asked, exaggerating her snicker. I’ll try to distract him so you can get out, Wyn.
He paced around the SUV, with her turning to face him. Moving fast for a man his size, but not as swiftly as she could, Pretorius snatched at one of her ankles.
Evading his grasp, Zita tumbled down the hood and back onto the Mustang. From her shirt, she pulled out the cash (or as she thought of it, the guaranteed distraction) and waggled it at him. “Aww, no mad face. God loves a cheerful giver, you know.”
No, not yet, Wyn sent. Some criminal is running around in here, so I’m hiding behind the curtains.
Silent, Pretorius strode to the Mustang. He glared at her. She readied herself to bound to the other car and was astonished when he leaned down and hoisted the Mustang on its side.
Prepared to jump anyway, she tumbled to safety, but the bundle flew from her hand. The landing was harder than she would have liked. Judges are not impressed by sloppy landings. Zita recovered in time to see Pretorius charging her.
