by Karen Diem
Fluorescents buzzed and hummed in the ceiling as light increased throughout the room. A pair of containers gaped open, one half-full of boxes, and the other empty save a throne-like chair and small table. A drop cloth lay discarded near the containers, and some wooden pallets cowered in a corner. The warehouse was barren of life, save for herself and the man by the door. The bodyguard tossed the TASER to the side, and it skidded along the cement floor until the weapon met the white cement block wall. The door slammed shut and then clicked. A red light above the door reflected on the polished metal of the ancient fire extinguisher moldering next to the exit. In the improved light, the escaped bodyguard stalked toward her, the ends of his bandage fluttering with his movements. A multitude of cuts covered his face, and he pulled a knife with his uninjured hand. Duct tape covered his nose at the bridge, a temporary treatment, she guessed.
“I’m having a bad day. At first, I thought perhaps your interference was the next phase of my audition process, but Pretorius informed me that he would be my only conduit to immortality. My friend here has to redeem himself, so you two get to divert me. Winner might get to live.” The voice she recognized as Jones, but the bodyguard was the only visible person.
I found Jones and the driver who got away, she sent to the others. They’re assholes. Zita scanned the room again, searching for Jones. She thought she caught a glimpse of movement by the computers again. I’m going to play stupid. People tend to assume I’m an idiot, anyway.
You’re playing? Andy questioned.
Shut up, jackass. I’m busy here. Zita gave a helpless grin and spread her hands to look harmless. Fabric rubbed against her cheeks, reminding her of the presence of her mask. Cold came up through the thin soles of her shoes as she acted casual and prepared to move. “Sorry, I don’t know nothing about no acting jobs, but that menacing thing is right out of a movie. I’ll put in a word for you if I see movie people. I needed a phone to call my ride. If you would unlock the door, I’ll be on my way.” Since she could guess what his response would be, she eased her hand inside the bag, wrapping her fingers around the screwdriver inside.
We’re coming, Wyn sent. It may take a few.
Jones’ voice came again, echoing down as if he were high up. “You may begin.”
Before she could reply or do anything, the bodyguard rushed at her, each step slapping down on the concrete. She dodged the first swipe, dancing a ginga to the side, and ducked the jab he threw at her head with his good hand. Perhaps he was unused to fighting people her size, since the blow might have missed without her moving, but the power behind it made her anxious to end the fight. Zita continued her movements, assessing him as she circled around him. I’m faster, and stronger than most my size thanks to the partial cat shift. He has weight and strength on me, but he’s injured and as coordinated as a drunken bull on ice. Ay, no time to linger on crazy times in Iowa. Gracias a Dios that this place has room for me to stay out of reach!
“More blood, less dancing!” called Jones.
“It’s not my fault if he got no rhythm!” she retorted. The bodyguard tried rushing her again, but she did an aú batido, cartwheeling over and kicking him in his chest, twice, as hard as she could. He was so much larger than she was that it failed to knock him down, but he staggered back a few steps. His greater mass threw her backwards, but she used that force to increase her speed and flip back into position. While he was off balance from that, she followed up with a low, hard sweeping kick to knock him off balance.
He almost fell, but avoided it, though he lost his knife to the ground.
Zita whirled around, giving another low kick, this time at the knife handle to spin it off and under a container.
He recovered, even as she retreated again, toward the container with the chair. The bodyguard followed while she debated if she could climb up the side before he could reach her.
Before she could decide, the bodyguard attacked in another frenzy of one-armed punches that drove her closer still. Although she dodged as many as possible, the few she blocked propelled pain shrieking down her arms; her arms would be black and blue later. His overhand punches are nasty. Zita swiped at him with her screwdriver, aiming for his arms. She scored a scratch down one arm, but her reluctance to kill stopped her from taking advantages of openings in his defense. With proximity, she could see the chair had creepy shackles, the same color as the stained black wood, set in the arms and feet of it. Blood and excrement clung to chair in a fearful miasma of scent.
“You need new furniture. That’s unhygienic,” she suggested as she danced, hoping Jones would give away his new location. Zita risked a look to see if she could find him. A soft noise sounded somewhere by the container of boxes, and a series of taps by the door. She glanced that way.
Taking advantage of her distraction, the bodyguard tried a sweeping haymaker, thundering up from behind her.
Zita turned, ducking under the powerful punch and scooping his leg out from under him. Grunting with the exertion even with enhanced strength, she shoved his leg up and rolled him over her shoulder. She smashed him into the ground.
He hit on his side with a crack and a cry.
With an internal wince, Zita stomped on his bandaged wrist and ran for the drop cloth.
He shrieked, curling up.
She flung the drop cloth over the dazed bodyguard and rolled him into the container while the disorientation lasted. He howled again every time weight came to bear on his injured arm. Slamming the container shut on him and the noxious chair, she threw the locks, and put her back against the door. Her breathing was harsh in her ears, and her heart was racing. Zita took a step forward, and inhaled, trying to bring her breathing back under control. Frantic, she looked for Jones.
A woman sobbed, babbling incoherently. Zita jerked her head toward the sudden sound. Quentin murmured something. With rapid steps, she jogged toward the monitors. En route, her nose recoiled at the stink of sour sweat and bitter swamp water. As she searched to locate the odor’s source, something barreled into her from above, knocking her down. Pain arced through her body, both from the hit and the subsequent collision with the concrete. As a boot headed toward her face, she spun away, not soon enough to evade the kick completely, but enough to avoid it crushing her face into the concrete. Side, shoulder, and cheekbone, she assessed, swearing, knowing the pain would increase as soon as her adrenaline wore off. At least my ribs don’t feel broken.
A hand seized the back of her head, fingers knotting in her mask and the thick hair of her disguise, and yanked her head up higher. Can’t let him cut me! Fumbling, she stabbed behind her head with the screwdriver clenched in her fist, even as she writhed and squirmed. Flesh gave way under the tool, and it pulled from her hand as the other person withdrew. Zita used the reprieve to regain her feet and locate her assailant.
Save the weeping, the warehouse was quiet again. Camera and audio from the container, she realized, moronic of me not to have realized it sooner. I can’t make the top of the box with these injuries. No noise came from the locked container. Inching sideways to get next to a wall, she spotted her screwdriver, blood dark against the metal and dripping off the end. After racing over, she seized it and held it defensively. She scanned the area, trying to ignore the pain radiating out from her side. “So, you ready to surrender yet?” she gasped, enunciating around her swelling lips and cheek. Her mask stuck to something wet and sticky on her face. Something rustled. Her breath released in a pained hiss as the volume of the babbling woman suddenly veered from noticeable into agonizing. In an involuntary action, her hands clasped over her ears. Her side and shoulder throbbed. Disoriented, she ran to the wall and put her back against it. Zita sucked in air, her hands still over her ears. I don’t know if I can avoid lethal at this point, she realized, distressed.
The earsplitting volume decreased to just painful. “I have to improve my recruiting standards. You’re not nearly as difficult to take down as he made it look. That’s probably what’s been slowing down my asc
ent. Not to worry, though, that’s only temporary. The world will tremble before Sobek soon,” Jones commented, stepping out from behind the other container. He held a Colt M1911 handgun in the classic Weaver stance, advancing until he stood seven paces from her.
Chapter 18
Zita froze, all except for her mouth. “Sobek?” she questioned, more to stave off death than any real surprise. Miguel, right again, hermano.
Jones grinned, all sharp teeth, glee, and lamentable breath. Darkness stained one of his arms, probably where her screwdriver had scored him. “Fitting, don’t you think? Though I’ll be concentrating more on the power and less on the whole impregnating thing once I take my place.”
Put like that, mythology sounded like an ancient form of bad telenovela or other television show. “Sí, sounds like a plan. You’ll want to keep all that, uh, you, to yourself,” she agreed. “So what’s with the horror house soundtrack?”
He chortled, letting another pile of steaming psychosis out. “I like to keep tabs on my object lessons. The girl is so emotional and irrational that she is a delightful confection. I had planned to use another, but she can wait. It may be for the best since I may have to do a quick job on them, thanks to you. All it will take is one touch of my phone to end them.”
“They have an app for that?” Zita cursed her mouth even as the words escaped.
He continued raving as if she had not said anything. “Someone annoyed me; he will pay, first with his brother. I’ve promised my informant good money for the pictures when he finds out they are dead. I may frame them.” The gun did not waver, though his eyes looked through her as if viewing a euphoric future. His smirk grew, as did the madness in his eyes. “After I’m a god-king, he will watch the excruciating glory of my expertise on his sister.”
As if unable to stop, her mouth opened up again. “So, you’re going for the crazy Olympics then? From what I’ve seen, you’ve got a good chance of winning, though you never know with those French judges.” Zita edged a few steps so his gun no longer lined up with the center mass of her body.
Jones snarled. Gesturing with the blued gun barrel, he signaled her to move away from the wall. “I will have respect! Enough delays! Why have you targeted my operations?”
With placating gesture she had seen Wyn use, Zita held out her hands. At the same time, she angled sideways to present a smaller target and calculated her chances of getting the gun away. She sidled toward the wall. Probably yelling at Wyn again, she attempted to send an update. Jones is Sobek. He’s trying to talk me to death. In case I don’t survive, Jones has some phone app that he can use to explode Quentin. “Just lucky, I guess?”
He clicked off the safety on his gun. Removing one hand from his gun, Jones fumbled with his pants. When he pulled a zip tie from his pockets, a pocket of tension dissipated in her shoulders. “Answer me, and you can have a speedy death. I don’t have time to give you the full lesson, but I can make your end agonizing.”
“Hombre, this conversation is already painful.” Zita kept her eyes lowered, watching him through her lashes. When he comes closer, I’ll shift and take him. Bear might work. If I can’t get the gun away, a handgun is less dangerous to a bear. I can’t leave without Quentin and Jennifer. Maybe I can teleport in using the video feed, and then teleport out with them. Since I can only go home or to major landmarks, it’ll be interesting.
He took a step toward her.
She tensed. Behind him, red light limned one side of the door. With a loud bang, the door flew open and off its hinges. Whether it was reflex or adrenaline, Zita did not even wait to see the results before she ran. Her side howled in pain, but only a whiny hiss escaped as she took cover behind a container.
Aideen strode in, fire crackling around her. “You took too long,” she addressed Zita.
“Impatient, much? I ran into Some Beak here and his pet thug,” she replied.
“Sobek! I am Sobek!” With a shocking disrespect for banter, Jones turned the gun on Aideen. Zita had to give him credit for prioritizing the threats in the room correctly. He fired a three shot burst at Aideen, and then another and another until his gun clicked empty. He jammed in another clip. His breath hissed.
Tiny sparks lit up the air around Aideen with each bullet, fading away. The woman of fire examined her fingers. “Sobek… why is it familiar? This is the drug-dealing kidnapper?” she commented.
Searching for something to throw, Zita offered. “It’s an Egyptian frog monster.”
“Crocodile god, not a frog creature, you idiots!” he snapped.
With a flick of incandescent fingers, Jones’ gun began to glow an angry red in his hands.
Jones threw it away with a yelp.
Turning her uncanny eyes to Jones, Aideen stared at him. She pointed. “Whatever, get on the ground and put your hands behind your head.” Another ball of fire began to grow in her hand. “Do not make me incinerate you. It complicates things.”
Looking between the two women, Jones bent his knees, and leapt up to the warehouse windows. Sliding it open, he bared his pointy teeth. Well, that explains how he was able to knock me down if he hit me from that high up.
Aideen shrieked and tossed a fireball at him.
He leapt out before it hit.
Snarling, Aideen flew out the door. Her hands filled with more hungry light as she exited.
“Wait! Don’t kill him!” Zita called after the other woman, racing after her.
When she burst outside, Aideen drifted a couple feet off the ground near the warehouse door while Jones hunkered down at the edge of the dock. “His phone explodes people! Don’t let him set it off!” Zita shouted. From the corner of her eye, she noted the camera on the door had melted. “Don’t kill him! You can’t risk the victims!”
Aideen threw her fireball.
Jones shrieked and jumped or fell off the edge of the dock.
Blowing smoke off her fingers as if drying a manicure, Aideen began to stroll toward the edge of the dock. Another knot of fire began to form at one hand.
Zita ran back to the warehouse and seized the fire extinguisher and the fallen TASER. Coming from behind the glowing woman, she sprayed her with the coolant.
Aideen spun toward her, getting coolant in the face.
When the flames went out and the other woman coughed and bent double under a thick layer of foam, Zita shot her with the TASER.
Aideen collapsed.
Throwing a sorry over her shoulder, she dashed toward where Jones had disappeared. Sparing a glance upward at the swaying container, she prayed. Below her, Jones clung to the ladder with one arm, mostly submerged in the water, and rested his head against the rungs.
Fear hammered at her. Quentin! She dropped both the extinguisher and TASER, and increased her speed. The fetid odor of burnt rubber assaulted her nose, superseding the scents of bitter river water and scorched meat as she climbed down the ladder to him. Water concealed most of his body, so she could not tell how injured he was. Her injuries screamed as she hauled him up further. She made a disgusted sound at the reek. “Crocodile, my skinny brown ass! He even smells like burnt frog,” Zita complained.
Scalded red and blistered, his face was recognizable. Seeing a spot less oozing than the others, she reached out to check his pulse. One arm snapped out and seized her hand. His eyes opened, all sanity gone. She had all of a few milliseconds to register teeth before he pulled them both into the water.
They hit with a hard slap, and water invaded her unprepared throat. He towed her deeper while she was fighting the disorientation, but then released her. Choking on the foul brown liquid, she shot toward the surface. Sputtering and gasping, she shoved her mask off her mouth. She sucked down as much air as possible, and then swam toward the dock.
One hand had just grasped the bottom rung of the ladder when she was yanked under and dragged through the water at high speed. Zita fought, kicking, punching, and at least trying to slow his progress, but the water softened even the strength of her feline-enhanced blow
s.
Without warning, the grip on her ankle released, and she jetted back to the surface. She gulped down air. She swam again, noting he had brought her even further out this time. Splitting her attention between swimming and watching for him—not unlike watching for sharks while reef diving—she stroked toward the shore. The reprieve allowed her to track him and to recall her free diving experience.
Jones followed behind her, mostly underwater. He had to be planning something.
She forced herself to be calm and focus, conserving her oxygen. When she reached the ladder again, the attack from behind was predictable. Zita twisted her legs and kicked at his face, hitting once or twice. New rounds of torment began in her side with the movement.
Jones gave a pained grunt.
It delayed his grab enough for her to take a deep hit of air before he pulled her under again. Her mind raced through possible changes, looking for the right one.
Precious time and air fled while he dragged her back out toward the middle of the river. His croaking, distorted by the water, warned her before his grip increased and Jones began an underwater roll in the murky river depths.
Zita stopped fighting and threw herself in the direction of his barrel roll, even using her free limbs to move faster. At least the cool water relieved her various sore spots, even if her shoulder protested the movement.
He paused, and the sound stopped. His face drew closer to hers.
Asshole thinks he’s a crocodile? She took advantage of the cessation to jab at his face, her fingers like claws. His grip slackened, and she slipped free. Even as her lungs burned for air, she swam for the shore again.
This time, he did not let her reach the shore or even the surface. He snatched at her, catching a handful of her sodden pant leg.
Black spots began to dance before her eyes. Desperate, she undid the waist tie and kicked her sweatpants off into his face, blinding him. She broke the surface and inhaled. The answer came to her.
