Chapter One
There were six people on the main dance floor of the Sleeping Tiger that I could kill outright and sleep later like nothing happened. A three percent fatality rate on a Retrieval was higher than I liked but lower than I was often afforded; I’d take it. Of all the nights since I’d been blasted out of Faerie three years ago, this one was going pretty well. Bonus points, none of the six were with the Hodges boys that I’d come for, so I could ignore them for now. Of course the six weren’t the only ones to consider. I passed ten others I’d kill if necessary, and shake my head for the next few days at the waste. Eleven after that could fall to me, and I’d mourn them for a year, then off and on for the next twenty. That eleven stood out, for they were so close to good you couldn’t help but wonder what a few more hugs in childhood might have changed.
Around them boiled innocent bystanders; wanna-bes and has-beens hanging onto the Were-Goth scene by their acrylic fingernails and cosmetic fangs. Every one of them stood in my way. That’s why Unyanka had chosen the crowded night spot for the pickup. Unyanka; there was a black-hearted bitch I could kill twice for fun. It sounds bloodthirsty, but in truth, the world could only be made safe from some people with a well-placed bullet or well-timed claw strike. It’s a harsh world, I just live in it. Besides, her black-hearted bitchhood was not metaphorical.
A Canid Shifter, the literal bitch ran Inferno, the latest mystically-enhanced club drug, among whose lovely side-effects were black spots along the heart and liver. Unyanka was the type to sample her own product, but unfortunately, she didn’t have the good taste to succumb to the complete shutdown of the autonomic nervous system from over-indulging in Inferno, like forty percent of her clientele had done this last year. I’d have to kill her by hand. Shucks.
The downside? Not likely to be today. I couldn’t afford to go hunting for her if things got dicey. I’d still need to get the boys out alive with as little unavoidable collateral damage as possible. I trusted my aim not to strike an innocent bystander, but my gut said no one among her crew would be as careful if gunfire broke out. Save perhaps for that eleven.
That eleven; I tell you, hugs make all the difference growing up.
I scanned the Sleeping Tiger for the half-dozenth time, calculating the numbers again. A slow, focused inhale said the boys’ scent trail led deeper into the club, eventually I’d be signaled further into the building so we could take this private. Then I could get what I came for, collect my fee, and be done for a while.
Prioritizing the deaths of enemies—while relaxing in the nine-to-five—didn’t make the overtime particularly enjoyable, especially with so many non-combatants in the way. Just looking at them made me tired and ready for vacation time somewhere where no one knew to ask anything of me. This whole mess had gone on too long, and I needed some rest.
But first the boys; only fifteen and nineteen and more innocent than any I looked upon in the club. In a choice between downtime and peace of mind or them, well, I’d chosen them when I took the Job instead of skipping out to Vegas. Now I just had to see it through.
Finally, a signal came in the form of a six-foot-six linebacker of a security guard holding up a red striped t-shirt. It held the scents I’d been given and resembled the one worn by the younger Hodges boy in the security footage before the kidnapping. With a deft turn for his two hundred and sixty-some pound frame, the guard headed off through the VIP doors with half of the eleven in tow and I followed after them.
Great. A lower level and smaller room meant less innocents and more of Unyanka crew, hopefully even Unyanka herself. I immediately began to relax. I’d get the boys and get out and no one would get hurt who didn’t need to be.
Unfortunately, lots of people usually need to be hurt in this kind of situation.
Especially when things get dicey.
* * * *
Things had gotten dicey.
Both guns were out with the safeties off, and I backed up slowly from the crowd. In the abundant mirrors of the VIP sub-basement, even in seeming retreat, I looked rather impressive. Good. Impression meant everything with Shifters. When you added up the head-to-toe biker leathers, palm guards, custom Metal Storm 9mm in each hand and at least three knife sheaths visible hinting silver, I looked all that in scary-yet-feminine ass-kicking. Hell, a trench coat, a pair of shades and some theme music, and I’d be a regular box-office bad-ass. I’d have been feeling like a bad-ass too, but two things ruined it for me.
First among them, the way Carlyle—also known as handsome henchman number two and one of the eleven—kept looking at me. I’d swear he wanted to know how many licks it took to get to my creamy caramel center and had intention of finding out first hand, over an extended period of time.
Copyright 2007
(Originally Posted, Saturday September 8th, 2007 Edited: January 2nd, 2012)
