The Blood In the Beginning (6 page)

‘Thanks.' The jitters hadn't stopped. I retrieved my pack and zipped the money into the side pocket. My shirt went into the dirty laundry chute, headset in the tray. My tank top back on, I nodded to the guys. They didn't look up, which was a good thing. My body seemed to be on the verge of falling apart.

‘Nine o'clock start on Friday night,' Jason said, while picking up the phone.

‘I'll be here.' The words sounded without my consent. My legs felt like they would buckle on the way to the elevator and it took me a moment before I could press UP. The console was badly cracked. I wondered if that would come out of my pay.

Billy was on the front door, no sign of Raph. What a relief … I wouldn't have to deal with him.

‘I'm off, Billy.'

He tilted his head up the street. ‘No bus for half an hour.'

I could be halfway home by then. ‘Walking. See you Friday.' I set out, south on Grand, my mind a whirl. Everyone responds differently to fear. Some freeze. Some jabber like monkeys. Some lash out. Me? Throw fear my way, and I'd reach for my Ruger, flip off the safety, eyes alert, senses heightened. Steady. Ready. No panic. But not tonight. The
floorshow
had changed my usual MO. What can I say? The fight or flight response is a complex and delicate systemic reaction, and right now, it had me power walking down the street, as fast as my legs could take me.

A few blocks later, the inner city buzz quieted down. Traffic thinned and streetlights grew further apart. The air felt oppressive, smog taint burning my throat. Everyone prayed for rain, like that was likely. The coast hadn't seen El Niño since before I was born. It was a desert city, dry as old bones. Even water access was still a problem since the Aftermath took out half the mains. I kept walking. Tall buildings morphed into looming shadows. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting incandescent light, making my hands ghost blue. Pedestrians were few and far between.

My phone buzzed, and I jumped out of my skin. ‘Pull it together, Sykes,' I said to myself. It would be Cate on her break, wondering where the frigging hell I was. Before I could reach into my pack and answer, three drunk kids staggered out of the alley. One boy wolf whistled. I kept moving, and gave him a look that said
piss off
. They didn't follow.

The flyer for VIP Lounge was still in my hand.
VIP: Poseidon's deepest realm … where every fantasy comes to life.
Life? It looked more like death to me. I rubbed my thumb over the glossy finish, tilting it under the flickering streetlight, ignoring the buzz of faulty electronics. I could barely make out the fine print, but there was a number to call for interviews. Not just anybody could buy a ticket to VIP, even if they had the cash.

The next thing I knew, my knees hit the ground. Someone slammed me into the pavement. Flat on my side, I saw boots winding up for a kick. As I tried to roll away, a man grabbed my shoulder. He jerked me to my feet and hit me with three quick right hooks. White light flared behind my eyes and I fell to the ground again. Pain cut through me as something cinched around my wrist. My hand tingled like it was shoved into a bucket of ice water. The musk of aggression and lust rushed up my nose as I sucked in a breath. It turned into a gasp as the guy laid into me with his boots. After the third kick, my head cleared enough for a desperate move. I was in fetal position, my forearms taking the brunt of the blows. Before his next strike landed, I bridged to my palms and flipped straight to my feet. Flight over fight in full control, I ran for it, the perp dead on my heels.

A block later I was still in the lead. Would it last? I ran a fast sprint, but couldn't keep it up all the way home. Besides, that would bring the maniac straight to my doorstep. Too bad I couldn't have Rourke there waiting, cuffs in hand. No time to reach for my phone. I scanned the alleyways and took the first one that wasn't dead-ending any time soon. Halfway down it, I risked another look behind. Nothing. I ducked into the shadow of a doorway, checking to see if he would keep going down the main street. No such luck. Without hesitation, the guy turned into the alley. I tried to get a look at his features when a shot went over my head. He wasn't messing around.

I unclipped my Ruger and somersaulted to land behind a dumpster. It put me in a siege position, but he kept firing, so not much else I could do. I looked up, scanning my options. Yeah, an airlift rescue probably wasn't on the cards. I pulled out my phone and called Rourke.

‘I'm sorry. The phone you are trying to reach is switched off or out of service. Wait for the signal to leave a message.'

Perfect …

‘Oh, sweetheart?' my attacker's voice called out, taunting. ‘What're you running from?'

I'm running from the psycho-stalker, what do you think?

‘Sweet …'
Bang-bang.
‘Heart …' He punctuated his words with rounds from his handgun. What an idiot. Did he want to attract the cops? ‘Come out and play.' He elongated the word
play
in a singsong voice. Creepy, much?

I crouched behind another dumpster, covered in sweat, sucking in deep breaths. He kept up the taunts, giving away his position.
Could he be more confident?
Gunfire ricocheted off the metal garbage bin. I counted to three, leaned around the edge for a quick check. No one was there, but shots rained in and I slammed back. Peeking through a crack between the lid and the rim, I saw him heading toward me, kicking huge garbage cans out of his way as if they were styrofoam cups. He was ridiculously strong, and crazy. He picked up a full-size industrial bin, lifted it over his head and heaved.
No frigging way!
The sound of screeching metal as it skidded down the lane made me cringe. What I saw … it was impossible.

‘Sweet … heart.' Again, the singsong voice. ‘Why're you hiding? It's only going to make things worse.'

The threats weren't doing anything for my nerves. Like a switch flipping in my mind, I spun to fire. The stalker fired back. He was across the alley from me now. For the next fifty feet, it was roll, duck, fire. He kept it up, hiding behind junk, trash and a few parked cars, raining lead. Then my Ruger clicked dry. Out of shots.
Shit.
I slid it neatly behind my back, between my belt and panties. The stalker charged. His face looked decorated. A mask? I clocked him in the head with a roundhouse kick, my steel-toed boots hitting home. He staggered, weaving from side to side before he toppled over backward, crashing onto the ground.

I wiped sweat from my forehead as, incredibly, he stood back up and came at me like a wrecking ball.
What's this guy made of?
I dropped to a crouch and swept my right leg around to trip him up. He leapt over it and landed, fists swinging, pounding me into the ground. As my head found the pavement, I rolled onto my back and caught him with a kick to the crotch. He fell forward. I followed with a punch to the throat. It choked him back for a second, long enough for me to squirm away, find my feet and run. Through a cloud of pain, I saw my saviour — a kid taking out the trash.

His headphones explained why he'd risked doing it in the middle of a street fight. Was he whistling? I sped toward him, adrenaline zinging off my heels. His mouth fell open when he spotted me on a collision course. He raised both hands to ward me off. The garbage bag fell, crap spilling everywhere.

‘Sorry, buddy.' I tore past him and into his building, finding myself in the kitchen of a restaurant. It was muggy and smelled of deep fried fish, noodles and pad Thai. Chilli burned the back of my throat. It didn't make me want to pause and grab a takeout menu. Instead, I raced by two cleaners as they plastered themselves against the wall. I burst out into a dining room, but the yells from behind meant the stalker might be following.
What? He's not worried about witnesses?
I pulled chairs off tables as I ran for the front door, leaving hurdles in my wake, but my exit was blocked, chairs stacked head high in front of me. I was trapped, save for the huge window that sported the backside of a neon sign, Asian Jim's.

Without losing stride, I threw my hands over my head and lunged straight into it. The sound was deafening. Glass shattered as I tucked for a shoulder roll and hit the sidewalk. A thousand shards pierced my skin and pain screamed through my body. I nearly gagged, struggling to stand.
Oh, hell …
my shoulder had popped.
Keep moving!
I crossed the street, weaving in and out of traffic, horns honking, brakes screeching. A bus half a block down the street pulled up to the stop.
Maybe there's a god or two after all.

I reached the brightly lit bus stop, doubled over, breathless and leaking blood like a sieve. Not surprisingly, the small crowd moved as far from me as possible. I felt like one of those candy apples studded with crunchy sugar shards, only mine were made of glass. Couldn't have been a good look, but it gave me an idea. As I pulled myself up the bus steps, the engine purring beneath my feet, diesel fumes wafting up my nose, I said, ‘Costume party.' My voice rasped as air tore in and out of my lungs. ‘Can't be late.'

The bus driver didn't appear convinced.

‘East 101–299 Street?' The last thing I wanted was for him to scan my bus pass. With my good arm, I pulled out the wad of cash from Poseidon and passed him a c-note. ‘You didn't see me.'

He nodded me on.

I took the first seat behind the wheel, my eyes shifting down the street to Asian Jim's. A few workers stood around on the sidewalk, staring at the broken window. As the bus took off, a man emerged from the shadows, the next alleyway down from Jim's. He mimed a gun with his hand, took aim and fired at me. Must have been my guy, but I couldn't see his features. I swallowed hard and leaned back, the Ruger digging into my spine. The bus driver eyed me in the rear-view mirror.

‘Party.' I mouthed the words and slipped the piece into my calf holster, snapping it shut. If he called this in and Rourke wasn't around to intervene, I might be DNA scanned before I could tell my side of the story. Then I'd have a shitload of explaining to do. No way was I letting that happen, if I could help it.

The driver's gaze went to the traffic, the blinker flipped on and we lumbered down another street. I was surprised at the distance I'd covered from Poseidon. It would only be a short ride home. Surely I wouldn't bleed to death in that time. ‘Ketchup,' I said to the gay couple staring at me from across the aisle. The streetlights ran together like wet paint. The bus hummed along, and my super-hit of adrenaline started to wear off. I tried to move my shoulder to a better position, cradling it with the other arm, but as I did, I saw something digging into my wrist, tight like a tourniquet. I grabbed a barf bag out of the seat's side pouch and spewed. The gay couple changed seats and the driver eyed me again.

‘East 101!' His voice boomed over the mic.

Had I passed out? The bus was idling, but the glare of the inside lights made it impossible to see outside. He could be dumping me anywhere.
Work legs, work!
How the hell my feet were going to carry me, I didn't know. There was almost no feeling in my legs. I grabbed the armrest with my good hand and pushed up, nearly spewing again, but the move was so painful, it gave me a new rush of adrenaline. It might be enough to get me home.
Please be enough.
I staggered off the bus a block from my apartment building.
One foot in front of the other
…

When had it turned so cold? My body shivered uncontrollably as I walked, eyes on my steel-toed boots, shuffling along. Halfway home, a couple of kids in gang colours harassed me. I bent over, screamed with pain, and pulled my empty gun on them. They ran a mile. Poor kids, but I didn't have the energy to set them straight any other way. I dropped my Ruger down the storm drain, in case the cops got real interested in who shot up the back alley and decided it was my fault. Not to mention the exodus through Asian Jim's front window. The sewer was caustic as hell, treated to stem the cholera outbreaks. There would be no prints or retrievable DNA after a few minutes in that acid bath. I'd report it missing in the morning, feeling optimistic that there would be one.

The steps up to my apartment building looked like Mt Everest. I climbed, leaning half my weight on the railing. My wallet fumbled out of my hands when I tried to find my key card. Where it sat on the ground looked to be a thousand miles away. I dropped to my knees, groaning as I grabbed it. Standing up was another matter, and once through the door, it was a drunken stagger to my apartment. I swiped the card again and pushed the latch. The next thing I was face down on my apartment floor. Not sure for how long.

I woke to Cate's voice ringing in my ears as she flipped on the light. We both screamed when she rolled me onto my back.

‘Ava! What happened?' I think she was crying. ‘Your face … your hand!'

I swallowed a surge of bile, unable to answer.
That's not good.

‘We need an ambulance.' She was talking into her phone, giving out my address. ‘I think she was hit by a car.'

I tried to correct her on that assumption, but blacked out instead.

CHAPTER FIVE

The world came in and out of view, a montage of sounds and images. I caught a strobe of blue and green, gloved hands and nauseating shifts of perspective. People were all talking at once. The scent of plastic, antiseptic and chlorine bleach shot up my nose. And blood. A lot of blood. A pale green ceiling rushed over me, punctuated by flashes of fluorescent lights. A man's face came into focus. Too close.
Can you hear me, Ava?
I caught a hint of the ocean, clean and fresh. I could swear his lips weren't moving when he spoke. Next thing, he vanished and I was restrained. A searing pain ripped through my upper body. I screamed. A table went flying; instruments scattered like buckshot. I hit someone; either that or the wall, maybe both. Everything blurred into cotton wool as warmth tingled through my veins … damn, that felt fine. I stopped fighting, content to float about a foot above the bed in too-good-to-be-true bliss. Unfortunately, it didn't last.