On The Rocks (6 page)

Left or right at the corner?

No doubt there were more crowds waiting on
either side, and crowds weren’t her friends at the moment.

But that was her only out.

No doubt her shadow knew that too. He’d be
waiting to make a move.

Get to the corner.

Boots clomping on the pavement, breath
thundering out her nose, she pushed the pace harder.

The man huffed behind her, loud enough to
put him right on her heels.

Quarter block to go.

Go faster
.

Was that a breeze, or his breath on her
neck?

She wouldn’t make it.

Heart in her throat, Kizzie raced by a chain
link fence and did the only thing she could do.

She broke left.

Jammed the toe of her boot into the space
between the links and then did it again, and again, spidermonkeying
up and up until she was high enough to vault over the top rail. She
dropped to the ground in a crouch; let her knees absorb the
impact.

Holy hell! Her thighs burned as she powered
herself upright.

The gate clanged right behind her.

Her shadow was with her so no need to look
back.

She gunned down the darkened alley between
two buildings. At the far end of the throughway, a matching metal
barrier was there, but higher. Her energy was fading, legs turning
slower. No way she’d make it up and over before he reached her.

Sharp breaths were in her ear. A presence at
her back. He was close enough to grab her backpack now. She could
feel it.

Time to face facts. She was going to get
caught.

He was bigger, he was stronger, and he was
faster.

She was smarter.

Kizzie clamped her teeth shut. One leg out
straight, she tucked the other under her butt and let her hips drop
to the ground.

His legs clipped her back.

And for the second time in five minutes,
momentum was king.

“Shiiit!” The asshole cartwheeled over her
body and smacked the ground with an unholy thud.

Kizzie chased him now, skidding over uneven
concrete and gravel. The spare gun in her waistband dug into her
quad and the skin of her palms stung. Still, a couple scrapes and
ripped jeans were a small price to pay for the desired result.

They came to a halt a short distance away,
harsh breaths echoing between the brick walls around them.

The man pushed himself up with wobbly arms.
Got one foot wedged under him as he tried to stand.

Forcing herself to her feet, Kizzie ripped
the Beretta from the hidden holster at her low back. With a short
arc and a whole lot of strength, she slammed the butt of the gun
against his temple.

“Oomph.” He crashed to his knees once more,
listing to the side before his head kissed the ground.

Exhausted and energized, Kizzie flipped off
the safety and trained the weapon on him, waiting for him to move.
When he didn’t, she toed at his shoulder, then his side. Cautiously
kicked him onto his back, pissed at the fresh scuffmarks on her
brand new Timbs.

She pushed his head over with the muzzle and
studied his face. Long, raven black hair pulled back into a
ponytail. Thick beard and mustache. His eyes were closed, though
the balls shifted subtly beneath the thin skin of his lids.

He wouldn’t be out long.

She searched him quickly, finding the type
of lint she’d expect from a shadow: burner cell phone, cheap wallet
with a few bills but no ID, box of matches, crushed cigar, a
wicked-looking KA-BAR —Huh... Something familiar about that combo…—
and a snubnose Ruger tucked into the holster under his right
arm.

That made him a lefty.

Oh, wait, nope, there was a matching pistol
in the left holster.

That made him a wild card.

Further investigation turned up a little .22
in an ankle holster.

Damn, and she thought
she
came
prepared…

Kizzie divested him of his first gun,
tucking it into her left jacket pocket. But as she reached for the
second, something caught her attention.

Beneath his motorcycle jacket, a thin
t-shirt clung to a well-defined torso. Nice as that part of his
anatomy looked, Kizzie homed in on the area under his collarbone.
The dark curve of a tattoo arced up toward his shoulder, the rest
hidden beneath the stretch of grey fabric over his chest. Frowning,
she curled her fingers over the lip of his shirt and pulled down,
exposing more heavy black ink punched into his golden skin. Had she
seen this before?

A low moan sounded from his throat.

Kizzie yanked her hand back and steadied her
crouch. His eyelids fluttered, the thicket of dark lashes cracked
slightly.

“Christ…” he whispered. “I have a
headache.”

“Better a headache than no head.” She
touched the barrel to the spot between his brows. “But if you want,
I can take the pain away.”

Cringing, he turned his head slowly toward
the main street they’d come in on. They weren’t too deep in the
alley, but the late morning sun hadn’t penetrated this far, keeping
them fairly well hidden to anyone going by. Still, this
interrogation needed to end pronto. She had a meeting to get to,
and the longer she gave this guy to get his brain unscrambled, the
greater the risk to her own person.

“I ask, you answer. Then I shoot you. Deal?”
Gun steady, Kizzie shoved her free hand into her pocket. “Who are
you, who sent you, why are you following me? Go.”

He blinked a few times, and then the bunched
skin between his eyes softened. “Didn’t think it was possible for
you to be even more beautiful.”

Unease prickled over her skin. Something
about this man was familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on
it.

Until she did, she’d keep that finger on the
trigger.

“Bad move, doing this in an alley,
y’know.”

“I’m still the one holding the gun.”

“I could have you on your back in a minute
if I wanted to.”

“Worked out great for you the first time,
huh? But give it a go. You might move faster than the bullet…” She
shrugged off the nagging feeling she should know him and got back
to business. “So. Last time. Who are you?”

He chuckled.

Kizzie cocked the hammer back and all the
hardy-har came to an end.

“Some things never change.”

“Ay!” a voice called from the ether behind
her. “Ay, ma!”

Kizzie didn’t shift her focus. “Friend of
yours?”

“Maybe.”

A squeal sounded, like the gate had swung
open. Then slow, cautious footfalls approached and she angled her
body a bit to not be taken completely off guard.

“Ay, ma, you good?”

“Yeah, ma,” her captive echoed, overdoing
the New York accent. “You good?”

“Peachy,” she called.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you sure?” the man beneath her
goaded. “Hard to handle a prisoner and a distraction. ‘Specially if
you don’t know if we’re together. And even if he’s just some
do-gooder—”

“Shut up.”

“—Out doing good the way do-gooders do,
he’ll probably call the cops once he gets close enough to see—”

“I said shut up.”

“—That you’re holding me at gunpoint. What
do you do…? What
do
you doooo…?”

Channeling her inner Oprah, Kizzie pulled
his Ruger from her pocket. Without looking, she pointed the
snubnose in the direction of her Samaritan and kept her Beretta on
the asshole.

You
get a gun! And
you
get a
gun!
Everybody gets a guuuun!

That’s what you do.

The footsteps stopped abruptly. “Whoa. Hey I
was only—”

“‘Preciate ya’, really,” she called. “But
leave. Now.”

The pitter-patter of boots faded fast. The
metal gate slammed and the second gun joined the first in the man’s
face. “We were at the part where you tell me who you are,” she
explained calmly. “This can happen before or after the bullet I put
in you. Your choice.”

He laughed, a sound that was just as
familiar as that tattoo she couldn’t pin.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?”
Something like pain flickered in his eyes and he sighed. “This how
you treat an old friend?”

“I don’t do friends.”

His lips twitched, deep voice dropped an
octave. “You did me.”

Kizzie narrowed her gaze, tipped her head.
So that was his deal? A jilted screw?

“Guess you weren’t that good,” she scrunched
a shoulder toward her ear, “or I’d’ve called.”

He sucked his teeth. “Now you’re just being
mean. And bruising what’s left of my ego,
chuchu
.”

Her heart stopped.

Even in the absence of sunlight his dark
eyes twinkled. Then he smiled, showing the slight gap between his
front teeth and a chipped canine.

The gap was God’s work.

That canine was hers.

Kizzie’s shot to her feet, both arms
extended, both guns leveled. A rush of emotions sprinted from her
soles to the crown of her head. Then her ticker kickstarted hard,
beat way too fast.

No way.

No. Fucking. Way.

He lifted onto his elbows slowly. Inched up
to sitting just as carefully, as though afraid if he moved too fast
he’d get shot.

She should have shot him.

Instead, Kizzie lowered the guns as the
first ripple of disbelief subsided.

“Ta… Tate?” she whispered, her voice losing
strength much the way her limbs had.

Knees to his chest, Lennox Tate linked his
arms around the bends. He looked entirely comfortable down there,
like he was sitting on a bed in the grandest suite of a luxe hotel
and not on the ground in a back alley in Harlem.

“How you doin’, Kizzie?”

“I’m fine,” she breathed, returning his wide
smile with one of her own. “I’m just fine.”

Then she reared back and swung hard.

The butt of the gun smacked his temple
again. The ricochet off his head made her finger squeeze the
trigger. A bullet went flying into the ground, jumped up, and bit
into the brick facade of the nearby building.

She didn’t care.

She hit him again.

Lennox threw his arms up and curled into a
ball.

“Dammit, stop!”

Nope.

Another slap for good measure, just as the
annoying wail of New York’s finest screamed not too far away.

“Kizzie! Kizzie, stop!”

Dropping his gun onto his exposed side, she
kicked at the spot near Lennox’s head, sending a rush of dust and
debris over him.

Kizzie snatched up her dusty black ball cap
and slammed it down on her head. Then she stalked out of the alley,
body shaking and blood boiling.

The number one spot on her shit list was
suddenly back in her life.

And Bill Connolly had just moved up to
number two.

2

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER her reunion with
Lennox, Kizzie was still a ball of pissed off in a slightly roughed
up package. The adrenaline had burned through her body, and the
twinges and aches made themselves known in places she hadn’t even
realized she’d injured.

Just one more reason to hate her former
partner.

And Bill.

In fact, everything walking upright with a
penis right now could pretty much suck it. Hard.

She marched past rows of identical, gated
brownstones, until she came to the address she’d been sent. A set
of stairs led up to the main porch. She opened the front gate and
bypassed the steps altogether. Found the arched metal door tucked
under the stairs. It looked like any other black security gate,
complete with shiny brass knob and keyhole. Except all that was
dressing. The only way in was an access pad hidden in the brick
facade.

Kizzie jabbed in the code, punching the
buttons harder than necessary. A soft
thunk
sounded and then
she shoved inward. The whole gate and a section of the brick wall
gave way, the heavy barrier opening into a vestibule that ended
with a huge steel door. She closed the first behind her and got
busy with the second. This time, she entered a code and did a palm
and retinal scan before access was granted. The necessary steps
completed, she pulled her gun and opened the weighty portal.

A set of fluorescents flickered on, setting
off a domino effect as the ones deeper in the expansive room got on
board.

Everything inside was bathed in ice white
lighting, giving the place a pristine, virginal look. Like shoving
a hooker into a white wedding gown, the appearance here was as much
a front as any other CIA operation. Dark and dirty deeds were
planned inside these reinforced walls. Deeds meant to protect the
country, sure, but dirty nonetheless.

Somewhere overhead the ventilation system
kicked on, pumping cool air into the room. Judging by the stale
smell in the place, she was alone.

Kizzie stepped inside and closed the door.
Didn’t holster her weapon. Nope, she kept that puppy out as she
made a sweep to be sure there’d be no more surprises. With the door
at her six, five o’clock was a little kitchen area. Eleven o’clock
was a black couch pushed up against the wall. Deep twelve had two
rows of desks with computers on them, and a huge projector screen
hung from the wall at two. And in the middle of the floor was a
large circular table with chairs.

All pretty standard.

She moved through the space, checked for
exits. Found two. One led to another double-door combo that went to
the garden out back. Another veered off into a hallway. She limped
the length of the dark offshoot and determined the set of
double-doors there let out on the next block over.

By the time Kizzie dropped herself onto the
armrest of the couch, Lennox Tate was coming through the main door,
a bag of ice pressed to the side of his head.

“You skipped out just before the cops
arrived. I almost had to put a friendly out cold to avoid getting
questioned.”

Cops shmops. If he hadn’t been trailing her
he wouldn’t have gotten his ass kicked— on the streets at least.
Because Lennox Tate had a pistol-whipping and more coming to
him.