Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 05 - The Devil's Breath by Emily Kimelman Page A

backs against the wall, the one in blue slightly in front of the other two. Their long exposed legs teetering on high heels made them look like a tightly knit group of trees shaking in the wind.
    “We’ve got a situation here,” I said to the man. He blinked. “What do you suggest we do?”
    His brow furrowed slightly, his breath was returning to normal. “Let go?” When he spoke his chin pressed deeper into my muscle.
    I smiled. “Unbutton your pants.”
    “Fuck off,” he said.
    “Should I have my dog kill your friend?”
    His mouth twitched up, he was feeling a little confident that his dick might make it through. For all I knew the safety was on. For all I knew, if I pressed his finger harder, nothing would happen. But as soon as I applied pressure his mouth puckered and he twitched his hip back. “Unbutton your pants.”
    He reached around and pulled, the jeans unsnapped and loosened, freeing the gun. The idiot grabbed for it, pulling the muzzle down, pushing my finger into his, and his into the trigger. The bang sounded real loud that close up. I felt hot blood explode over my hand and up my arm. His fingers went limp, eyes rolled into the back of his head, and the man slid down my arm then fell sideways onto the ground, his hand still stuck under mine. Blood and chunks of flesh covered our joining, and sizzled on the tip of the hot gun barrel. The smell of burned flesh filled the air.
    I dropped the gun, his arm flopped to the ground. Then I kicked it away from him, sending it skittering under a rack of clothes leaving a splatter of blood in its wake. “Lock the door,” I said to the girl. She didn’t move for a second. “Please,” I said, and caught her eyes, filling mine with goodwill and strength. She stepped toward me and then scurried past the smaller man, giving the big guy, still under Blue’s control, a wide berth. She reached the door and turned the dead bolt.
    I grabbed a dress off the rack and wiped off my hand and arm as best I could, throwing the garment onto the floor when done. My shirt was officially ruined. Pulling out my phone I called Malina, one of the first people to know me as Sydney Rye. She owed me a lot and always picked up when I called. “Sydney,” she said, and I could practically see the grin, full lips drawn wide over perfect white teeth. In the background I heard a man’s voice squawking over a loudspeaker and the sounds of a crowd.
    “Do you know anyone in Miami?” I asked.
    Her voice dropped low and serious. “Sydney. What’s happening?”
    “I need someone with connections in your world and I need that person now. Do you have anyone you trust?”
    “Yes.”
    #
    L ess than three minutes later my phone rang. It was a local number. I answered. “Malina said you needed help. I am at your disposal,” said a male voice, rich and foreign. His accent sounded African, I thought. Senegalese maybe. Dead sexy, definitely.
    I told him my situation. While waiting for his call I’d gagged, blindfolded, and tied up the big guy in a back office I found. The other one was still breathing but leaking blood at a pace that wouldn’t last. He remained unconscious, but I’d bound his hands just in case. The women stood together, watching me and whispering quietly to each other. They were no longer shaking. When I finished my account the man said, “I am on my way. You should leave.”
    “What? I’m not just leaving them here.”
    “Go out the back door. You will come to an alley. The third door to your right will bring you into the back room of a salon. You can leave through the shop.”
    “But-”
    “If you want my help you will do as I say.” I didn’t answer right away. “You have no choice but to trust me. Now go.” He hung up the phone.
    I looked over at the three women. “Someone is on his way,” I said. “He’s going to take you to safety.”
    The woman in blue stared at me then spoke for the first time. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice unsure but the