had left a nice imprint on my face the night before last.
I came up next to him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and shoved his face down hard. The glass straw broke in his nose. He screamed. Blood splattered all over the coke.
The white guy finally realized what was going on and jumped up from his chair. A gun rested on the coffee table, next to a stack of green bills, and he went for it.
But I was already maneuvering around the sofa, still gripping the dreadlocked hair. I lugged the flopping bulk over the table and into his friend. The table collapsed, spilling coke, scattering money, sending both of them sprawling out against the chair. A lamp tipped over, crashed into the stereo, and the music ceased.
The redhead was already scrambling to get disentangled and up, but the other one was out of the fight. He lay where he’d been thrown, sobbing and clutching at his face with both hands. Blood flowed between his fingers.
Before the white guy could get to his feet I trampled through the debris and kicked him in the throat with the toe of my steel-tipped boot. He gurgled, fell back.
The gun was only inches from the redhead’s hand, but he didn’t notice it. He was too busy trying to breathe. I picked it up. A Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. Grasping it by the barrel, I leaned over, took a fistful of Red’s shirtfront, and slammed the edge of the grip to his temple. He went limp and I dropped him to the floor.
From the corner of my eye I saw movement. I snapped my head up, raised the .38. The girl and another guy were in the doorway leading to the kitchen, their expressions stunned and dead. I pointed the gun in their general direction. Amber light burned in my fingers, and the gun scalded my hand. If either of them noticed the glow, they gave no sign, and I thought for the first time that maybe the golden light was only in my imagination.
I rasped, “Don’t you fucking move.”
The guy was very dark-skinned and looked Jamaican. I knew instinctively he was the one who stabbed me. But I didn’t feel any particular animosity toward him. He took a lunging step forward, and, luckily, the girl stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Stoker,” she said. “I think he means it.”
“Damn straight I do. Both of you come into the room, slowly, and sit your asses down on the floor.”
They did as I said. The one called Stoker glared at me fiercely, as if imagining what it would feel like to squeeze my brains between his fingers. The girl just looked mildly interested in the proceedings. They started to sit down next to each other. I said, “No. Against the wall, either side of the doorway. And keep your hands on the floor, where I can see them.”
With a shared glance, they complied. Behind me, the one with the gold ring stopped moaning. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him inching toward me on the floor, blood still pouring from his nose. Keeping the gun trained on Stoker and the girl, I gritted my teeth and kicked him as close to the center of his face as I could. He grunted one small sharp grunt then buried his face in the carpet and didn’t move.
I said, “Both of you stay exactly as you are and this will turn out just beautifully. No one has to be hurt.”
The girl said, “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Stoker said, “You ain’t gonna get away with this.”
I grinned at him. “You don’t think so?”
Not looking away from them, I crouched down and began scooping up some of the money that had been scattered all over the floor and shoving it into my pockets. I couldn’t look to see how big the bills were, but I figured they had to be at least twenties. I would walk out of this place flush as hell.
The girl said, “How did you do it? How did you track me down?”
Still collecting money, I laughed. “What, a pretty little thing like you? You’re one in a million. Sort of stand out in a crowd, you know?”
She smirked, but didn’t say anything else.
When my pockets
I came up next to him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and shoved his face down hard. The glass straw broke in his nose. He screamed. Blood splattered all over the coke.
The white guy finally realized what was going on and jumped up from his chair. A gun rested on the coffee table, next to a stack of green bills, and he went for it.
But I was already maneuvering around the sofa, still gripping the dreadlocked hair. I lugged the flopping bulk over the table and into his friend. The table collapsed, spilling coke, scattering money, sending both of them sprawling out against the chair. A lamp tipped over, crashed into the stereo, and the music ceased.
The redhead was already scrambling to get disentangled and up, but the other one was out of the fight. He lay where he’d been thrown, sobbing and clutching at his face with both hands. Blood flowed between his fingers.
Before the white guy could get to his feet I trampled through the debris and kicked him in the throat with the toe of my steel-tipped boot. He gurgled, fell back.
The gun was only inches from the redhead’s hand, but he didn’t notice it. He was too busy trying to breathe. I picked it up. A Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. Grasping it by the barrel, I leaned over, took a fistful of Red’s shirtfront, and slammed the edge of the grip to his temple. He went limp and I dropped him to the floor.
From the corner of my eye I saw movement. I snapped my head up, raised the .38. The girl and another guy were in the doorway leading to the kitchen, their expressions stunned and dead. I pointed the gun in their general direction. Amber light burned in my fingers, and the gun scalded my hand. If either of them noticed the glow, they gave no sign, and I thought for the first time that maybe the golden light was only in my imagination.
I rasped, “Don’t you fucking move.”
The guy was very dark-skinned and looked Jamaican. I knew instinctively he was the one who stabbed me. But I didn’t feel any particular animosity toward him. He took a lunging step forward, and, luckily, the girl stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Stoker,” she said. “I think he means it.”
“Damn straight I do. Both of you come into the room, slowly, and sit your asses down on the floor.”
They did as I said. The one called Stoker glared at me fiercely, as if imagining what it would feel like to squeeze my brains between his fingers. The girl just looked mildly interested in the proceedings. They started to sit down next to each other. I said, “No. Against the wall, either side of the doorway. And keep your hands on the floor, where I can see them.”
With a shared glance, they complied. Behind me, the one with the gold ring stopped moaning. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him inching toward me on the floor, blood still pouring from his nose. Keeping the gun trained on Stoker and the girl, I gritted my teeth and kicked him as close to the center of his face as I could. He grunted one small sharp grunt then buried his face in the carpet and didn’t move.
I said, “Both of you stay exactly as you are and this will turn out just beautifully. No one has to be hurt.”
The girl said, “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Stoker said, “You ain’t gonna get away with this.”
I grinned at him. “You don’t think so?”
Not looking away from them, I crouched down and began scooping up some of the money that had been scattered all over the floor and shoving it into my pockets. I couldn’t look to see how big the bills were, but I figured they had to be at least twenties. I would walk out of this place flush as hell.
The girl said, “How did you do it? How did you track me down?”
Still collecting money, I laughed. “What, a pretty little thing like you? You’re one in a million. Sort of stand out in a crowd, you know?”
She smirked, but didn’t say anything else.
When my pockets
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