To Catch a Thief by Christina Skye Page B

shop’s beckoning lights when she heard the snap of gravel behind her. A hand snaked around her neck, groping for her throat.
    She reacted before panic could set in, spraying him and then tucking her chin as she snapped forward and sent the man flying over her head. Blood geysered as he hit the dirty concrete and moaned brokenly.
    Nell kept on moving toward the end of the alley. Maybe the creep would think twice before hitting on another woman walking alone at night.
    Or not—given that more figures had appeared from behind a parked car. She sprinted to the wall at the far side of the street.
    One of her pursuers pulled something long and narrow from his pocket.
    A big cardboard box rustled near her feet. Nell recognized the homeless man who looked out of the torn box that was his current home. She had made a practice of leaving him a sandwich or a jar of his favorite honey maple almonds on her night walks.
    His grimy face creased in a smile. “How ya doin’, Legs?”
    â€œI’ve been better,” she muttered.
    Her first attacker was back on his feet now. The two men crossed the street, headed toward Nell.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” The old man stood up un-steadily, one hand on the graffiti-covered wall. “Leave her alone, you shits.”
    The closer man, a Caucasian with gang tattoos on one arm, gave two vicious kicks of his steel-toed boot and crumpled the old man onto the pavement.
    Nell reacted in fury, kicking his legs out from under him. When he toppled, she twisted sharply to the left and swung a piece of discarded plumber’s pipe toward the other man’s face. He was big, but Nell was quicker and she knew these streets and alleys well from her frequent walks home. Jumping onto a cement wall, she struck hard at the side of the man’s head, catching him unaware.
    Creep number two hit the alley, gurgling as his face slammed into the greasy pavement.
    That had to hurt.
    Something rolled across the ground near her feet. Nell realized it was a syringe. Had it been meant for her?
    She felt her hands start to shake. She tried to think, digging in her pocket for her cell phone to call 911.
    Off to her left, the homeless man gave a groan and spit out two decayed teeth. When he saw the attackers out cold, he gave Nell a crooked smile. “Hell, Legs, where were you when I needed you back in January ’68? My boys and me coulda used you when we stormed the crap out of Hue.”
    â€œA little before my time.” She helped the old man to his feet, dug in her dropped handbag and held out some bills. “Dessert’s on me tonight. Watch yourself out here.”
    â€œCount on it. Got my Purple Heart to protect me.” He pulled out a medal from beneath his stained jacket, the ribbon caught around his gnarled fingers.
    One of the nation’s highest honors, the medal was the only thing of value left to a forgotten hero. Talk about crappy unfair.
    â€œThanks for the ducats, Legs.”
    â€œAnytime.”
    Nell was dialing 911 when she saw two men slide out of a gray van parked across the street. Under a broken streetlight she noticed that the closer man had a small pistol level at his leg.
    She fought a sickening sense of fear. This was no simple robbery. They had come here for her. But why? Were they after the Tintoretto? Maybe another piece of art in her workshop?
    The old man in the torn jacket pushed Nell toward the far end of the alley. “R-run, honey. They got—”
    A sudden crack of gunfire cut him off. Nell saw blood splash over his pile of boxes. He groaned and then a bullet screamed past her ear.
    Nell pushed past her fear, struggling to keep her mind sharp and focused. Above all, she knew that fear was her worst enemy. Her father’s friends had taught her that, along with an array of carefully selected judo and kickboxing moves. She had never forgotten any of those lessons.
    But she was running on caffeine fumes now, exhausted from a