“Don’t worry, I won’t hit your pretty face.” Jack stood on his toes and bowed, twisting his hands as expected before you asked a girl to dance. “We wouldn’t want to mar that delicate beau—”
George’s fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded in his jaw. The world blinked. He locked his fingers on George’s wrist, jerked his foot up into his brother’s stomach, and rolled back, heaving George over him. George slapped the asphalt with his back. The air burst out of him in a loud gasp. Jack rolled up, clamped George’s right arm between his legs, scissoring it, and leaned over George’s torso with his back, pinning him down, right forearm across the windpipe.
George squeezed out some hoarse noises.
Jack leaned closer and grinned. “Hi. How are you doing?”
George tried to jab the fingers of his free left hand into Jack’s neck. Jack ducked out of the way. He could still remember, five years ago, when George was dying, and he fought all of his fights for him. Jack had the upper hand now, but there was a second or two back there when, if they had been playing for real, George could’ve won. He had been practicing, and not just with the rapier. Jack had to figure out what George was doing and do that, or he’d be left behind.
Jack leaned a little harder.
George growled.
“You know I can lie here all day. It’s not hurting me at all. How long do you practice every day? Two hours? You should practice more. Don’t struggle now. You might get your hair dirty.”
“Hrgff.”
“What’s that?” Jack eased the pressure.
“In the Edge, I would’ve killed you by now.”
“With your flash, yes. Don’t kid yourself. If this was for real, you would’ve broken your neck in the fall.”
A desperate high-pitched squeak jerked Jack’s attention to the end of the parking lot. Straight ahead, the five guys crowded around a tree growing from a square flower bed. The thicker kid with brown hair held a rope. Another squeak. Jack focused on the end of the rope coming from beneath the hedge on the other side. The kid on the left looked back at him and George, said something, and laughed.
A fist landed on his ear. Jack ignored it and sat up. George sat up next to him.
The thicker kid jerked the rope and pulled, dragging a small gray shape into the light. It was bedraggled and filthy, its fur smeared with some sort of mud or paint.
Jack forgot where he was.
The little cat shook and hugged the ground, trying to break free of the rope. The asshole on the other end kept pulling, dragging the limp body across the asphalt.
Red flooded the world. Jack exhaled rage through his nose. Suddenly, he was on his feet and walking, and he didn’t remember how he got there.
Next to him, George caught up with him, reached out, and snapped an antenna off the nearest car.
The world snapped into crystal clarity, the smells too sharp, the sounds too loud. Jack floated through it, light as a feather.
“Don’t kill anyone,” George said.
The bastards noticed them and turned toward them.
“You two done making out?” a tall blond kid asked.
The little cat lay on its side. He wasn’t moving. A long stripe of bright green paint ran along his back, gluing his fur into small, sharp spikes. They had painted the cat. Those fucking bastards had painted the cat and then tortured it.
The Wild snarled inside him. He strained, pushing it back into its den.
“I’ll make it simple,” George’s voice rang out next to him with icy precision. “Give us the cat, and you can go.”
“Man. What a fucking dumb-ass.” The blond kid snorted. “Get the hell out of here, fags.”
“What’s with the clothes? Are you from some sort of fag cult?” the asshole with the rope asked.
“No, man, they’re from a Renaissance fair.”
“Maybe they need the cat for their fag sacrifice!”
The Wild retreated into its lair and stared at him with glowing eyes.
“Yeah, be careful, they might pull some crazy satan shit on you, man.” The bigger dark-haired kid laughed.
The smaller kid on the right raised his hands and crossed his index fingers. “Stay back, the power of Christ compels you!”
Jack looked at George. “Now?”
“Ooh, I am so scared.” The blond kid raised his hands. “So scared . . .”
“Now,” George said.
Jack charged.
OUTSIDE, the California sun hit Kaldar. He kept walking, down the path and out into the street, through the open iron gates, past the cream-colored wall bordering the rehab facility. He turned left, heading for the parking lot. He’d left his stolen vehicle there. Men in pristine black shoes did not walk; they drove expensive cars, and so he’d procured one on an off chance someone might see him arrive. And now he needed one to depart quickly because a man in his outfit would draw attention jogging down the street.
He had to find Audrey Callahan. Kaldar imagined a female version of Alex Callahan. Ugh. Likely an addict as well. If Callahan was to be believed, she hated him, so she wouldn’t have helped them with the heist out of love or from a sense of obligation. No, their father must’ve dangled money or drugs before her, and she took it.
Family was the last line of defense. No matter what Kaldar had done or would do, he could walk through the gates of the New Mar house and be welcomed with open arms, food, and friendly proposals to rearrange his face. They would lament and bellyache and whine, but in the end, crossbows and rifles would come off the walls, and the Mars would ride out to fix whatever he’d wrought.
The Callahans couldn’t stand each other. Alex despised his sister and thought his father was a sucker. Since Audrey returned the hate, using her brother’s safety as leverage was out of the question.
Audrey wasn’t an obnoxiously common name, and the list of PI firms in Olympia had to be somewhat limited. It shouldn’t take him too long to find her . . .