Page 23 of Fire Meets Fire

The slightest movement of her mouth shows me I’m on the right track. I look again at Bull, who shakes his head. It’s clear he’s assuming the same as me, that we’re unlikely to get more out of her at this point other than, as I suspected earlier, her name, number and rank. But fuck it, that injury to her shoulder shows the real danger she’s in. It wasn’t a bullet, though, apparently, they’d gotten close enough for that. It’s a sign someone wants more than her death. They want her to suffer.

Well, they won’t be getting another chance to get close. While I don’t understand this powerful need to protect her, and though I know if she knew my thoughts she’d laugh in my face, something tells me she’s mine to care for and look after however much she protests.

There’s absolutely no doubt I want to know more about Helo.Or Queenie, I muse, recalling her real name. I’m not sure it suits her. She doesn’t look regal to me. She looks like a warrior. That makes me think about the parents who named her, and her family. Why hasn’t she gone to them?

Without realising I’m going to speak my thoughts aloud, I find myself asking, “Queenie? That your real name or another nickname?”

Having surprised her, she can’t hide the pain that sweeps briefly over her eyes. Quickly bringing herself back under control, she scoffs. “Oh no, that’s all mine.”

“Family name?” Bull asks, quite reasonably.

When her eyes come to mine, I raise a brow. Shaking her head, air leaves her lungs before she refills them to ask, “You really want to know?”

I shrug. She’d answered my question. I’m pretty sure that’s her legal name. I’ve got that power over her now which is what I wanted.

I think had I pressed, she might have kept it to herself, but with a roll of her eyes and with absolutely no self-sympathy, she tells us how it came about.

“I was an abandoned baby, found in a dumpster in Queens.” Her shoulders rise, hover, then fall back to their original position. “It had been a cold night so was touch and go whether they could save me. I think the medical staff were more worried about that then being very inventive when it came to names. I doubt they expected me to own it long anyway.”

But she fought and survived. As I suspect, she’s been doing all her life.

“And May?” Bull enquires. “Is that from your adoptive family?”

She gives a delicate snort. “That was the month I was found.”

“Original,” I say, while thinking that’s a fucking sad story. No parents who’d spent months agonising what to call their child, no family name to give her, let alone people who wanted her.

“And the rest of the story? Adopted into a loving family?” I prompt.

The scorching look tossed my way shows I couldn’t be further from the truth, but her button-upped expression suggests that’s all the information she’s going to impart.

CHAPTER NINE

HELO

I’ve got more than enough reasons to be wary of men. Even before… Well, I had to survive in a male-dominated world, had to show I was the best just to get by. There’s something about Chaz that draws me in. Somehow, he gets through all the boundaries I’ve set, and I don’t understand why. I don’t know why I ran my mouth. Normally, I tell no one my early background, but then they normally don’t ask. Names are accepted without explanation, and in the Army, before I became Helo, I was just called May. But for some reason, though I was looking at the man wearing the VP badge, I spoke to Chaz.

I didn’t tell them to get sympathy. I’ve lived my past and survived it, and it made me into the woman I am today, or who I was anyway. Now I turn my glance Chaz’s way. It seems like he wants me to elaborate further, but they should get the picture without me having to spell it out. An unwanted baby abandoned to die doesn’t necessary lead to a happy ending. Especially when no one wanted a kid already addicted to heroin and who had to be weaned off that shit before having a chance at life. Adopters who’d turned their backs had had a lucky escape as I’d remained a sickly child for the first few years of my life.

I’m wondering why I’m telling them anything at all. After giving them ideas about what was wrong with their setup and how they could improve their security, I should have insisted they let me leave and then get on with figuring out the rest of my life. I’m really not at all sure why I’m sitting here. They’ve not even offered a cup of coffee to me.

This wasn’t how I expected my day to go. Sure, I knew they’d be annoyed and want info from me, but I hadn’t realised they’d have had me investigated. And that, even though I was comfortable at Harold’s, meant I was going to have to leave. I’m not looking forward to coming up with some explanation for letting the old man, and his hopes for his son, down. Neither am I embracing the thought I’ll, yet again, have to start all over with nothing to my name except a pitiful few dollars and a rucksack of worn clothes. All to stay one step ahead of whoever blames me for being alive.

Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard to survive, why I keep breathing and don’t just let them end my life. It’s the pigheaded side of me that says it was a miracle I already climbed out of the darkest pit of despair, and the effort that took shouldn’t be wasted.

A lapse of judgement had once allowed them too close as the remembered agony of my shoulder can attest to. I suppress a shudder recalling it was sheer luck that had allowed me to get away, but my instinct had been to run and fight for survival. A Night Stalker doesn’t give up. I’d had the advantage they thought they were dealing with a weak female, not a battle-worn soldier, something they’d ignored despite knowing my rank.

Why am I still sitting here?Now the third man has left, two against one are odds I can deal with. Fuck knows how soon my trail will be picked up now my DNA and fingerprints have been checked. The sooner I get a head start, the quicker I can find a new refuge, or at least a place to temporarily hide out.

For some reason, it’s hard to get myself moving. The thought of heading off into nowhere again and starting over is making me weary—and angry, with the bikers and myself. If I hadn’t gotten into their auto shop and hadn’t been arrogant enough to think criminals wouldn’t care, then I could have stayed at Harold’s fixing his son’s bike. Though, it’s a pipe dream to think of being able to stay in one place. That’s a luxury I’ve never experienced.

As a child, I moved from one foster home to another, getting more and more fucked up until no one wanted the disturbed unruly child. Then, in the Army, I went from base to base, and then in different areas on tours. Since coming back Stateside, I’ve been forced to keep moving around.

I’m sick of it.

I served my country, suffered for it, and what have I got to show? No friends, no family, no roots and no prospect of settling down.

I don’t know how much of my thoughts have been showing on my face, but it’s enough for Chaz to lower his tone, saying softly and cajolingly, “Tell us what’s going on, Queenie. We might be able to help.”

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