Page 55 of My Wild Horse King

I don’t think. I just move.

Before I know it, I’ve shot across the street, sprinting through a gap between a bus and a BMW. The edge of the BMW clips my arm, but the pain is brief. I manage to leap onto the curb in front of the man the horse just disarmed. He seems to be the one in charge, and I’m not about to let these criminals mow this gorgeous creature down.

“You willnotshoot my horse.”

The horse turns its head toward me, for all the world acting as if it understands exactly what I just said.

“Do you know what the penalty is in New York City for shooting a police horse?” I lift both eyebrows as if these guys care what the penalties for any laws are.

“This isn’t a police horse,” the large man facing the horse says. “Now get out of here, before you find out what happens when I shoot a man.”

Distract. And eliminate.

I pull a pack of gum out of my pocket and toss it behind the horse, gum and wrappers flying in every direction in front of two of the men. At the same time, I kick the accumulated debris from the gutter at the two men closest to me, and then I slide under the horse’s neck, kick one gun out of the farthest man’s hand, and strike the other man’s wrist, taking his gun for myself.

The horse hasn’t been inactive—after I flung the gum, she kicked back with full force, knocking those men back into the windshield of the car behind us. Its alarm immediately starts to blare, woo, woo, woo, and I use the helpful distraction to drop the aggressive man into a headlock, the gun I nabbed pressed against his temple. “What was that you just said about what happens when I shoot a man?”

The man swallows, his eyes bulging.

“I wonder whether it matters,” I say, “whereI shoot him. Would the result be different if I shot his foot?” I point the gun downward. “Or is the head better?” I press it back against the side of his head.

“What?” The man’s spluttering. “No.”

“Put your weapons down,” I say quietly to the men who are now covered with mud, trash, and bits of leaves. “Or I’ll splatter his brains on the side of that building.” I toss my head. “Now.”

“Do it, idiots,” the man says, spit flying from his mouth.

The horse snorts and paws at the ground. “Now, all of you will back away.” I toss my head toward the building they emerged from. “I want you all to go inside that building and I want to hear the door close and lock.”

The man I’m holding panics, his eyes widening, and he struggles against me.

“Careful.” I tighten my headlock. “If you keep wiggling like that, my finger might catch.” I sigh. “I’m not a big fan of guns. In fact, when I learned to shoot, my trainer said I should never use one. I have a bit of a trigger finger, apparently.”

He whimpers—the massive nightmare of a man whimpers.

But his men move, and then I hear the turning of the lock on the front door.

“Alright,” I say. “This is what we’re about to do.” I spin toward the horse. “You want to get out of here, right?”

The horse nods.

It’s confirming my suspicion. “We’ve met before, right?”

Another nod.

“You’re going to give me a ride out of here, got it?”

It nods again.

One quick check, and I’ve confirmed it really is a mare, and then I fling the man away, out into the street. He has to scramble to avoid slamming into a moving car.

Only in New York City would this entire thing happen in the open on the street without a single passerby doing anything to stop it, but I can hear the police sirens now, and I’d rather be out of here by the time they arrive. I doubt Grandfather will praise me for getting involved in some kind of drug-dealer altercation, even if no shots were fired.

I pat the horse’s side. “I’m getting up now,” I hiss. “Move toward that fire hydrant.”

I’m not sure she knows that word in English, so I point. “That thing.”

She sidles over, and I use it to boost up on her back.

---