Page 33 of Edge of Secrets

“I heard you,” I said, noncommittally.

Gant snarled another curse in Pushtu. “Are you armed?”

“No, but I’ll be careful.”

He hung up without a farewell, and I hurried to catch up with Gray Sweatshirt.

I didn’t like Lafayette. It was darker than Broadway, more deserted, fewer storefronts, everything closed. I wished she’d stayed on crowded Broadway, where I could afford to stay closer to her. As it was, it was a miracle Gray Sweatshirt hadn’t made me yet. The guy was stupid. Incompetent.

That, however, didn’t make him any less dangerous to Nell.

Alarm flickered in my gut. Gray Sweatshirt’s demeanor was changing. He looked more focused and was walking faster, like he’d been released from some imperative, or else given a new one.

Beyond Nell, coming toward us in the opposite direction, was another pedestrian figure. A tall, rangy Black man with a shaved head. He looked at Gray Sweatshirt, then looked away and kept coming. They had her in a pincer grip.

Then the car pulled up, driving slowly. It passed me … and its brake lights flickered—on, off—for no good reason.

Then it sped up. So did Gray Sweatshirt. So did the other guy.

I didn’t remember starting to sprint. My legs pumped, closing the gap. The car door swung open. The guys grabbed Nell, wrestling her into the car, headfirst. She struggled and screamed.

I flung myself at the closest of the two men, the tall Black guy. He hit the side of the car with a grunt of surprise. Gray Sweatshirt’s head whipped around.

“What the fuck?—”

I slammed a fist into his nose, knocking him against the car door. In that split-second opening, I grabbed Nell by the waist, yanked her out of the car, and flung her in the direction of the sidewalk. She hit the ground with a yell, rolling into the gutter.

I surged back as a boot whipped past the tip of my nose. Blocked Gray Sweatshirt’s swing with my forearm and rammed an elbow into the Black guy’s neck. Turned to the side to take Gray Sweatshirt’s knee-jab to my thigh instead of my groin. An uppercut to the Black guy’s chin sent him bouncing heavily against the car. I whirled just in time to meet Gray Sweatshirt’s renewed attack.

People had noticed now. A woman screamed nearby. Not Nell.

Block, duck, lunge, retreat. I caught Gray Sweatshirt’s fist, twisted it up, over, around, and sent the guy flying over the hood of the car.

The Black guy came at me again with a length of pipe. It whipped down and I lurched aside. It whooshed past, displacing air, and shattered the passenger-side window. Pebbles of glass flew.

I darted in, grabbed the end of the pipe before he could work up another swing, twisted it up, torquing his arm, and sent him bouncing over the hood of the car. The car surged forward, pitching him off and onto the street. He rolled, howling.

Tires shrieked. The car peeled around the corner and sped away. The Black guy dragged himself up and fled, limping, the heavy, irregular slap of his rubber-soled shoes retreating into the distance.

Gray Sweatshirt came at me with a spinning back kick. I ducked, but my balance was off. I stumbled back, dropped to my knees. Fuck.

The guy leaped at me, eyes lit up with joy at the opening?—

Crack.

Nell had swung her plastic shopping bag, and whatever was inside connected with the guy’s face. He let out a hoarse shout and stumbled back, hand over his nose, blood streaming.

I rolled to my feet, lunged to grapple?—

Gun.

I stopped cold, reeling. Fought for balance. Hands up. Open.

Gray Sweatshirt held a pistol on us, a shaking, sideways two-handed grip—straight out of a bullshit action movie, but at point-blank range, even with that dumb grip, his aim wouldn’t matter. A Glock 9mm would leave a big hole.

I scooped Nell behind me. “Easy,” I soothed. “Easy.”

“Fuck you, you fuck.” His trembling voice was thin and high, bubbling and phlegmy with blood running down his throat. “Back off, or I’ll shoot you like a fuckin’ dog. And then I’ll shoot the bitch.”

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