Hero Stalker

Part Forty-Two

The dark metal walls of Mantis arched out of the street corner like the prow of a ship. It towered above the tiny colonial houses-turned-offices lining the rest of the street. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalk like snow. Techno rattled up my ankles as I perched on the roof of the club.

The Daughters of Historic Bayton would lose their shit over this. I thought it looked kind of fun.

The space behind the building was enclosed with a tall brick fence. A set of concrete steps cut into the ground lead to a sub-street basement. A man in a ratty old jacket stood at the top, smoking a cigarette and shivering in the rain.

Unfortunately, I hadn't come to party.

I hooked my blades into the wall, slid down a couple stories, then retracted my blades and pushed off the wall. Gravity spun around me as I flipped over. A jolt swam up my legs as I landed right in front of the sentry.

He cursed in Spanish and reached into his coat. My fist slammed into his jaw. His eyes rolled up and his knees gave out; I broke his fall with my back. Last thing I wanted was some poor dude getting his head cracked open because of me.

I pulled his gun out of his jacket and sliced it in half. Centurions didn't carry guns. Far as I knew, they actually followed that rule.

That meant Slasher would probably hand me an AK-47 tomorrow evening.

Why do you still want to be a Centurion? I fished the man's heavy key ring from his pocket and walked quietly down the steps to the basement. The smell of mildew and booze washed over me. Plenty of psi-positives didn't make the cut to join. Only Peregrine seemed to want me around, probably just to have another non-Femme woman on the team.

The fifth key fit. I hesitated. What if Harpy waited on the other side? Then you apprehend him. He's a killer. He has to be stopped. Right now, I was the only Centurion in Bayton who cared more about stopping him than the press.

I kicked down the door and sprinted inside. No Harpy. Just three Latino guys playing cards on a table covered with stacks of bills.

"Hey!" one shouted. All three rose and drew their guns. Move or die, sweetheart, I heard Slasher say in my head, and I threw myself down behind an overturned metal table just as the guns went off.

Bullets pounded into the metal. I held my breath. Stay cool, Gloria. But the overpowering urge to move swamped my common sense. I cut free a table leg with a swipe of my blades and clutched it tightly. Techno music thudded dully above. Move or die, move or die, move, move—

My legs took over. I sprinted towards the opposite wall at top speed, dug the blades of my left hand into the ground, and threw myself at the gunmen, legs first. Slam! Two went down like dominos as we collided. Their guns flew out of their hands.

"¡Perra!" the third man shouted, raising his gun.

I swung the table leg and knocked it from his hands. That word pissed me off in any language. Before he could even turn around, I'd gotten behind him and driven my heel into the back of his knees. He went down.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em or I'll start cutting them off!" I stepped between the three men and their guns with all my blades extended, even the ones on my toes and my thumbs. Something about twenty ten-inch-long knives kept them still. "Harpy. Start talking!"

"This ain't that cocksucker's turf," spat one man with a black dot tattooed by his left eye. Murderer. Maybe I should have the PCD toss all three in jail. Sections of the concrete wall had been dug out and filled with shelves. The plastic bags of white dust sitting on them sure weren't full of confectioner's sugar.

"Whose turf is it?" I asked.

"Los Chuchillos Negros," said a quiet voice. A thin Latina woman in a suit stepped out of the back room. A long black pin punctured the center of her graying bun.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The Black Knives. Oh, shit.

"Nice place you've got here," I said.

"This is private property." She smiled maternally. "I must ask you to leave, Ms. Shadowcat."

One of the men laughed. I stepped forward and flexed my blades. This woman didn't look too tough. In less than a minute, I could restrain the whole group and have the police on their way. Busting a drug ring might not impress Slasher like catching Harpy would, but it might boost my standing in the public eye if I caught some criminals like a real Centurion.

I remembered Metalhead, and the thought left a sour taste in my mouth. Bayton would always have dealers. They could be dealt with. Harpy was a maniac. And right now, Harpy had to go.

"I'm not here to shut you down," I said. "I just need information."

"Information starts at ten thousand dollars. Cash."

Shit. "Us Centurions take our paychecks in superjets and costumes. Don't have that kind of cash. But I'm willing to make a deal." The words tasted disgusting.

"Interesting." Her dark eyes glittered. "Come into my office."