"And just where do you think you're going? You're on the clock for five more minutes," Normal snapped as Max made her way towards the door.
She stopped, fixed him with an icy glare. After the day she'd had, she was just looking for a target. "Bill me."
"You know, that's exactly the kind of attitude that keeps you from getting ahead in this world, Max--" he began, preparing for full lecture mode.
"So you mean if I had an attitude like yours I could aspire to running a bike messenger service that no one's ever heard of, full of employees who have no respect for me? Gee, Normal, you're really turning me around on this one. I'd better go home and think about the consequences of my actions."
"I want to see you here five minutes early in the morning, missy!" he yelled after her. Max waved him off with a hand, her brain already jumping ahead to how she might salvage a day that had included three deliveries to unknown addresses, two run-ins with the sector police, so many whistles and catcalls that she'd lost count, and one proposal of marriage. From a guy who smelled like he'd been curled up around a dead fish for a week or so. Another four-star day as a Jam Pony employee. Maybe she'd sweet-talk Logan into whipping up a gourmet meal while she took a long, hot bath in that huge bathtub of his. The Eyes Only gig was worth it just to have access to that bathtub. The thought made her sigh in anticipation—she could almost feel her hair curling in the steam, muscles relaxing, skin wrinkling…
The second she came through the doorway under the grey Seattle sky, Max's system went on full alert. Someone was watching her. Casually, carefully, she took stock of her surroundings—a half-glance here, extended stare there. And zeroed in like a laser-sight on a man leaning against a long-useless lamppost across the street. She took stock of him in parts, never lingering long as she pretended to be occupied with the small tasks of a girl getting ready to go home after a long day of work. Dark hair, cut short. 6'2". Wiry build. Her age, maybe a little younger. He was staring at her openly. What the hell was his deal? Some sicko-psycho looking to score with a bike messenger? How pathetic was that?
There was no earthly reason why he should have made her nervous, but she couldn't get the hairs on the back of her neck to lie down. Get it together, Max, she told herself firmly, you've flattened guys twice his weight. Testing, she began walking her bike down the street. He followed, never taking his eyes off her, his mouth now fixed in an insolent grin. She could hear his footsteps behind her, pacing her. The cherry on top of the big, fat banana split of her bad day. All right, asshole, she thought. Too bad for you you're creeping out the wrong girl.
Figuring she'd better get away from Jam Pony before she turned this idiot into a whimpering, groin-clutching ball of pervert, she walked a few more blocks before turning casually into an alley. As soon as she came around the corner, she leaned her bike silently against the wall, jumped six feet to a nearby fire escape, and swung herself up. She crouched, waiting. The footsteps came nearer. She grinned in anticipation. She'd heard all the stress-reducing techniques--aromatherapy, reflexology, massage, meditation--but even a hot bath and a good meal paled in comparison to a good, clean ass-kicking. And if she could strike a blow for womankind at the same time, well, even better. Maybe there was some hope for this day after all.
The dark head came around the corner, unsuspecting. The man stopped and looked around, almost comical in his confusion. Muscles tensed, and she sprang with feline grace, striking soundlessly. Her knee angled to plant firmly in his groin or his neck, whichever presented itself first--she wasn't picky.
At least, that was the plan. But something went wrong.
She was watching him as she fell, could have sworn he was right underneath her, clueless--only she suddenly found herself landing hard on the ground, knees bent to absorb impact and preserve balance. But balance shortly became out of the question as his leg shot out from a sideways crouch, sweeping her knees out from under her, too quick for her to compensate. She landed flat on her back, staring at his grin above her, his forearm across her throat, knees pinning her legs. For half a second she was so surprised at the unexpected resistance that even instinct was suppressed and she stayed motionless, mental wheels spinning.
"No yield," he whispered, grin wide and mirthless, blue eyes flashing.
Six-year-old
Maxie, flat on her back in the training room, a muscle-bound ex-Marine looming
above her. Eyes huge, heart
pounding. His hand is on her neck,
squeezing, squeezing. The world begins
to spin. Dimly, she hears him shouting
at her: "Do you yield? Do you
yield, soldier?" She nods frantically, desperate for air. His mouth twists in more grimace than smile,
satisfied. He leans down so his voice
is hot in her ear: "There is no yield." His fist descends like a hammer, knocking
her into blackness. She awakens later,
bruised and bloody from blows before and after she lost consciousness. And from that moment on, she knows there is
no mercy, here or anywhere.
Trying to blink away the memory, Max watched his eyes harden at the flash of fear in hers, the six-year-old from another life. Oh, shit, she thought, her stomach cold with dread. This guy's Manticore.
Her thoughts were easy to read. He nodded once, slowly, enjoying her shock. Max shook herself mentally, forced her brain and body to concentrate on defense. There was only one of him, after all. As usual, attitude came swiftly on the heels of fear. She raised an eyebrow at him, smiling sweetly. "Yield?" she replied. "Never even crossed my mind."
He laughed. "Good." And, to her surprise, rolled off her and adopted a fighting stance a couple of feet away from her, knees bent, feet planted, fists raised. "Come on, then. Let's see what you've got."
As soon as his weight lifted off of her, Max was
rolling to her feet, matching his stance. His mocking challenge fired her blood. All right, now I'm pissed. She all but bared her teeth at him as they
circled each other warily. Feint, duck,
counterattack with backhand, block, fall away. Circle, waiting, watching, gauging. She lashed out, lightning-fast, fist a blur, only to have it caught by
his hand and be pulled toward him, swing desperately to the side to avoid a
knee in her stomach that she barely saw coming. Fall back, circle. Damn, he's fast, she realized. How could anyone be so fast? Her muscles were taut, primed, poised in a
way they hadn't been since the night she'd escaped Manticore. Enhanced senses strained for the slightest
change in sight, sound, smell. This was
a threat, and this was for real. Fear
mingled with exhilaration. And some
tiny corner of her mind whispered, Finally.
She told it firmly to shut up as he launched himself at her, full-on attack. Body moved faster than brain in a blinding series of attacks and counterattacks, defenses and ploys. But no matter how fast she moved, he was always there, waiting, blocking, forcing her to scramble to defend herself. It took everything she had just to keep the fight even, so much that it took her a full thirty seconds to realize they were going through the motions of a Manticore training pattern of attack and counterattack. He laughed. She snarled, and threw in a twist and a backfist, a little move she'd learned from Bling. Felt the satisfying shock to her arm as she connected with his face for the first time.
"There it is," he panted. She would have asked him what the fuck he was talking about, but she was too busy defending herself. They were in uncharted territory now, moving so fast in the dimness of the alley that they almost seemed to be one person, stretching and rolling in fluid dance, never losing contact. Max's muscles were beginning to burn. Finally, her response was one hundredth of a second too late, and his fist connected with her head like granite. As she fought to maintain consciousness, Max noticed a glint of metal on his fingers. Brass knuckles. When the hell had he put those on?
Her vision grayed to black as he struck again. Hearing was on its way out, too, but not before she heard him whisper: "Sorry, Maxie. Gotta blaze. I'll be in touch." Oh, shit, Max thought weakly, as his mocking laugh followed her into darkness.
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up next: "Safe House"—the appearance of Logan and maybe even a shipper moment or two!