Diamond in the Rough

by Isobella Crowley

Bobby approached and gave him a quick hug. Her breasts smashed against his chest and he tried not to yelp at the pressure on his broken rib. “Be careful, Mr Remington. Try to trust those Feds. Think about it. They’re probably the ones who invented whatever drug this guy is on.”

  “Could be.” He gasped when she released him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, fear not.”

  The two took their leave. Now, only he and the fairy remained in the office.

  He took a deep breath and glanced to the top of the file cabinet where she sat and kicked her legs idly, her jaw set in subdued aggravation. “Riley…what’s wrong? And don’t pretend like something isn’t wrong. Even human males can figure some of these things out, you know.”

  She looked at him, her eyes huge in her tiny face, and she sighed. “It’s only… Well…”

  He waited.

  She wavered between gushing emotionality and standoffishness for a moment before she continued. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how, back in Times Square, you threatened to replace me. That was really mean. I know you were angry about what Alex did to you and how Taylor didn’t respect you, but you shouldn’t have said that.”

  He frowned, although more in sympathy than exasperation. She was right.

  “And,” she pressed on, “you ignored me when I told you it was dangerous to go after that man and you ended up getting badly hurt. I was afraid…that you might die. And without even getting the chance to apologize.”

  Once again, he felt almost like a dark wave had crashed over his head—the inescapable sense that he was a schmuck.

  This time, however, he fought it off. As best he could, given his injuries, he straightened his spine and threw his shoulders back.

  “Riley, I’m sorry,” he said and meant it. “That was a foolish thing to say even if I was pissed off. Not only because I shouldn’t have hurt your feelings, but because it was based on a totally incorrect assumption.”

  She leaned forward and tilted her head, waiting for him to explain what this meant.

  He smiled. “You can’t be replaced. As my friend, ally, helper, protector, and one-time date, you are irreplaceable.”

  Suddenly, she beamed. Her wings flapped and she rocketed toward him to plant a minuscule kiss on his cheek. “Aww, thanks!” she exclaimed. “I don’t think you’d be replaceable either. Which means I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  After a hasty glance at the Black Cat Idol, he picked one of the Tasers up and slid it into his waistband. He took the other in hand, for now. “Don’t worry too much about me, now or in the future,” he assured her. “I’m too awesome to die.”

  An Abandoned Building, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York

  Alexander Thomas had begun to feel good about himself and his situation once more. It had certainly been long enough since that had been the case. After everything he’d been through, he was fairly certain he deserved it.

  The FBI agents considered themselves so fucking clever. They had holed up in a disused shop a short distance down the street and watched the Midnight Detective Agency’s headquarters—waiting, presumably, until they had some signal from their mates to leap into action.

  He had surveilled the neighborhood before he’d made even the slightest move, determined not to fail again. No matter how desperately he wanted the idol, he wouldn’t charge in recklessly this time. He would be smart about this—hell, he had a doctorate.

  One of the agents stood guard outside a large, glassless window to the right of the door. Alex was only about a hundred feet away and the man hadn’t noticed him yet.

  This might even turn out to be easy, he gloated. Americans are always complaining about how stupid their government employees are, after all.

  He waited, hidden behind a dumpster. While he’d planned, he’d also practiced some of the more esoteric moves that Moswen’s borrowed power had granted him.

  One was the ability to leap in such a way that he practically floated through the air. He learned to descend with such grace that, when he landed, he barely made a sound. The ability to climb walls and ceilings was one he’d used before, but his form needed work.

  He’d spent almost the entire time since his flight from the motel getting himself in peak operating condition. Now, it was showtime.

  After some moments, the guard traipsed away a few steps, either to investigate a noise—Alex heard it too, probably a rat scurrying through a sewer grate—or simply to patrol other parts of the building.

  The window practically welcomed him in.

  He threw himself upward, discerned and used the currents of the night’s wind, and soared in a perfect line toward the opening. The guard’s footsteps returned as the sides of the window flashed beside him.

  Still airborne, he focused all his strength on slowing and softening his impact. A wall rose up to meet him and he realized that the hall beyond the window was narrow.

  Sweat poured from his forehead but he succeeded. He slowed to a hover and touched down gently on the floor, only a few centimeters from the wall. After a deep breath, he turned his augmented senses to everything around him.

  There were seven agents total, he determined. Four in a main room around the corner, two at the wings of the building, and the guard out front.

  Two of them in the main chamber were talking.

  “No sign so far,” a man’s voice said.

  “Be patient,” a woman replied. “He’ll come. Tonight’s his best chance.”

  Aww. Alex smirked. They set all this up especially for me. How flattering.

  The female voice continued. “They left Rem with three buttons. Even if the asshole chases him to a different part of the office, he’ll be able to press one of them. As soon as the light blinks, we move.”

  He nodded in the shadows. That’s good to know, FBI lady. Thanks.

  With no discernible sound at all, he crawled up the wall and hid in the gloomy corner it made where it met the ceiling. Then, slowly and quietly, he crept into the main room.

  Below him, the four agents huddled around a small console. It was dark and lifeless-looking, probably programmed to only light up when the signal was activated so as to not reveal their position with even the slightest glow.

  While he would have assumed the device had battery capacity, the agents nevertheless had two cords running from it. He backed out of the room and followed the cords to the rear of the building.

  There, he saw they were attached to two devices. One was some kind of transponder or something, which would receive the signal. The other appeared to be a small generator, which they had mostly wrapped in padded insulation to muffle the low grinding sound it made. This building looked like it had been abandoned too long before to still be hooked up to the local power grid.

  There were no guards nearby. Alex dropped and again slowed himself so he landed with all the noise of a cotton ball. He yanked the cords loose from both the generator and the transponder and picked up the latter device.

  On impulse, he took it with him as he crawled out the window and scurried to the roof when the outside guard turned his back.

  With his enhanced perception, he heard the agents below him and within the shop continue their terse conversation.

  “He punched through a bed, didn’t he?” some guy quipped. “I think I did that when I was drunk once. Does this mean that Bushmills is the Israeli Mafia’s secret weapon now?”

  Someone chuckled but the woman said, “He did that and much more. Don’t underestimate this guy.”

  Alex grinned as he crouched atop the old building. Confidence surged through him. He would absolutely and undoubtedly win.

  Moswen will be so pleased, she’ll probably get distracted and won’t even notice when—

  He cut the thought off. If she knew about his secret plan to barter with Taylor for his freedom, she hadn’t shown it yet. And now was no time to clue her in.

  A single, silent bound took him from the roof of the shop to another building, a Thai restaurant. He crawled d
own the far side of it, out of sight of the Feds, and dropped the transponder through a sewer grate. It plopped very satisfyingly into the befouled water below.

  Satisfied, he turned toward the agency’s office.

  And after what I did to him last time, that Remington spacker will barely be able to raise a finger to stop me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Moonlight Detective Agency Office, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York

  Remy sat in the pale glow of the fluorescent security lights and reviewed Agent Gilmore’s diagram of the booby traps they’d laid. He went down the list, double-checked them with his own eyes, and planned his route through the office if pursued, as well as how he’d reach for a weapon or activate one of the alarm buttons.

  He could not move anywhere even close to as fast as he’d like to. It made him wonder if maybe this had been a bad idea and they should have cajoled one of the Feds into undertaking this particular duty instead.

  Or even paid Volz extra and thrust it into his lap. He’d do practically anything for decent money.

  Or bought a homeless guy a couple of fifths of vodka and told him everything would be all right once he pressed the button.

  Anyone, really. As long as they weren’t half-crippled by recent bodily trauma.

  Riley had stayed with him, of course. They weren’t sure how much effect her magic would have since she’d struggled to do much against this Thomas guy during their last encounter, but she might at least be able to levitate him out of the way of an attack or something if all else failed.

  The fairy floated next to his ear.

  “I heard something,” she whispered.

  He covered his mouth and responded to her in the softest voice he could manage. “Go check it out. Be back in…uh, two minutes, we’ll say.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. She whisked off into the space above him and vanished into an air duct, probably headed to the roof of the building.

  It wasn’t until after she was gone that the thought popped into Remy’s head—he should have told her to create some kind of loud noise like a magical alarm if she saw anything suspicious.

  “Damn,” he cursed. He’d have to run it by her when she returned.

  He wondered if Alex would really come tonight or if the Aussie prick would hesitate and instead, try to steal the Black Cat Idol another day while it was in transit somewhere. There was no way to be certain.

  And which way will he come in if he does show up? He considered the options. Probably not through the front door. He might burst through the back. Or do what Riley did in reverse—crawl down from the roof into the ducts and try to drop on my head.

  It wasn’t an encouraging prospect. He checked the clock. One minute had passed.

  At that moment, the front door exploded off its hinges and careened across the lobby.

  “Jesus!” Remy yelled, stumbled back a step, and winced when his fractured back rib stabbed him.

  He could actually see a foot shod in a heavy work shoe protrude beyond the point where the door used to be. It retracted across the threshold.

  His heart thudding wildly, he scrambled into position next to the idol. Both Tasers were still secured in the back of his pants.

  Okay, he took the direct approach. That means he’ll blunder into the grease we put on the floor. Then…uh, I press the button and pretend to try to keep the statuette away from him long enough to stall for time.

  A humanoid form literally flew through the door, skipped the lubricated floor altogether, and attached itself to the wall. The man began to clamber toward the ceiling.

  Remy’s heart sank. “Whoops,” he said.

  Button first. Button now.

  His head jerked and his hand whipped out to retrieve the small device on the desk next to him. He located it and jammed the button down with his index finger. It clicked, but nothing else happened.

  They said it was a silent alarm. It worked. They’ve seen the flashing little light and headed out to kick some ass. Right?

  By now, Alex was halfway across the ceiling to where he stood and he’d noticed him.

  “I cannot believe,” the man remarked, his Australian accent somehow more obvious than it had previously been, “that they left you in charge of guarding that thing. Taylor must have a lot of faith in those FBI agents. I bet she gave them all a reach-around, including the sheila.”

  Remy grabbed the statuette with his left hand and hugged it close to his body. He backed away a step and, with his right hand, drew the first Taser.

  “Back off, dickhead,” he retorted and aimed the electroshock gun. “I seem to recall that these things kinda slightly hurt you. Also, her name is Kendra, not Sheila.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” The intruder sighed. He dropped from the ceiling, landed on a desk, and reduced it to a pile of fragments, some of which scattered and ricocheted off the walls. “You people never take the time to learn anyone else’s slang, do you?”

  He pointed the Taser at the man’s face. “We have Hollywood and the Pentagon. Your argument is invalid.”

  More importantly, Mr Thomas was only about a step and a half away from the tripwire that would spring the tranquilizer-coated punji-trap.

  “I skipped debate class,” the man admitted. “But enough of this. I’ll ask you to give me the idol now so I don’t have to take it.” His blue eyes almost glowed with crazed, strung-out fury.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t move.

  Remy decided a little provocation should do the trick. He pulled the trigger.

  Alex saw the attack as it happened and his superhuman reflexes kicked in. He launched himself upward but even he wasn’t quite fast enough. The dual barbs caught him in the right leg below the knee while he was airborne.

  “Goddammit!” He snarled.

  The investigator hobbled back another couple of steps and his foe fell sideways and again, clung to the wall. His teeth gnashed as the electricity caused his muscles to seize up.

  In virtually the next breath, it was already over. The intruder stretched a hand and ripped the darts from his shin before he punched a hole through the wall to deposit them in the dusty gap beyond.

  He pounced, easily cleared the tripwire below, and landed about two feet in front of Remington.

  Shit, shit, shit. Remy slowly raised his hand holding the gun as if getting ready to surrender it to the police. Where’s Riley? Where’s Gilmore?

  Alex stared at him. “Last chance.” It sounded like a hiss, rather than a statement—the kind that preceded a snake about to strike.

  He dropped the gun and instead, held the statuette over his own head with both hands, the way a second-grader would play keep-away with a kindergartner’s toy. “I know you don’t want to kill me if you don’t have to, Alexander Thomas,” he pointed out. “But you’ll have to take it from me, anyw—”

  A blur of color and mass rushed over and past him. He toppled back, aware of two simultaneous facts. One, his entire torso would become a volcanic eruption of pain when he struck the floor and two, the idol was no longer in his hands.

  He heard Alex laugh as he landed.

  “Fuck!” he gasped. Courtesy of his back rib, it felt like he’d fallen onto a knife blade. The kinetic impact jostled the front one, too, and his mini-hernia also tried to convince him that he’d burst into flames. “Oh, God…”

  But he’d pressed the alarm button already. Gilmore and her merry men would be along any second now to lasso the bastard before he could escape with the fake statuette.

  It seemed like it had already been an awfully long few seconds.

  So much for excellent response time. He dragged himself painfully from the floor by holding onto a desk.

  The blur swept past him again, this time in the opposite direction.

  Remy stretched frantically and yanked a cord along the wall.

  A loose section of scaffolding, seemingly attached to the ceiling, dropped in front of Alex’s mad dash. The piping burst apart but the Australian also reeled and tumbled unde
r the impact.

  The Black Cat Idol rolled a few feet ahead of him. He crawled forward, thrust aside pieces of debris, and snatched it back.

  This gave the other man enough time to heave himself into a standing position and draw his second Taser. He advanced on the prone form, the weapon aimed and ready.

  “Riley!” he shouted. “Riley!”

  Sweat oozed from his brow and his thoughts raced. Where the hell is she? Did she get stuck in a spiderweb or something?

  His adversary rolled and his eyes widened. “You’re seriously begging your fairy for help?” He pushed to his feet and steadied himself before he made ready to lunge toward the door.

  Remy noted his position. He kicked the tripwire that Alex had jumped over when he entered.

  The needle-tipped beam swung from the ceiling and two of the spikes embedded themselves in the man’s left arm. “What the fuck!” he raged and stumbled as blood poured from his bicep. He tore his arm free and staggered forward.

  Riley suddenly burst from the air duct overhead and flew to the side of Remy’s face. “Sorry!” she apologized. She saw Alex. “Oh no, he’s getting away.”

  The man’s movements were slow and clumsy. Between the blow to the head he’d taken from the first trap and the dose of tranquilizer the second had delivered into his bloodstream, they might have a chance to stop him.

  Remy gestured wildly at the retreating figure. “Knock him off his feet.”

  “How?” she protested. “My magic doesn’t affect him. I already tried to stop him out there before he broke in.”

  A heavy chair stood only a few feet in front of them. Remington nodded his head at it. “Throw that at him.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Sparkling with silver light, the chair levitated halfway to the ceiling before it hurtled toward Alex as if flung from a trebuchet. Remy cringed—the trajectory looked too low—but the chair struck the floor between the man’s legs.

  “Ha!” He laughed and limped forward when the intruder stumbled into the grease trap at the entrance. Cursing and sobbing, the man wobbled before his feet slid out from under him. He landed with a resounding thud and his head struck the baseboard of the wall.