“Get him!” Striker told his two security guards.
Derek ran down the stairs to the door he’d come through, but it was stuck. He yanked three times on the handle and it finally screeched open. He was about to bolt through it when he felt a pair of powerful hands clamp down on his shoulders.
Shit. Cornered.
He didn’t fight back when he was spun around and pushed against the door, slamming it shut. The bigger of the two security guards was face-to-face with him. The second guard was coming down the stairs with Striker behind him, yelling commands. The maintenance man had stopped on the landing and was busy picking up the pieces of Derek’s borrowed phone and examining them.
“I give up! You got me!” Derek said, wanting to avoid a beating for resisting arrest. He kept his hands up, in plain sight, where everyone could see them.
Striker motioned for the guard to let go of Derek and take a step back. He did. Striker got in Derek’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I told you to vacate the premises!”
Derek could smell a strong mixture of booze and pot on the man’s rank breath. “I snuck down here to get that interview—that’s it. I swear. I’ve been waiting in the hallway and was just coming up here to get some air. That’s all.”
“You’re lying.”
Behind Striker and the security guards, the maintenance guy held up the broken cell phone and spoke with his thick accent. “Phone? Yours?”
“Ummm . . . no? Never seen it before in my life.”
“No matter,” the man replied, dropping the pieces on the ground and smashing them with the heel of his work boot. He picked up the fragments and put them in his pocket.
“Now I burn. Big incinerator,” he said, looking at Striker for a long second. He nodded, then turned and went up the stairs and out the door.
Striker’s face grew red and he made a pair of fists.
“You’re going to pay for this, kid!”
Striker took a swing—a huge, telegraphed, see-it-coming-from-a-mile-away left hook.
Derek had been in plenty of fights growing up on the west side of Phoenix, and knew how to handle himself. Striker was slow and wasted; much slower than the guys Derek had fought before. He slipped the clumsy punch and responded with a right of his own—a stiff, straight jab that landed square on the GM’s jaw.
Striker staggered backwards, falling on his ass.
The two security guards must have also been stoned—they started laughing and making comments.
“Oh shit!”
“Did you see that?”
“Boss, I’m sorry—but that kid just busted you the fuck up!”
“Shut up! And help me up!” Striker said.
Derek looked at the security guards—he wasn’t about to fight them. They were huge and in good shape. Surely able to take him out easily, high or not. He thought about making a run for it, but the men had him pinned in. He decided to put his hands back up and wait as they helped Striker to his feet.
“Hold him for me,” Striker said to the guards.
They hesitated.
“Do it!” their boss insisted.
The security guards moved forward and grabbed Derek by his arms, holding him firmly against the wall.
Striker stood in front of him and snarled like a rabid dog, then punched Derek in the gut. The air flew out from his lungs as he doubled over in pain.
Striker backed up and nailed him with a hard uppercut to the jaw.
Derek’s head snapped back, stunning him. Everything ran into a blur and started to spin.
Then Striker kicked him in the groin, sending Derek crumpling to the ground in a heap.
“I can handle it from here,” Striker told his men. “You two get back to the concourse.”
Derek heard footsteps heading up the stairs. He rolled to his side while holding his nuts and dealing with the pain from multiple impact sites. He looked at Striker just in time to see his foot coming for his face. It landed hard on his cheek, flipping him over and onto his back.
He heard Striker say, “Your ass is mine, punk,” just before he slipped into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Emily and Shroedy walked together through Glassford Park. The orange and white tabby seemed to be acting like he was her protector while trotting a few paces ahead of her. The kitty kept sniffing the air and looking back at her as if to say “the coast is clear.”
Emily smiled and quickened her pace. When she caught up to him, she knelt down and gave him a two-handed rub across his back and neck. “You’re my fierce little guard kitty, aren’t you? I’m so glad you’re here to protect me since Mom and Derek aren’t.”
He meowed and ran ahead, appearing to scout the path in front of them.
She stood up and followed the precious little fur ball while her brain slipped into analysis mode. Emily was starting to understand Miller’s betrayal. If the cops were all over him about her, there had to come a point when he’d have to make a decision: take care of himself or protect her. She knew all about the first option—her whole life for the past few years had been about protecting herself and not getting involved with anyone. She used to live by her rules, ignoring the rest of the world in the process. That’s what she was upset about, mostly: she’d trusted him, and she knew better.
“People gotta do what they gotta do,” she mumbled, trying to convince herself that Jim wasn’t a bad guy.
If she were going to revert to living by her strict set of rules, then she needed to take a few minutes to reevaluate whether or not she should trust the various people in her life.
Junie was a no-brainer. She was a kindred spirit—a young girl making the best of a shitty situation on the streets of Phoenix. Junie felt like a little sister, and Emily knew the feeling was mutual—her second sight told her so, every time Junie looked at her with those big, clear eyes.
As for Derek, he had saved her more than once, and usually at great risk to himself. Especially when the twisted sicko, Rob the Rapist, was holding her captive. She knew her heart was getting in the way of her logic, but she fought through it, letting the facts bubble to the surface and speak for themselves. She was ninety-five percent sure he was the real deal. Granted, he had his own demons to deal with, but he was a good guy and was crazy about her. He was someone she thought she could trust, or maybe it was someone she wanted to trust. For herself and for her heart. Her logic was telling her to be cautious, but her heart was screaming to grant him permanent membership in her circle of trust.
Miller, on the other hand, had saved her from a group of West Side Locos; but when she thought about it, the gangbangers were holding a gun on him, too. He was saving his own ass, as well as hers. It was clear he was interested in her life story, sure. But was it so he could write a story to publish and further his career, or was it because he genuinely wanted to help her? There was no way of knowing which was true. Could be both, she conceded.
But what about Duane? He seemed trustworthy, but he was also Jim’s longtime friend. Ties like that can blind a person, making him susceptible to compromise and betrayal. She didn’t know what to do with him. So far, he hadn’t let her down once, but there was more to factor in than just that. Tough call.
Then there was Sheldon. The nerdy librarian tech who helped her with her research and gave her a place to catch a nap when she needed it. He routinely broke library rules for her and put his job on the line, which has to count for something. But she really didn’t know him that well. He was a sweetheart, and probably liked her as more than just a friend. But like Duane, she didn’t know what to do with him.
She turned it over in her head for a few more minutes, then came to a final decision. Without evidence to the contrary, she decided Junie and Derek were in. Simple. So far, they hadn’t let her down—not once, so they were golden.
Miller—he was out.
Duane and Sheldon—she put them on the maybe list.
* * *
Derek drifted
in and out of consciousness after the beating from Striker. His body wasn’t responding to his commands to get up and fight, but he could still sense what was happening to him. He was on his back, and someone had a hold of his foot, dragging him along the cold cement floor. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused. Too much pain and not enough energy.
“Damn, you’re heavy for a kid,” a voice said. He recognized it. It was Striker, grunting and tugging. “Just gotta get you somewhere out of the way, until I can deal with you later.”
Striker hauled Derek down the hall for what seemed like forever. Eventually, he let go of Derek’s leg, letting it flop to the ground. Then there were sounds of keys jingling and a door opening.
Striker snatched Derek’s foot again and slid him another ten feet or so, then kicked him in the ribs with a powerful blow.
Derek gasped when what little air he had in his lungs shot out instantly.
“There. That should keep you quiet until I get back,” Striker growled as he slammed the door and locked it.
A heartbeat later, Derek faded into blackness, with only thoughts of Emily on his mind.
* * *
Emily and Shroedy, a cute pair of gingers—one human, and one feline—were approaching the border of Glassford Park where it ended at North Central Avenue when Shroedy stopped, arched his back, and hissed. Emily looked around, trying to find the source of the quantum kitty’s ire, but she couldn’t see anything—no dogs, no squirrels, no scary-looking street thugs, nothing.
Shroedy ran back and forth, rubbing his fur against her legs. Then he ran behind her, heading in the opposite direction.
“No, kitty. Wrong way. We’re going to the library.”
The cat jumped in the air, twisting and landing on all fours, then hissed again, this time with fangs exposed and ears pulled back. The kitty crawled low to the ground, inching his way toward her.
Emily didn’t know what to make of Shroedy’s weird behavior. Her eyes darted around the area, checking for predators again. But like before, she didn’t see any.
“What? I don’t understand. Is something wrong? What are you trying to tell me?”
* * *
Derek woke up in near-total darkness, slumped on his side, with his back pressing against something hard. Everything hurt: his head throbbed, his ribs ached, and his jaw was sore.
It took a moment for him to realize that he could see some light—a faint red glow blinking in a small room. The light was coming from above a door—an exit sign. His eyes faded in and out of focus as he rolled over, but they were able to report enough information to determine that he was in some kind of storage closet with a rusty metal desk piled with miscellaneous junk. Just beyond it was a tall set of wall-mounted shelves stuffed with white boxes—the kind for storing folders and records.
He took another minute to let his mind sharpen and adjust to his surroundings, taking in all that he was seeing and feeling. Then he remembered: Harry Striker. Drugs. The beating. Pain. The GM dumping him here and locking him in.
Derek crawled to his knees and worked himself to his feet. His head spun quickly, making him teeter off balance. He grabbed the front of the desk, trying to keep himself from falling over. It worked.
Despite the throbbing pain across his body and the dizziness, he needed to escape. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, and since Striker said he would be back, Derek knew he might only have a few minutes.
His wobbly legs carried him to the wooden door with a two-sided, keyed deadbolt installed. He wondered why a public building would need that type of lock on an interior door. Perhaps Striker used this room for more than storage, wanting to keep things from getting out, like him. He tried the doorknob but it was locked, as expected. He checked the door’s hinge configuration and it told him that the door opened out. Good news. He knocked on the wood, checking to see if it was a hollow door. The sound was deep and dull. Shit. Solid core.
He stepped back, aimed at the spot next to the doorknob, balanced on his left leg, and kicked at it hard with his right foot. His aim was perfect, but his plan wasn’t. The door didn’t budge, but he did, falling off balance and smashing into the ground, landing squarely on his elbow. More pain shot into his body, stinging the length of his arm.
He rolled and sat up, rubbing and massaging the new injury to help disperse the pain. His weary eyes focused on the exit. There was a small dent next to the knob, but it was clear that the door was going to be difficult to breech with only a single leg kick. He needed a new plan—one that would generate more leverage and force.
“Controlled force this time!” he scolded himself, massaging his elbow.
The items in the storage space left him with few options—nothing to use as a pry bar or a lock pick. He thought about sliding the desk out of the way to give him a few more feet of running room, then launch his body at the door, shoulder first. It might be enough. But then again, it might also dislocate his shoulder, leaving him defenseless if he ran into Striker or his men again.
Before he could act, a better idea flashed in his mind.
He stood and walked to the metal desk that had been pushed parallel against the shelves with its drawers trapped on the other side. He swept his arm across the surface to clear the contents and make it easier to work with. The right end of its top had a bit of an overhang, allowing him to wrap both hands around it. He leaned back and to the left, pulling and yanking to get the desk to move. It did, sliding its metal legs across the floor an inch at a time, screeching with each thrust. He continued to tug and pull until its end was aimed at the door.
One of the lower desk drawers had rolled open in the process, showing him a stack of phone books inside. He checked the other drawers and found the same—someone was hoarding phone books, adding to the massive weight of the unit. He removed the phone books and tossed them to the ground in a loose stack, counting as he went—twenty-seven.
The desk was about two feet from the door, but still not in the correct position to execute his plan. He turned and slid his back down the metal end, pulling his legs in as he dropped to the ground. He took a deep breath and pushed at the bottom of the door with his legs. The desk began to move away from the door and toward the shelving, scooting more easily now that the phone books had been removed. He felt the movement stop, indicating that the other end of the desk was now wedged against the shelves where he wanted it.
He stood and sat on the end of the desk closest to the door, raised his legs, and checked the distance.
“Just might work,” he mumbled. “Or it might break both my ankles.”
He paused, taking time to gather his energy and sharpen his resolve. His vision was still a bit fuzzy and his body felt weak, but he needed to hold it together and unleash one massive strike.
“Come on, Derek. You can do this. Make it happen,” he convinced himself.
He rocked on the desktop, aiming his legs at the dent he’d made earlier. He took three long, deep breaths, allowing his adrenaline to build. He bit his lip and let loose a mighty kick with both feet, using the metal desk as his anchor point.
His feet hit the door precisely where he had aimed, springing the door open with a small shower of splinters shooting into the air. It swung on its hinges and smashed against the outside wall.
Derek stumbled into the hallway with only one thing on his mind: run!
* * *
Shroedy ran in a circle, then back to Emily and pawed at her legs with his claws extended.
“Ouch!” she yelped, feeling his sharp weapons dig into her skin. She stepped back, puzzling over the quantum kitty’s strange behavior. Emily wished she could use her sixth sense to get a read on him, but her gift only worked on humans.
“Why are you acting this way?”
Shroedy let out a child-like cry, then sprinted west for ten feet, stopped on all fours, and looked back at her.
“What? I don’t understand.”
He ran again, stopped, and looked back.
“Do you
want me to follow you?” she asked, just as a searing pain hit her in the forehead, right between the eyes. She winced and staggered to a landscape boulder and sat down, holding back the urge to vomit.
Over the next minute, the pain dissipated and an intense feeling of confusion replaced it. Then her mind’s eye activated, showing her a remote vision of a long hallway. She was seeing through someone else’s eyes as the person walked with panic in their thoughts. More imagery, thoughts, and feelings arrived through the link, telling her whose eyes she was seeing through—Derek’s.
Emily doubled over in pain as a direct transfer of pain shot across the connection from his ribs to hers. His bones felt like they might be broken. Her face—his face—felt swollen, and a number of other pain reports came streaming in from his body.
He was in trouble and desperate. Trying to get away and find safety.
Then the word striker came across the link. Was that an object or a person? Or was he saying “strike her”—two words running together and sounding like one? She wasn’t sure what it meant, if anything.
She saw through his eyes as he made his way through two more hallways and found a stairwell. He went up two flights and pushed through an exit door, and found a parking lot where a fading sunset was waiting.
Derek stumbled, looking back at the door behind him. The psychic link started to fade, but Emily caught one final flash from him—a shiny, rectangular placard on the door. It was partially obscured, but the section of the sign she could read said ‘—obile Arena Service Entrance. Employees and Deliveries Only.’
Arena? Service Entrance? –obile?
Her mind crunched the clues and came up with the answer. There was only one arena in the metro area that contained the letters from her vision. She knew where he was. The Quick-Mobile Arena on the west side of downtown. By one of the service entrances.
Her dizziness and pain dissipated when the link disconnected, allowing her to take off at full speed. She headed west, the same direction that Shroedy wanted her to go earlier. Somehow the cat must have known Derek was in trouble and was trying to warn her. It’s the only answer she could come up with, even though it seemed impossible. How can a cat have her same physic power? Even a special quantum kitty like Shroedy.
Glassford Girl: Boxed Set (Complete Series) (Time Jumper Series) Page 33