Super

by Karen Diem

  SUPER

  (Arca Book 1)

  by

  Karen Diem

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Karen Diem

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my family.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  From The Author

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes, Zita Garcia wished for the kind of blind date where the guy threw up and she could leave. Instead, her date, the world’s most boring cherub with a badge, continued his monologue while she schemed to escape. Her plans had been locksmith work for an infusion of cash, and then dinner with her two brothers. Instead, they had thrown her to the dogs—or in this case, her oldest brother’s puzzling choice of a blind date: Dr. Justin Smith, an FBI psychiatrist or whatever. A question penetrated, standing out from the other blathering. “What? Oh, Miguel told you I’m an underachiever. No, I’m a tax preparer. My brother exaggerates.” A flicker of movement and the angry growl of a car without a muffler caught her attention, overriding the nearby hustling buzz of a highway. Before she could look, however, her other brother amended her statements from where he shamelessly eavesdropped.

  Metal chair legs scraped pavement as Quentin rose from the table next to theirs on the sidewalk of the trendy café in the outdoor mall. He closed in on them. Innocence shone from her brother’s face, but his words were pure devilry. “I couldn’t help but overhear as I passed. Don’t let Zita sell herself short. She speaks four languages and trains for the Olympics! I’m going get a sweet, so if you take off together, don’t worry about me.” His eyes strayed to the interior of the restaurant, and he winked at someone there.

  Zita gave her brother a death glare. Trying to be nice but uninteresting was killing her. Carajo, he’s all hopeful I am a brain trust now. Please brush me off soon. Some sweet little nerd is pining to scoop you up. She cursed herself for accepting her brother’s offer of a ride to and from dinner; she should have taken a bus or cab since her sprained ankle prevented use of her motorcycle.

  Her date widened his eyes and gave her a pleased smile, increasing his resemblance to a pug. “Miguel had said you’re athletic and super intelligent, so we should have that in common! Tell me about yourself,” Justin burbled at her hair. He had been unable to pull his bulging, over-large eyes from it since they met. His preoccupation with her hair lost him any respect gained for ignoring Quentin’s hovering presence and not ogling her generous chest.

  Her traitorous brother patted her on the shoulder, undeterred by the glare she gave him. Quentin’s grin widened, showing the smile the siblings had in common, and his whisky eyes danced. “Have fun, kids!” He abandoned her for his admirer inside the café.

  Based on the subtle detachment in Justin’s eyes, his title, and the forced enthusiasm in his voice, Zita suspected Justin might be legal to drink. Despite that, she doubted his smooth face had ever known a razor. He adjusted his crooked tie. It hung from the neck of a suit apparently purchased with unrealistic expectations for his eventual full growth. As he sat back, his jacket flapped open and flaunted a gun that coiled tense on one scrawny hip, inching toward the moment of escape. How could he miss that the firearm is undersized for that holster? Why didn’t he fasten the strap to keep it in place? Even though he said today was his first day with it, you’d think he would know that much.

  Zita snorted as the intelligent comment caught up with her. Her reply came out clipped. “I only speak four because I lived all over.” She flicked a blue-and-white-dyed dreadlock out of her eyes. With a mental curse at both her brothers, she tried a more frightening tack: reality. “The Olympics are a dream. I like extreme sports, exercising, and the outdoors. I work out for a few hours every day, switching it up between a few different things: acrobatics, martial arts, rock climbing, and so on. Last October, I climbed Mount Washington.” Social obligation done, she fussed with the hot pink athletic wrap on her sprained ankle, and then took a wolfish bite of her sandwich so she could avoid further conversation. The headache that had been teasing her with small bites of pain intensified with every word the man spoke. And he liked talking. Sweat trickled down her back as she perspired inside the makeshift sauna of her wilted blue work coveralls. Unwilling to risk encouraging him by unzipping even a little, she prayed he would leave so she could remove it and cool off.

  Another rev of that loud engine drew her attention. Shops and small restaurants faced each other across two roads that ran in either direction. Perhaps to discourage jaywalkers, the mall planners had crammed spindly bushes and oversized flowerpots down the center of the grassy area separating the streets. A muscle car with stripes idled outside the jewelry store on the corner opposite the café. The orange paint job was vivid and happy, like the world’s sleekest pumpkin, but the ski mask the driver wore ruined the cheeriness. It reminded her of biting into a cookie to find out it was wax. She hated when that happened. Fake cookies should not look so real.

  Oblivious, her companion did not notice as he took up the burden of conversation again. His gun slid out more. Experience had taught her that men never took suggestions on how to wear their weapons well. She reminded herself to stop obsessing about the man’s firearm. He wiggled in his seat with enthusiasm. Pues, he spent several minutes telling me how he’s a prodigy at his “calling,” and he’s not even practicing it, she thought. “Hang on, I got to call the cops about that robbery over there. Can you get the license number or take a picture if you’ve got a camera phone?” Distracted, Zita thumbed toward the car and the jewelry store. Not waiting for his response, she pulled out her phone and flipped it open. She watched him with her peripheral vision, most of her attention on the car.

  Justin jerked around and saw the two men enter the store as she began to talk to the operator. “You call. I’ve got a job to do!” he said, leaping to his feet and snatching his ID from the table. With a clatter, his chair fell to the ground behind him, and the little green metal table rocked. Coffee sloshed out of his cup.

  “Seriously?” Zita blinked in disbelief.

  Each of his limbs tried to go a different direction as he sprinted across the street. A white sedan screeched to a halt to avoid hitting him. She winced. The sedan’s driver flipped him off and kept going. Justin almost fell crossing the grassy strip when a bush snagged the straggling edge of one pant leg. Zita spotted his gun falling out as he untangled himself and continued across the next road. She smacked her head with her hand. Her stomach tightened, a hard, cold knot in her center. Suddenly dry, her throat could barely swallow. Do I want to do this? I can’t let him be murdered, not like in Brazil. Justin has the coordination and muscle tone of a born desk jockey;
he needs help.

  “Pretty certain Behavioral Analyzers or whatever your title is aren’t supposed to do that. I would know if I’d been listening better, I suppose. He’s been watching too much TV,” she grumbled, setting aside the mangled remains of her sandwich and limping over to the gun.

  To the operator on the other end of the line, Zita added, “Send an ambulance. An overconfident FBI civilian is playing hero. Armed robbery. Gotta go.” She rattled off the location and snapped the phone shut. Reaching the bush, she crouched to extricate the weapon, a Glock 22. One new scratch marred the finish. With a mental tsk, she tucked it into a pocket of her bulky coveralls.

  Justin’s voice was loud as he identified himself and demanded the robbers stop as they exited the store. His eyes widened and his talking sped up as his hand patted his empty holster.

  She sighed, and pulled out her utility knife from a zipped pocket on her leg, concealing it against her body. Her stomach clenched again, and she exhaled, focusing. I’ve been through worse. This is an exhibition against amateurs.

  The robbers stopped for a few seconds and stared at the young FBI specialist, who tried to glower back.

  Zita lowered her estimate of their ages. Older teens, and they must be new to robbery if they’re using that car and wearing pants that will slow running, she assessed. The ones on the sidewalk should be high school or college football players, not robbing a hole-in-the-wall jeweler four blocks from a cop shop. Maybe I won’t die. Her stomach eased as a scheme formed. I’ll have to be obnoxious and loud. The corners of her mouth quirked up. Finally, a plan that plays to my strengths.

  Exaggerating her limp, she struggled across the street, ending in a lean against the hood of the orange car. “Sweet ride. That color is all kind of cool,” she yakked at the driver. The hood radiated heat under the hand she stroked down the edges. With the hand he couldn’t see, she drove the blade of her knife into the wall of the front tire, and pulled it along to make a considerable gash.

  From her peripheral vision, she saw the two boys on the sidewalk glance at her, and then away. One clutched a semiautomatic 9mm Bryco Arms gun, probably selected because it was easy to find, cheap, and held ten rounds of punishing inaccuracy in a shiny nickel frame. He barked at Justin. “You better move out of the way and go give your daddy his ID badge back before I shoot your skinny ass.” He raised his gun, holding it sideways. You’d think they’d leave guns home until they learned how to shoot; everyone knows a man who can’t handle his gun, can’t handle other things. Of course, if they knew anything about shooting, they would use a better firearm. The mental heckling helped her focus.

  Justin raised his hands. He tried a soothing voice. “Now, we got off to a bad start. I know you don’t want to do this. Grand larceny with a weapon gets you extra time. You know, if you put that down, we can find a better solution than this. Keep your life on track.”

  Disbelief held the driver speechless for a minute. “Get away from my car, bitch, or I’ll run you down.” he snarled.

  She withdrew her knife from the tire and limped toward the back of the car. With her voice pitched higher and whinier, she complained as if she were the densest person on the planet. “Hey, I’ve got a bum leg. If you’re gonna be like that, you shouldn’t pimp out your ride.” Zita heaved a deep breath, keeping as much of the car as possible between her and the idiot with the gun. With a flick, she shut the knife and dropped it into one of her pockets as she moved. Warm sweat trickled down her back, not all due to the muggy May air.

  “Are you stupid?” the driver said. “Get lost!”

  The group on the sidewalk glanced at her, but their attention was on Justin. The beefy leader gestured with the gun. “You know what? I do want to do this. And I think you want to SHUT your mouth.” He shook his weapon at the last few words before continuing. “Toss over your wallet and the badge, and then kiss the sidewalk so I don’t SHOOT YOUR HEAD OFF.” His voice rose to a shout on the threat, and the other kid on the sidewalk shifted as if he had to pee or wanted to rabbit anywhere else.

  “We can go. Don’t need to mess with nobody else. We got the bag,” the nervous one urged the others. The driver revved the engine.

  Reluctant to obey, hands still in the air, Justin caught sight of her. His eyes widened, and he shook his head at her in mute appeal as he dropped to one knee.

  “Don’t say no to me! Wallet!” His face red, the leader of the robbers wore the glazed incomprehension of a bull ready to charge.

  Let’s hope Justin is smart enough to dash for safety. Zita let her gaze turn toward the corner of the shop he could duck behind, but continued her slow amble toward the sidewalk. She ignored the common sense urging her to run and hide; sometimes her brain was no fun. When she had cover from the gun, she stopped behind the orange car and slapped the trunk. With a toss of her hair, she raised her own voice. “Since you’re blind, which is a dumbass thing in a driver, I am behind your car. That means I’m not in your way and you can go wherever without running my sweet ass over. So stop insulting me before I scratch up your cherry paint job to show who’s smarter.” She affixed a sneer on her face. Her heart raced. Come on…

  The armed kid snickered. His weapon dipped. “Let’s get in the car before the gimp beats up Dylan.” Tension reduced, check. Sirens sounded—she’d guess four blocks away at the precinct station. Must’ve finished the donuts. The other teen nodded and dove for the safety of the car.

  Since he had mentioned her, she figured even a moron would notice the sidewalk tableau. Zita opened her mouth as if to berate him further, even lifting a finger. With a dramatic gasp, she let her eyes fall to his (terrible grip on his) firearm, and shrieked “Gun!” Ignoring the angry ache in her ankle, she hopped and hobbled into the closest store, trailing shrieks. Masculine laughter sounded outside. Justin had better appreciate me acting a fool to give him a chance to escape or pull a clutch piece. Even with my ankle, I could run the distance faster than the cops are getting here.

  A gun went off outside and glass shattered—she dropped to her knees. The others in the clothing store cowered in the back, except for one entrepreneur, who was creeping toward the front with his phone. Flesh smacked against flesh, and something clattered. Zita peeked out.

  The leader and Justin rolled around, on, and off a wallet. For a collection of bony arms and legs with no coordination, Justin used his excess of elbow to his advantage. Despite that, he was losing to the teenager, who had at least fifty pounds and a few inches on him. The car engine revved, but the two inside the car seemed to be having a whispered conversation. The robber’s gun had skidded to a halt not far from her.

  “Come on, we going!” the rabbity one in the car called. The sirens got louder, and then cut off. The bull of a kid now sat on top of Justin, gripping the hair on the back of the FBI analyst’s head. Red stained the sidewalk. Justin’s dead if someone doesn’t stop him. Shit. Guess I’m someone.

  Careful to avoid inching out any more than necessary, she set her foot on the robber’s sleazy gun. With a gentle nudge, she prodded it into the store to reduce its visibility. Please don’t let there be any more guns. With another deep breath, she stepped out of the shop. Zita angled her body to present less of a target from the direction of the car. “That’s enough. Go on and leave him be.”

  The leader sneered, one hand poised to pound Justin’s head into the sidewalk again. “What is this? Junior Detective needs his spic partner to rescue him?” His pupils were dark and dilated against the whites of his eyes.

  Who even says that? She put her hands on her hips and let her indignation sound off in her voice. “Oh, Hell no! I’m not his partner! I’m his blind date! Why don’t you take off and let me get a piece in? I got plenty to say to his pasty ass.”

  The robber snickered. He released Justin’s hair too, so she counted it as a step in the right direction. The driver hooted, but the rabbity kid urged his friend to get in the car. A whimper sounded from beneath the big teenager.

  She huffed an
d drew Justin’s gun. “Fine, let him go or I’ll shoot. I’m not playing no more.” While silence might have been wiser, she had to add one more thing. “Notice I know how to hold a gun so it won’t break my wrists.” Zita turned her head to the kids in the car and lifted her eyebrows. I look threatening. This is a gun. Be frightened of the loca and do as I command.

  For all of a second, she thought it worked.

  “He all yours,” the bully on the sidewalk said, throwing himself into the car. Tires squealing, the orange car howled off. I totally deserve a reward for this, maybe a piece of… oh. Three of the four police cars that had been sneaking up to surround them followed, lights reigniting and sirens ablaze with sound again as the pursuit began. The fourth pulled up with a screech.

  Zita looked at the gun, and then at the cop car. She set the weapon down on the ground in front of her, and took a couple steps back, holding her hands up in the air. Inside the shop, the enterprising man continued to point his phone their direction. “No, don’t help, keep filming!” she spat.

  Another moan came from the pavement. His face a bloody mess, Justin pushed himself up and glared at her from eyes swelling shut.

  Guess I don’t have to worry about letting him down easy, she thought, before the police demanded her attention. “Dude, you should have run or pulled your clutch piece. Are you okay?” As the cops circled her, she kept her hands in the air and obeyed every shouted command.

  Despite the endless rebukes for her actions, the police were gentle in their questioning. The number of times they called her girl was galling, but she took the censure without complaint. Zita smirked when the police radio announced that the thieves’ car blew a tire less than a mile away, but refrained from admitting her part. Forty-five grueling minutes later, she extricated herself and dragged herself back across the street to the restaurant. The admonition to stay in town for a statement rang in her ears as she hobbled across. The remnants of her sandwich and pickle had disappeared, though her scowling brother sat at her table. She grimaced. After that fiasco, she deserved a snack.