Jason Pinter - The Fury

While he was still pawing at his face, I swung an elbow that hit him right in the chest. It connected solidly, and he went down in a heap, still moaning, his face red from the scalding liquid. He was curled into a fetal position, so I knelt down on top of him, spreading his arms wide.

Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like he was the one being attacked.

I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man's head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees pinned on his arms-just in case he had another weapon handy-I placed my palm under his chin and forced him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I patted him down-legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a few crumpled singles and a driver's license.

Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry picture ID.

Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel him squirm out from under me as my head smacked against the pavement.

I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around, trying to locate the knife. He couldn't find it, and by that point I'd managed to prop myself up. I took my keys from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift pair of brass knuckles.

The man saw me do this. Looking around once more for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, "You don't watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn't bother you, maybe we'll stick one in your old lady, too."

Then he sprinted away and didn't look back.

I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If

I hadn't seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.

I remembered that I'd taken his wallet and removed the license. The man's name was Trent Buckley. His license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated

2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New

York from Colorado.

Who sent him here? And how did he know where I lived? And who was Buckley referring to as "we"?

Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the abandoned street, wondering if someone else was waiting to pounce.

Then my mind went to one place.

Amanda.

My "old lady." Did they really know who she was or where to find her?

If someone was after me, they could very well know various ways to get to me.

I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.

Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing one right now.

Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was pasted over the jamb.

I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I opened it with the caution of a man who'd previously wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.

I had no idea what garments were most important to

Amanda, so hopefully she'd forgive me if in my haste

I couldn't put together a matching outfit.

Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for a cab to see me and pick me up.

"The Kitten Club," I said breathlessly.

The driver nodded, and off we went.

The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.

Strangely, once the investigation had ended and the club had reopened, its cachet as the most exclusive club in the city skyrocketed. Not only was it the place to be, it was basically a city landmark now. Lines that once stretched around the block looped each other. Darcy's husband was an old fraternity brother of Shawn Kensbrook, the Kitten Club's promoter, so they were able to hop the line. All that for the privilege of spending five hundred bucks on a bottle of Smirnoff.

The lights of the Kitten Club pulsated as the cab drew near. I lowered the window. The smell of cologne, perfume, cigarettes and sweat permeated the air. Natu rally there was a line snaking all the way out the door and down the block, and that it was three people deep led me to believe it would be a two-hour wait just to get in.

But I wasn't planning to wait in line.

As the cab pulled up in front of the club, I threw him a twenty and hopped out, dragging my heavy luggage behind me. A few people waiting in line noticed my odd appearance-jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and a massive Samsonite-and pointed me out to their friends. A few laughed. The rest looked slightly worried, as though they expected me to be lugging a bomb or a body in the suitcase.

I had to shove my way through the line to get to the front. A massive bouncer with biceps veins thicker than his waist blocked the way. He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

"Line starts over there," he said. He jerked his thumb in the opposite direction of where I thought the line started. Based on a rough calculation, the people at the end of the line would be allowed in right around the

Rapture.

"I need to see Shawn Kensbrook," I said.

"I need a blow job," the bouncer said.

"One of those is going to be much easier to achieve than the others," I replied. "Listen, tell him this is about

Darcy Lapore and her husband, Devin. He'll know who you're talking about."

The bouncer looked me over, trying to see if I was for real. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie, pressed a button and spoke into it.

"Yo, Byron, some kid out here with a damn suitcase says he needs to talk to Shawn. Says it's about some chick named Darcy."

"And Devin," I added.

"And Devin." He clicked off the walkie-talkie and waited for a response. Then he said, "You be messing with me, I'm a make you give me that blow job."

"I don't think either of us would enjoy that very much."

Then a crackling sound came over the talkie, and a voice said, "Hold tight, he'll be right there." The bouncer nodded, clicked it off. "Guess you won't need that mouthwash after all."

A minute later, a man came through the door and walked right up to me. He was wearing an Armani suit and sunglasses, and looked like a white, slightly less bulky version of the bouncer. His cuff links were sterling silver, and I could see his belt buckle was engraved with the letters SK.

Shawn Kensbrook walked up to me and said,

"You've gotta be him."

"It's me," I said. "Henry Parker. You must be Shawn.

I left you a few messages last year while I was covering the Athena Paradis story."

"I didn't talk to any reporters after that happened."

"I can understand. I know you two were close."

"Cut the crap. What do you want to do with Devin?"

"Long story short. My girlfriend, Amanda, is with

Devin and Darcy right now. She's in trouble. I mean, big, bad, lives-on-the-line trouble. I don't have the time to wait on line, I just need to see her. You let me in, I grab the girl, and we're gone. Simple as that."