Marcus Sakey - At The City's Edge

She turned and walked to the window. Stared out at nothing.

He rubbed at his eyes. "Washington told me that Dion Wallace had been killed last night. I just didn't put it together." Jason remembered the guy by the river, Scarface. He'd made her drop her gun. "That's why there are cops after us. One of them used your gun last night to shoot Dion." He paused. "But how would they put it together so fast ?"

"Donlan." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Right. Her one-time lover, the cop with plenty of juice. So it wasn't one kick to the gut. It was two. "God." He sighed. "And that 'anonymous source.' That would have been Galway." Three.

She didn't respond, and he moved behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. For some reason that cut him.

"All my life," she said, "all I've wanted was to be a cop. I was good at it, too." She shook her head. "Damn it, I was a good cop."

"You still are."

"Don't." Her tone was pure contempt. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. You're still a good cop."

She laughed through her nose, a hollow and scornful sound. "No I'm not. I'm an assassin. I killed Dion Wallace. You know how I know?" She flung the remote to bounce off the hardwood floor. "I saw it on TV."

"Elena-"

"Stop, okay? Just…" She sighed. "Just stop."

He stood behind her, wanting desperately to say something that could make it better. Knowing exactly how she felt. He'd felt the same way walking out of the Administrative Discharge Board. Being a cop was as central to her as being a soldier had been to him, and now the bastards had taken that, too.

Without thinking, he spun her into a hug. She stood rigid as stone, and he just had time to wonder if he'd made a terrible mistake.

Then something in her snapped, and she buried her head in his shoulder, her hair in his face. Her hands wrapped around his back, squeezing at first and then turning to fists, beating against the muscles of his back, left then right then left. Jason took it without complaint. Just held her, felt her chest heave as she cried without a sound. He didn't murmur soft nothings, didn't try to tell her it would be all right. Just held her and let her spend her fury and frustration against him, let it break like waves on rock, until slowly the force diminished, and her fingers closed around his T-shirt, clutching at it as she shook in his arms. Just held her and stroked her hair and felt the warmth of her.

And when she was spent, he said, "I know how to beat them."

Cruz pulled back, looked up at him with wet eyes. "What?"

"Remember our mysterious caller?"

" 'The burned child fears flame.' " She sniffled, then took a step away, moving to hold his hands between them like they were dancing.

"We assumed that the evidence he gave to Michael was gone. That Galway and DiRisio had taken it." He paused. "But what if we were wrong? What if Michael hid the evidence somewhere safe, safe even from the fire?"

She stared at him for a moment. "You mean-"

"Yes."

"And you know-"

"Yes."

The beginnings of a smile graced her lips. "Where?"

"Michael's bar. In a place they wouldn't have known to look. We can go get it right now. End all this shit. Make sure Billy is safe. Get your job back."

Her eyes narrowed. "Burn Galway and Donlan to the ground."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Her hands squeezed his, her fingers not the baby-soft girlskin he was used to. Hands that worked, that knew how to hold a weapon and grip a chin-up bar. He liked touching them. "What do you say?"

She smiled at him, then stepped forward and grabbed his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. He stood frozen, still able to smell the tears on her cheeks, but then her tongue parted his lips, menthol and spice in a soft dance growing harder. His body reacted, pulling her closer, the ridge of her pelvic bone pressing his hips, her body warm against his chest, warm and right and close. His hands tangled in her hair, and she gave a soft moan, and then they were stumbling across the floor to the bed, not breaking the kiss, hands flying everywhere, her back, his shoulders, the curve of her hips. When they reached the bed she pushed him, and he fell backwards. She was on him even as he hit, crawling onto his body, her hands fumbling at his belt, the brush of her fingers sending electric shivers up his spine, his cock straining at his jeans, her smell sexy and strong, and he could barely wait to pull the sweater over her head and kiss the triangle of cinnamon skin in the hollow of her throat, to yank her jeans and panties to her knees and slide inside her, feel her warm and sweet, a place to lose himself, to forget, to separate themselves from everything that was happening-

He reached for her hands and gripped them in his own, pulling them from the belt she'd managed to undo in no time at all. "Stop."

She froze, then leaned back, the crotch of her jeans rubbing his, a knowing look on her face, her voice whiskey and black coffee. "Stop, huh?"

He groaned involuntarily, bit his lip. Then shook her hands, pushed them away. "Stop. Seriously."

She cocked her head. "What's the matter with you?"

He was wondering that himself. "I just… this doesn't feel right."

"It doesn't feel right?" She raised her eyebrows. "You really know how to romance a girl."

"I don't mean that. It feels great. It's just…" He paused. "This doesn't seem like you."

She stared at him, something flashing in her eyes. "What the fuck do you know about me?"

"I'm just saying, I don't know, I don't want to end up with you thinking of me the way you think of him, of Donlan. Like a mistake, something you regret."

She pushed herself off him, shaking her head. Stalked over to the mirror and began to straighten her sweater, not looking at him, her voice venomous. "I don't need your protection."

"I know that." Things had gotten turned around. It had been clear in his mind, the idea that with her he didn't want to do the same old thing, just use sex as a conduit to forgetting, but now everything seemed jumbled. He sat up, sighed. Ran a hand through his bangs. "That's not what I meant."

"It doesn't matter." She turned her head back and forth, examining her profile in the mirror. She blew a breath, then patted her pockets, came up with a blister pack of gum. Popped one of the pieces in her mouth and chewed viciously. "We should go anyway."

"Listen-"

"I'll see you downstairs." Without a look back, she walked out the door. He could hear her walk down the stairs, the sound steadily growing fainter.

He sighed, flopped back on the bed, stared at the stucco shadows on the ceiling. "Shit."

It was only afternoon, but the lightwas fading against a sky bruised purple with the promise of storm, one of those summer squalls that settled in and turned day to night. Jason had the passenger's side window open, his elbow on the frame, arm out and planing. He'd tilt his hand down and his arm would dive, then point it up and his arm would rise. The hair on his forearm was struggling to stand, and he could smell ozone on the breeze.

"Worked out well," Jason said. "Washington's party being tonight, I mean. For him letting us use his car."

Cruz nodded, flipped the turn signal of the borrowed Honda.

"Of course, I wish we could go to the thing." Talking to fill the stony silence. Out his window the world moved past: A cell phone store, a closed hardware shop, a burnt-out two-flat plastered with posters. "Half a million dollars. Jesus, that's a lot of money. Wouldn't mind being able to write that check."

He glanced over at her, the way she drove staring straight ahead. Strong, independent, but something brittle in the pose as well. And why the hell not? One minute they're about to make love, the next he's pushing her away. "Look, Elena, I'm sorry-"