Vicki Pettersson - The Given

Neither moved to lift the radios at their waists.

“Maybe we already did,” the smaller guy said. His name tag said ERIC. The other’s? Harry . . . Barry . . . Larry . . .

Zicaro would know, so Kit let it go for now and bared her teeth, an approximation of a smile. “I hope so. I like the police. I have a lot of friends on the force.”

For some reason, that made both men chuckle. “Honey, none of your friends can save you from this mistake.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kit answered, “but they are powerful enough to come out here and investigate this facility and everyone working in it.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Eric said, teeth gritted.

“ You have no idea what I’m doing,” she corrected, and leaned forward. “Here.”

She handed Zicaro the gun so that she could pull him backward over the grass. He looked at it for a moment, then cocked back the hammer and pointed it at Larry. He’d drawn close enough for Kit to make out his name now, but he fell back at this and froze as he stared at Zicaro.

The reluctant show of respect emboldened the old man. He flicked the barrel of the gun at Larry, shooing him away. “You thinking about rushing us, buddy?”

“No,” Larry said, falling back again. “No.”

“Good,” Kit said, pausing long enough to meet Larry’s hard gaze. “Now I just have one question for you. Why’d you kill Barbara McCoy?”

Zicaro sucked in a sharp breath next to her.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Kit jerked her head, cutting him off. “You think I don’t recognize you? I was there last night! I saw you.”

And though the details were hazy—a jumble of ringing blasts and smoky air and stars that realigned themselves and her fate before her eyes—Kit knew she had seen this man dressed in black, looming over Grif in the moments after Barbara’s death. He’d killed a woman in cold blood . . . and Kit? Kit had used the gun that Zicaro now held to fire a warning shot back his way when he was about to do the same to Grif.

And now here he was again, alive and watching over Al Zicaro . . . and looking once more like he wanted to kill her.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Larry lied.

“You will,” Kit swore, jerking her chin. “The world will.”

And that’s when she spotted a giant of a man sprinting toward them all, one arm pumping at his side for speed, the other at his head as if trying to keep it from falling off. His furious expression was visible even three hundred yards away.

Shit. Kit’s gaze darted back to the building as if she could see through it to whatever may be happening inside. Where was Grif?

Seeing the other man, Larry returned the gun to the small of his back and folded his arms over his chest. Eric held up his hands and even backed a few steps away, though his gaze had gone predatory. Kit swallowed hard as the giant joined them. At least she knew who was in charge.

“Your move,” Larry said, mouth curling in a knowing smile. He was right to be smug. Two on one was a chess match. Three on one, even with a gun in play, was plain stupid. Besides, she didn’t even have Zicaro to use as a foil anymore. It was pretty evident that she wasn’t going to harm him the moment she handed him the gun.

“Here we go,” she warned Zicaro in a low voice, and he made a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat. Kit was having a bit of trouble breathing herself. Muscles tensing, she darted around the building, pushing the wheelchair. The chase was on.

The wide front parking lot was just as Grif and she had left it, absent of any other vehicles, which gave the front of the building an aspect of abandonment. The leafless trees and wilting perennials sat forlornly in the arid chill, and even the birds had fled. The wheels of Zicaro’s chair rattled across the pavement, as did his breath, and Kit waited for the shouts to rise behind her . . . and even looked for the plasma that Grif was always going on about. Running, she cast about for the effervescent purling of a mist that was supposed to be invisible to the human eye. If she were about to die, she wanted to know it.

The figure stepped forward, emerging from the redbrick building so quickly that they collided. Kit rammed into the back of Zicaro’s head, and her gun flew from his hand. They both squealed . . . but Grif steadied her. Hand gripping her arm, he swiveled so that she was behind him, and then flipped Zicaro around.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kit asked, rushing to pick up the gun.

“Had to make a phone call,” he said, moving fast with Zicaro.

“Make a—?”

“Hurry. We gotta get him in the car,” Grif said, rolling the chair backward, and Kit hurried to open the Duetto’s passenger door. Eric and Larry reeled around the corner just as Zicaro finally managed to swivel in his seat and see who had taken the reins. He took one long look at Grif, let out a strangled squeak, and passed out. Grif caught the old man before he could fall from the chair, lifting him like he weighed no more than a feather.

Kit helped him wedge the old man into the passenger’s seat, and it took all of her willpower not to turn to see how close the three men were now. Though they were armed, she had to trust Grif to protect them. She even thought she heard the sharp cutting sound of blades slicing air, and imagined his wings snapped wide to shield them. Even so, it would be an automatic reaction to danger, and though it was effective against supernatural foes, here he was bound by the same laws of nature as everyone else who wore flesh.

As evidenced by what came next.

“Duck,” he said, just as the first bullet flew. She fell atop Zicaro and he did the same, so that they all lay flat against the seats. That shielded them from the second bullet as well, but the footsteps were growing closer.

Then, suddenly, everything grew too silent. Kit lifted her head. Zicaro groaned beneath her weight, and she shifted as she looked at Grif, now in a squat at the open door. “What—?”

But they both heard the engine by then, and Grif glanced down at his feet as if looking for something.

“Plasma?” Kit asked.

“Not even a bit.” He blew out a breath and offered a hand to Kit. “Looks like we’ll live to piss these guys off another day.”

Trusting him, Kit reached out and they rose together to face off against the three men on the other side of the lot. None of them held a gun now.

Perhaps because of the police vehicle pulling to a stop between them.

The officer climbing from the driver’s seat of the patrol car stared at the three men in the parking lot. His back was to Grif and Kit, though his partner certainly gave them a good once-over. Kit read his badge. OFFICER STOKES.

“Let me guess,” Kit whispered to Grif once Officer Stokes glanced the other way. “Your phone call?”

“I figured I’ve perfected the Lone Angel act, so I decided to give Smart Angel a try,” Grif said as he casually shoved his hands into his pants pockets.

Kit had deposited her .22 in the pocket of her flared skirt as soon as she’d spotted the patrol car, but she knew its outline could be seen if one were looking close . . . and Larry was glaring at it pointedly. Yet, despite the hatred flashing in his dark eyes, he said nothing.

“We got a call that there was some trouble out here?” The first officer still hadn’t turned their way but he was tall, and his broad shoulders were currently bunched. His arrival had done nothing to dissipate the tension in the parking lot, and he seemed to know it.

“No problem here,” replied the giant man, never taking his eyes off Grif.

The first officer turned to see what or who was so engaging, and if his shoulders had been tight before, they practically rose to his ears now.