Sunny - Mona Lisa Eclipsing

All guns trained at him and fired. If I had wondered before if we were capable of moving faster than a speeding bullet, the answer is yes, sort of.

Roberto and I were the only ones who saw the other attacker move, the biggest one, tall and strongly muscled, with a beard like the other man but shorter and more neatly clipped—the only one left uninjured among our group of attackers. He moved as I moved when I ran free, out of sight of prying eyes: inhumanly fast. He snatched up Mr. Invisible (who had now turned visible) and darted out of the way of fire before the bullets reached where the other man had been standing.

Roberto was the only one fast enough to fire a second round. The big guy deflected two of the bullets with metal wrist guards similar to what the arctic-eyed bandit wore. Even as he ran, fast, so fast that it was nothing but a blurring streak to human eyes, I saw him turn back and look at us . . . no, not us. At the other man who had fought like him and been shot down, fallen near me, blocked from rescue behind Roberto and the bodyguards.

“Go! Leave me,” I heard the injured man say as he tried to crawl away from us, making pitiful progress. The words should have been lost beneath the gunfire but I heard him and so did the big man.

The large bandit raced to the naked eagle guy and swung him over his shoulder. Unhindered by their weight . . . indeed, acting as if they weighed nothing more than a feather each, he sprang into the air, one impressive bounding leap that took him to the end of the block where he veered around the corner, disappearing from sight.

I was still reeling from what I had seen, not the world-record-breaking leap—that I could do myself, though maybe not with two other men hanging over my shoulders—but rather from what I had glimpsed when he had swung the naked man onto his shoulder: the neat Vandyke beard and mustache adorning the bird-man’s face.

Looking just like a character out of England’s Victorian age.

THE DRIVE BACK home was made in tense silence, with the prisoner gagged and bound in handcuffs—silver, I noted, not the stainless steel they appeared to be. My nose smelled the difference. The cuffs had the same sharp metallic scent as the fired bullets, and seemed to physically pain the prisoner upon contact—no sound, just a subtle clenching of his face and arm muscles. They had dumped him in the trunk of our car, and though he was out of sight, it was impossible to forget him.

For some reason, I didn’t like knowing that we sat comfortably in the car while a shot and injured man lay locked in the dark and cramped trunk space behind us. Could he breathe? Did he have enough air? He must have or Roberto would not have put him there, I didn’t think, but I couldn’t even ask Roberto. He had been on the cell phone speaking in rapid Spanish ever since the car started moving.

I had a number of questions I wished I could ask the captive. Number one was how he knew my name, my secret name that no one else knew. Mona Lisa. The second was about his companions—the big wrestler-type, the guy with an old-fashioned Vandyke beard and mustache, and Mr. Invisible. Together, with him, they made four men, half of whom clearly matched the description my landlord had given me. The other two descriptions were off, however. The poor schmuck bound and gagged in the trunk was neither movie-star handsome nor average looking, though the latter might apply to Mr. Invisible—a startling trick, by the way, turning invisible; almost as good as turning into a bird and being able to flip big cars onto their side. I felt an edge of hysteria grip me for a frantic instant and didn’t know if I was going to laugh or start crying. Thankfully I did neither, just sat there feeling my world, my reality, distorting.

Okay, deep breath. Clear thinking.

No telling what the guy in the trunk looked like with all that mountain-man hair and beard covering his face. He didn’t look movie-star handsome, but maybe he’d dressed better and hadn’t had all that facial hair when my landlord had seen him. Maybe he’d been smiling instead of tearing his way through flesh with horrific clawed hands. First impressions really did matter, you know.

Another surge of demented giggling threatened for a thin, precarious moment, then subsided.

Jesus. Maybe I was going crazy because now that I’d had time to think about that chaotic fight, a couple of things bothered me. For one, they didn’t seem to be trying to rob us as I had first assumed. My second thought had been kidnapping; Roberto was wealthy, after all. But the guy had clearly been about to kill Roberto, not hold him for ransom. I wasn’t too familiar with the profession, but I believed kidnappers generally kept the person they wanted to demand money for alive, not cut their head off, which I was pretty sure Mr. Pale Eyes had been about to do before I stopped him. He had been willing to hurt everyone but me. And what had the Invisible Man called me? My lady. Let’s go, my lady, quickly. As though he’d known me and had expected me to come with him.

I hadn’t been able to see his eyes but I wondered if Mr. Invisible might have had the same confused and surprised expression on his face as the man in the back of the trunk had when I’d thrown myself in front of Roberto and stopped his killing blow.

I had assumed Roberto had been their target, if not to kidnap him then to kill him. That seemed to be what Pale Eyes had intended, his death. But if that was their goal, then why try to take me away?

I was confused—confused and feeling something almost like dread rising within me.

Roberto ended his phone call.

“Why did they attack us?” I asked him.

Did Roberto hesitate a moment or was I just imagining it? And if not imagining it, then reading something more into it than I should?

“I told you before, querida . Sometimes others come here to try to take what is mine.”

Reasonable answer. But I wasn’t satisfied. “They were trying to kill you but not me. They did their best, in fact, not to harm me. No one shot at me, not once. And the guy in the trunk pulled his blow, the one he had intended to take off your head with, or it would be my head rolling on the ground right now. Why didn’t they try to hurt me?”

He must have heard the rising note of agitation in my voice because he put his arm around me and soothed me with a soft shushing sound, gently urging my head to rest against his chest. But I resisted, the first time I’d done that. I pulled away so I could see his face. It was important that I do that, see Roberto’s face when he answered me.

“You are a woman. I have seen other men like myself but never a woman before,” Roberto said, choosing his words carefully, making me wonder how much English his two bodyguards spoke and understood. “Of course they would wish to kill me and take you for themselves.”

It all sounded true, reasonable, consistent with everything he’d told me. I would have been satisfied if two of our attackers didn’t match the description my landlord had given me of my four “friends” who had helped me move out of my Manhattan apartment.

Had they—bizarre thought here—had they been trying to rescue me? If so, that would imply that they thought Roberto was the bad guy. It would also imply that I was a captive, which I wasn’t. Was I?

“We’ll drop you off at the house first,” Roberto said, interrupting my train of thought.

“No, the police will need my statement. I was a witness. For that matter, why didn’t we wait for the police? Aren’t we supposed to stay at the scene of a crime?”

“Normally we would, but it was too dangerous to remain there. The men who escaped might have returned.”