Intimidator Page 3

  “They’ve forgotten me. I’m disappointed.” He shifted on the seat, stretched his legs out, and tried not to knock over the opposite chair, again. “Seems we are inconspicuous, even though I have striped skin.”

  Brask’s lip twitched in a half-smile. “You’re cuter than most of these. Besides the male with his hair threaded with skulls, tattoos of flames down his neck, and the arsenal of pointy things shoved through lip, nose, and ear, is far scarier. Your black spotty skin is nothing.”

  Spotty? He raised a skeptical eyebrow at Brask but refused to respond to the good-humored insult.

  He and Brask sat at a table in the darkest corner, behind a flimsy screen of plants. The man mentioned was on the other side of the plants with another hulking male. That one had settled for the prettiness of tying his blond hair in a braid. He made mocking comments about every woman who passed nearby.

  “This person I’m to kiss, where is sh –”

  A woman entered from the left then detoured for the other woman serving customers at the bar. She leaned over, facing away from him, her little black shorts creeping up her bottom and showing off a glimpse of curve, a hint of places no man was allowed to see unless she allowed them.

  For a second, he wanted to be one of those men. And if she didn’t allow him, he’d…

  His throat tightened.

  “There.” Brask straightened, standing slowly. “Target acquired, as the humans say in the movies.” Brask and his obsession with human movies. “She must have been serving at the other bar. I’ll leave you to it. Remember. Be inconspicuous. Don’t make any move unless you have six or less people in range. We can clean up that many. More is…human word.” He clicked his fingers. “…is a bitch. Yes. That.”

  He was so busy staring at her, he almost missed Brask moving away. “Wait!”

  “What? I can’t assist you from here on. This has to be your capture. Rules of the game. We just clean up the mess if you expose your alienness too much. And I don’t mean sticking your cock out and waving it about.”

  Stom ignored the crudity. Obviously Brask had been on planet for too long. “This must be false. I thought she was about to die?”

  Brask glanced over at the woman who was currently jumping up and down on one shoe heel and waggling her ass while she chatted and unloaded a tray on the counter. “Her? Willow? Yes.”

  He sat forward and squinted, even though his vision was perfect. Stom waved his hand in Willow’s direction. “She’s healthy. Perfectly. And are those clothes legal?”

  “What?” Brask stepped back to him and leaned over the table. “She’s got early Aids with an incurable variety that humans have no idea even exists. Hepatitis from a needle puncturing through her shoe on a run – she didn’t even know she did that one – and a local law breaker called Kasper is planning to murder her, possibly even torture her on the way to killing her. Is that good enough for you? It is on her file. We sample billions of medical reports, put them through an AI filter to find things human doctors miss. Then we do recon on the promising ones.” He smirked. “And yes, thank the gods, her clothes are legal here.”

  Ice washed through Stom and cracked into pieces. His mind went blank for a few seconds. Slowly he sat back until the leather upholstery of the seat back squashed under him and creaked. “I didn’t read it. The report. I thought the picture must be old. She’s…” He couldn’t lie. “Beautiful.”

  “Yes. It’s unfortunate but we can’t be curing every human of every disease they have. If you decided to win her, we cure her, we rescue her. Otherwise, no.”

  He looked up and saw the worried expression on Brask’s face. The lines on his forehead deepened. He was disturbing this Igrakk warrior? He shouldn’t be. Flip-flopping at the first sign of something unexpected, that she was an attractive creature…one he could claim as his pet, that was not the sign of a man with moral boundaries. She’s not mine.

  “I understand.”

  “Good. And good luck, even if you decide to follow through after all. Especially if you do.”

  He sensed Brask moving away but couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. So sad. Was he going to let her die? No one would replace Nasskia. It would be sacrilege. There were millions upon millions of dying humans. One more meant nothing. Surely?

  Over the next hour or two, he stayed where he was, obeying Brask’s instructions, watching her as she served drinks and cleaned tables on the other side of the room. It wasn’t until late, after the first girl left, that she came his way, and encountered the two men at the nearby table. The blond one chuckled when she picked up the glasses on their table then wiped the table down with a cloth.

  The skull-headed one leaned back and ogled her cleavage. “Hey, Willow, how about you come visit me and Turf here after closing? Out back in the car park.” He grinned. “It’s your lucky night.”

  She picked up the last glass and barely gave them a glance before weaving her way back to the bar.

  The men laughed gruffly.

  “Bitch. She looks like she’d eat you up, Turf, man.”

  Blond-haired Turf squirmed his jeans-clad butt on his chair then swigged down more of his new glass of beer. “Yeah, she will. I’m gonna make sure she chokes on my cock until she’s purple.”

  “Aww. Gee. You’re such a sweet guy. I might give her an ass fuck while you do that. Bet she’s fuckin’ tight. Her and that weird cousin of hers haven’t had dick for years.”

  Stom tried not to break the edge of the table where he held it. Kiss her. That was it. Mission done.

  I’m not interfering in her affairs.

  After half an hour or so, the two men left and he relaxed a little. Maybe they were merely boasting and nothing to do with this fate of hers? Aids could take many years to kill. A half hour later, it was closing time and a man came in and spoke to Willow. She promptly tidied up a little then headed out the back, through a door behind the bar.

  He’d follow after a few minutes, see where she went. Then his warrior-enhanced hearing picked up a small shriek, far away, but close enough to be just outside this building.

  Her.

  As he ran for the door behind the bar, hurdling the counter and sweeping glasses and bottles to the floor with the tail of his coat, he left behind a thunder of smashing glass. People yelled for him to stop. But out of all this, apart from his anxiety over her safety, his one other concern was that he’d recognized that cry. Anyone else he’d seen here tonight could sing an entire song and he’d not know who it was.

  Why was this so?

  Be inconspicuous? So he guessed that meant he shouldn’t use the twin 357 Magnums he wore in double underarm holsters, or the sub-compact Heckler & Koch MP5 slung at his back beneath the coat, or the… Pity. He could make such a mess with all these neat human weapons.

  On his way through the kitchen, he snatched up a bunch of knives and forks and stuck them into a pocket.

  He thrust open the back door and counted back the number of spectators he’d run past. Five, minus whoever was outside. It would do. He could hear the two men somewhere around the corner murmuring threats at Willow. He growled and stalked forward. If he killed these two, maybe that meant he didn’t have to count them?

  The brick wall of the pub dog-legged to the right and he followed it into a short alley. At the far end, past a half-open dumpster, was a quiet street with a warehouse and a few cars. One insect-shrouded streetlight shed meager light. He kept going past the dumpster and found them.

  They had her backed into a double door, with Turf holding her wrists above her head. Skull-head had his palm over her mouth and was shoving her T-shirt up above her bra. She was trying to kick them and screaming muffled curses. The man removed his palm from her face long enough to slap her hard, once.

  A rage like he’d not felt for eons shrieked in and tore his notions of serenity into scrap-sized pieces.

  Before the sound of the slap died away, Stom retrieved the bunch of knives and forks from his pocket. The metal dug its edges into the
taut muscles and tendons of his fist. Upon reaching Skull-head, he gave the man a slap that flung him sideways and backward. Stom didn’t bother checking where he went, registering his likely destination by the scrape of his clothes sliding on the road, by his yelps, and by the thump and clang as he collided with something metal.

  Which left Turf. The man gaped, swinging his head to zero in on this new intruder.

  Without hesitating, Stom wrenched away the chunky hand pinning Willow’s wrists and sank a fork, then a knife, into Turf’s hand between the long rows of bones. He knew where the bones were, and the gaps, and planned to tack him to the wall. It was satisfying to see the silver tines sink in, moistly crackling through sinew and flesh, and vanish, then feel the hard resistance of the timber beneath.

  Turf whined and gasped staccato in disbelief. He tugged to free his hand, but stopped at once, shuddering.

  Done. He stepped away and stooped to look at Willow.

  Though she’d slumped to the ground, she stirred, her hand reaching beneath her as she attempted to rise. A noise alerted Stom. The second man, Skull-head, came charging back.

  “You again.” He side-stepped and grabbed the man’s hair, bringing him to an abrupt halt and hauling him up off the ground, feet dangling.

  “Hey!” Skull-head screeched and clutched frantically, trying to free his hair. “Lemme go! Lemme –”

  “Quiet! Now. I can’t shoot you with this…” Stom pulled the 357 Magnum from its holster. For two seconds he waggled it under the man’s nose then slid it away again like a snake vanishing into a burrow. “But you need to learn manners.”

  A quick feel revealed a knife and a pistol, both of which he threw onto a nearby roof. If Skull-head had used those, it would have been more dangerous. He was being lax and should’ve searched him, or incapacitated him.

  The other one? Stom ground his teeth. With his free hand he patted down the second man and removed another gun.

  Turf only whimpered and picked at the firmly embedded fork and knife. The faint light showed blood blurring the silver of the handle, dripping to the earth.

  Good. He relished the chance of battle, needed it to quench this rage, even if this was poor opposition.

  “You.” He tossed Skull-head into the wall, stunning him. “Can join your friend.”

  It didn’t take long. He used up the rest of the cutlery to attach this second man to the timber door. Thunk, thunk, thunk. What a nice word, cutlery.

  He ignored the screams.

  With three knives and forks in each palm and one fork in an ear, the man was well skewered beside his partner.

  “Don’t go anywhere, will you?” Had he just used sarcasm? An odd form of human humor. Brask seemed to have figured it out and was going native to a fair degree. In the human movies Brask watched, the hero always left with a scary, significant phrase.

  Stom thought a second then leaned in. “Well, punk. Bet you’re wondering if that was six forks or five?”

  Apart from gasping, Turf went still, his eyes wide, his left hand ceasing to pluck at the bloodied fork nailing his palm to the door. “What the fuck?”

  Skull-head just whimpered.

  Willow giggled a little insanely. “You’re crazy.”

  He tsked and straightened. Maybe he should stick to violence.

  He helped Willow to her feet, and set off down the alley with the girl, this most delectable female, tucked into his side. Her car was out there. Recon had shown it to him, even if he’d barely registered the location.

  By the time they reached her vehicle, she was shivering so hard, her legs barely held her up.

  “Give me your vehicle keys.”

  “My c-car keys? No way. I’m fine.” But she collapsed back into the side of her car. “Thank you for the help. But… Go!” She fluttered her hand at him.

  “Do I frighten you? I don’t mean to.”

  No bag. She must have them in her pocket, which would be in her shorts. He let his gaze travel leisurely downward, ignoring, as much as he could, the flow of her feminine contours.

  She slapped a hand over her pocket. “No.”

  “Give.” He beckoned. “There’s two ways I can do this. The second way I put my hand in your pocket.”

  Faint screams reached them from the alley and she switched her gaze to look past his shoulder. “I don’t know you. Maybe you’re one of them too. I should call the cops.”

  “Me? I injured them badly. I’m not with them. You’re not thinking clearly. This Kasper will not approve of me.” He guessed, took a chance. “If you involve your police, it will make you a worse person in his eyes and you’re already in trouble.”

  The local police were not a good option. He sighed and reached for her.

  The loud, hard slap of her hand on his surprised him. She dared?

  “Wait! You know about him? You?” She studied him from waist upward, swallowing, shaking her head as if not sure of what she saw, her neck going back and up to encompass his height. “You’re big…and your weird tattoos. Shit.”

  “True. I am large.”

  Again, she giggled. Cute. The men’s noises of distress cut off. From his ear comm he knew it was the Preyfinders cleaning up, memory wiping. Soon, no human but Willow would recall what had happened.

  “Where are the cops? Someone must have called them by now with all the crashing and screaming?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe they’ve been freed? Decide. Make your choice. Give.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Couldn’t be. ’Sides, I’m not shaking much anymore. I can –”

  Stubborn female. He was to kiss her? Not here though, not now, not with blood on his hand. He also had this consuming urge to see her home safely. Kak. “Give me them!”

  “Okay! Shit. Knickers in a twist, much?” She wriggled her hand into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them to him.

  He went through the vehicle usage manual in his head and recalled the simulator training. Then he unlocked the car, ushered her in, and started the engine.

  All went well until he rammed into the car parked in front.

  “Crap!” Willow squeaked. “Lemme drive!”

  “No. I’m competent. The accelerator calibration was off.” He managed to reverse and steer out onto the road despite her muttered curses about insurance. Keep to the left. Left. This continent used the left.

  When over halfway to her place, she sat up. “How do you know where I live?”

  He glanced over. “Intuition.”

  “Guys have that? God damn. Why did I just get in my car with you? How many women have you murdered today?”

  Sarcasm time? He had an urge to impress her. “Three?”

  Even in the wash of passing street lights, he could see she’d gone pale.

  Emergency reverse tactics. “I meant none. I’ve killed zero women today. I was making a joke.”

  “Fuck.” Willow put her hand on her chest. “It’s still beating. I’m fine. Only zero today? Let me give you a hint. Three is doable. Next time say fourteen, so I know it’s a joke.” She cleared her throat. “I need you to tell me the truth about all this. You rescued me, so I’m giving you points for that. But there’s something going on here, obviously.”

  “There is.” He nodded. “I’ll tell you. When we get to your house.”

  “Okay. I guess. Are you foreign? That accent sounds kind of Russian. Crap. I should have expected that joke from you after what happened back there.”

  Her voice dropped a few octaves. “Was that five forks or six, punk. You feeling lucky? Jeez. From Dirty Harry, right?” She turned to him and said, her head shaking a little. “Did I really see you take out two of Kasper’s idiots with a set of dinner table knives and forks?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced over. The light silvered her, worshipping the undulations of her body – the upper curves of her breasts where they spilled from the neckline of her T-shirt, her lips, her cheekbones, the sweet curls of her black hair as it frothed around her ea
rs. She was, he fumbled for the as yet unused human word…dead sexy. Hot. Willow was someone he’d like to handle for more than just for a kiss.

  Behave. I’m spoken for. Nasskia was his only. His one. Always. He clenched the steering wheel tighter. Do the mission.

  The small vial with the pet-creating nano-chem was in his upper pocket.

  The things he did to avoid causing a diplomatic fuss.

  Instructions: Coat lips. Kiss her or insert the moistened finger into her mouth.

  Contacting her oral tissues was all it took, according to Brask. Insert his fingers between her lips. Make her little warm tongue lick over his fingers, between them. Make her suck on them.

  He sighed. Make? When had he ever made Nassia do anything? They’d been equals. And yet, the idea of making Willow do things invaded his mind.

  No. Uh-uh. No.

  Almost there. He swung up onto the driveway, cruised along beside a low fence, and braked, switched off the engine. Composed himself. He needed to get his stiff cock into a better place.

  Like maybe inside her?

  She chuckled, hiccupping. “I just figured it out. You…you knifed and forked them, didn’t you? Ohmigod. Oh my freakin god.”

  “Hmm.”

  How was he going to do this? There must be a way. Perhaps it was some loss in translation between their separate races? Did humans laugh when worried? She was in extreme trouble and seemed not to understand. Those men had wanted her dead, after they’d taken pleasure from her.

  A kiss, a kiss, and only a kiss. The words ran through his mind like water leaping down rapids.

  Just a simple kiss, to begin the process. Over the next day, she would change. She’d become aroused, intensely so, when he…if he went near her.

  But how could he save her from death?

  Perhaps he couldn’t. Everyone dies. Some sooner than others.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m a bit on edge here. You said you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  He eyed her, took in the tenseness of her face. “Can we sit over there?” He pointed toward the door of her house.

  “Outside? Sure. I’m not going to invite you in though. On the porch, sure.”