Read Mariposa for Free Online Page B

finger off trigger . . . He caught himself and raised the barrel, finger back on the trigger—standard Talos training.
    Talos operated in parts of the world where accidental shootings were preferable to responding a split-second slow, letting soulless attackers get the drop on you.
    It might just be a disgruntled student taking out his anger on a wall or the ceiling. But students were issued weapons that fired only in training.
    Disgruntled employees were rare in Talos. Most were dedicated, well paid. Price had learned his lesson with out-of-control contract security in Iraq. There, Talos employees had been caught pumping up on steroids, snorting cocaine, even shooting heroin to get through the grueling, dangerous days escorting officials, generals, diplomats, though the hell of Iraqi cities.
    Fouad slowed as he came to the end of the hall, the outer circumference of this side of Buckeye. All he heard now was harsh, husky breathing and moaning—four or five men down, wounded or in pain.
    A bullet had pocked the cinderblock on his right.
    Another had gouged the linoleum floor, interrupting the golden reflection of the outer windows.
    He darted a look to the left, around the corner, along the rim of the wagon wheel. In the warm afternoon light, Big Guard and Little Guard were trying to subdue a tall, skinny man and doing a bad job of it. The skinny man wore a green shirt and gray pants—engineering and programming—and jerked this way and that, loose jointed, like a puppet tugged by an idiot. Three other guards had been tossed back like dolls, belts and holsters empty—guns and batons thrown out of reach along the circumference.
    Big Guard and Little Guard maneuvered like wrestlers, trying to grab the skinny engineer, but he escaped as if made of smoke.
    For an instant, Fouad thought he was witnessing someone out of his head but very strong—on meth or PCP. Clearly the skinny man was not following any formal martial arts training, yet his movements were brilliantly unexpected and effective. He pranced rings around the guards, laughing as if at a dry joke. Big Guard and Little Guard were tiring.
    Fouad was sure they were about to make serious mistakes.
    He could not make sense out of any of this. Talos tested for drugs a dozen different ways each day. The air was swept regularly for traces and metabolites.
    Big Guard had had enough. He gathered up all his remaining energy, yelled, and rushed in with arms spread—while his partner feinted to draw the skinny man his direction.
    This time, the maneuver seemed to work. Big Guard took hold of the skinny man's arm, but he reversed and tugged hard—hard enough to pull the arm out of its socket, with an audible pop. Without any sign of distress, the engineer slammed his other fist back, chopping his assailant squarely on the bridge of his nose.
    Big Guard fell to his knees like a stunned ox, then toppled, head cracking on the floor.
    Fouad trained his SIG but the line was bad—he might hit Little Guard.
    "Shoot the bastard!" Little Guard shouted, frantically kicking and sidling away.
    The engineer spun like a dancing clown, his injured arm dangling outward, limp. He had to be on drugs, yet his movements had an improvised genius; a wiry, high-speed ballet of showy blows and dodges.
    Little Guard was up again, wobbling but still trying to be game. The engineer executed one final move that Fouad could not follow—a backward run, good hand delivering a blind blow from a position of perfect but unlikely balance—force focused all wrong, more self-injury almost certain—but the blow connected.
    Little Guard rocked his head back, wobbled, and slumped. The engineer pranced and watched him fall sideways.
    He twisted and landed flat on his face.
    Another painful crack.
    Now the engineer turned on Fouad.
    "I heard you coming down the hall!" he shouted. "My God, you're louder than an elephant!"
    Fouad could have fired his SIG—certainly preferred that option over trying to physically