he fought the sudden urge to vomit.
Suddenly, the door to the back burst open with a bang. Mike cranked his head around. He saw a tall homeless man with skin nearly as dark as the leather of Mike's jacket. His face was seamed with scars, for all he wasn't that old. In one hand he gripped a length of metal as though it was some kind of sword. He scowled, and his eyes seemed to glow in his face, though with what emotion Mike couldn't tell. That fiery gaze roamed over the club, pausing briefly on Mike. An eyebrow quirked up, and then his attention snapped to Timmons. He raised his club and pointed it at the stricken cop.
"You!"
Without a word, Timmons spun on his heel and staggered toward the door. Crouched half over, cloth still pressed to his mouth, the cop straight-armed the club's heavy door. A muffled squawk sounded as he went through.
With a muttered curse, the bum made to follow. His first step into the club, however, his foot came down on an overlooked bottle. The bottle slid out from under his foot, and caromed off a succession of chairs before somehow coming to rest standing upright.
At the same time, the bum's foot went out from under him, sending him headlong to the floor. With a strangled grunt, he managed to get his hands under him on the way down. As he hit, a shiny bit of something flew out from under him.
It skipped off the floor and flew right at Mike's head. He whipped a hand up and felt something smack into his palm, just as the homeless guy lunged off the floor with an explosive grunt. Mike felt the man's glare as if it was a summer sunlight on his skin. He was astonished to see the man cock his head and then wink at him. Then the man moved so quickly he seemed to teleport through the front door.
Mike found himself on his feet, following Timmons and the nameless bum without a conscious decision. He vaulted an upturned chair, and ignored both the twinges from his ribs and Frank's angry yell from the stairs up to the offices. He was probably fired, anyway. And if he still had a job, he wouldn't lose it over that, so what did it matter? Mike slowed at the door, cracking it just enough to get outside. He was mindful of the cry he'd heard, and didn't want to duplicate it.
He needn't have bothered. Aside from scattered medical supplies, there wasn't anybody on the other side of the door except for a growing crowd of skimpily-dressed club-goers huddled together against the evening chill. He singled out one slimly androgynous form clad in black leather leggings and a shimmering pink top.
"Hey, the guy who just ran through here: where'd he go?"
A dozen voices babbled a dozen different responses, and Mike felt his face slide into what he thought of as his Don't Mess With Me Right Now mask. Amused grass-green eyes locked gazes with his own brown orbs.
Mike swept his arm across his body in a cutting gesture. Combined with the angry-face the chatter died, cut off cold.
"Not everybody," he pointed at his chosen source, "just you."
"Mikey, sweetheart, is Bella's open?" The voice of smokey honey combined with the distinctive eyes snapped Mike's growing ill-temper like the proverbial twig. Only one person besides his mother called him "Mikey."
"Anne?" Anne Cavanaugh was one of the few people at the center where Mike trained who could keep up with him, big bruiser that he was. And big as he was, Anne was lightning chained in human form. She couldn't take him, but he had a hell of a time catching her at all. "Guy in a suit followed by a tall homeless guy with a club: which way?"
Mike watched the humor lurking in Anne's eyes fade as she caught the tension suffusing his frame. She jerked a thumb to one side, pointing to his left.
"Female EMT took off after 'em," Anne informed him. "Need backup?"
But Mike was already moving.
As soon as he heard Yasmin had followed the bizarre duo, Mike spun and ran. His long legs ate up the pavement as he dodged and juked around passersby. Fortunately, foot traffic was lighter
Suddenly, the door to the back burst open with a bang. Mike cranked his head around. He saw a tall homeless man with skin nearly as dark as the leather of Mike's jacket. His face was seamed with scars, for all he wasn't that old. In one hand he gripped a length of metal as though it was some kind of sword. He scowled, and his eyes seemed to glow in his face, though with what emotion Mike couldn't tell. That fiery gaze roamed over the club, pausing briefly on Mike. An eyebrow quirked up, and then his attention snapped to Timmons. He raised his club and pointed it at the stricken cop.
"You!"
Without a word, Timmons spun on his heel and staggered toward the door. Crouched half over, cloth still pressed to his mouth, the cop straight-armed the club's heavy door. A muffled squawk sounded as he went through.
With a muttered curse, the bum made to follow. His first step into the club, however, his foot came down on an overlooked bottle. The bottle slid out from under his foot, and caromed off a succession of chairs before somehow coming to rest standing upright.
At the same time, the bum's foot went out from under him, sending him headlong to the floor. With a strangled grunt, he managed to get his hands under him on the way down. As he hit, a shiny bit of something flew out from under him.
It skipped off the floor and flew right at Mike's head. He whipped a hand up and felt something smack into his palm, just as the homeless guy lunged off the floor with an explosive grunt. Mike felt the man's glare as if it was a summer sunlight on his skin. He was astonished to see the man cock his head and then wink at him. Then the man moved so quickly he seemed to teleport through the front door.
Mike found himself on his feet, following Timmons and the nameless bum without a conscious decision. He vaulted an upturned chair, and ignored both the twinges from his ribs and Frank's angry yell from the stairs up to the offices. He was probably fired, anyway. And if he still had a job, he wouldn't lose it over that, so what did it matter? Mike slowed at the door, cracking it just enough to get outside. He was mindful of the cry he'd heard, and didn't want to duplicate it.
He needn't have bothered. Aside from scattered medical supplies, there wasn't anybody on the other side of the door except for a growing crowd of skimpily-dressed club-goers huddled together against the evening chill. He singled out one slimly androgynous form clad in black leather leggings and a shimmering pink top.
"Hey, the guy who just ran through here: where'd he go?"
A dozen voices babbled a dozen different responses, and Mike felt his face slide into what he thought of as his Don't Mess With Me Right Now mask. Amused grass-green eyes locked gazes with his own brown orbs.
Mike swept his arm across his body in a cutting gesture. Combined with the angry-face the chatter died, cut off cold.
"Not everybody," he pointed at his chosen source, "just you."
"Mikey, sweetheart, is Bella's open?" The voice of smokey honey combined with the distinctive eyes snapped Mike's growing ill-temper like the proverbial twig. Only one person besides his mother called him "Mikey."
"Anne?" Anne Cavanaugh was one of the few people at the center where Mike trained who could keep up with him, big bruiser that he was. And big as he was, Anne was lightning chained in human form. She couldn't take him, but he had a hell of a time catching her at all. "Guy in a suit followed by a tall homeless guy with a club: which way?"
Mike watched the humor lurking in Anne's eyes fade as she caught the tension suffusing his frame. She jerked a thumb to one side, pointing to his left.
"Female EMT took off after 'em," Anne informed him. "Need backup?"
But Mike was already moving.
As soon as he heard Yasmin had followed the bizarre duo, Mike spun and ran. His long legs ate up the pavement as he dodged and juked around passersby. Fortunately, foot traffic was lighter
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