� �There was a saying, from way back, that blood and rain were the two things one would never see enough of in SoCal City.
� �Rain fell on the City like a slow-acting solvent, making everything sweat-slick with tepid water that always hovered just around body temperature. �It flowed ceaselessly down roofs, through rain gutters, into storm drains in one monotonous flood that never did seem to end.
� �It's like taking a bath, Poole thought as he bled his life away. �His precious blood mixed precariously with the oily water puddle in which he found himself, and for an instant, he realized he was soaked to the bone and hemorrhaging from the neat triangular cluster of bullets that had torn though his chest, piercing his left lung. �Not that it mattered anymore. �The initial flush of hot arterial blood that had billowed when the bullets exited his chest cavity had subsided to a runny, red slurry.
� �"You look like shit," a voice said, and Poole felt slender fingers heft him by the shoulders, turning him over onto his back. �Looking up, he caught a glimpse of something shiny– glossy pleather, steel buckles, skintight from neck to boot-heel. �A pair of reflective slimshades framed the woman's face.
� �"Who the hell are you?" he exclaimed, cringing as she gently probed around the holes in his chest. �The woman laid a finger to his lips.
� �"Shhhh. �That's for me to know, and you to find out."
� �The staccato beat of boots on broken glass and street grit echoed nearby, and the woman's gaze shifted abruptly to the head of the garbage-strewn alleyway. �Poole winced as the woman haphazardly pulled him behind a stand of plastic packing crates.
� �"Friends of yours?" she asked, the examination all but forgotten.
� �Poole shook his head.
� �"How many are there?"
� �"Three. �They're packing."
� �The woman rose, smiling wickedly as she withdrew a matte black, carbon-etched dagger. �Its gleaming edge was razor-sharp.
� �"I'll bet they are," she replied, then slipped, catlike and deathly quiet, into the shadows.
� �Footsteps halted just meters away, and for a few heartbeats Poole could only hear the harsh patter of rain on corrugated metal high above. �A nimbus of light splashed brightly against the dead end's grimy brick wall, flickering into corners, searching. �He held his breath, pain burning inside his chest as the seconds passed, and lay as still as possible. �Sweat and rain trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. �The woman had all but melted into the darkness.
� �"We know you're in there, Poole," a voice called out. �"Come on out so we can talk."
� �Silence, then blind panic as that same brilliant light illuminated the packing crates that hid him, then spotlighted a trail of blood--his blood--that greased the concrete, a macabre gingerbread trail for his pursuers to follow. �Feet shuffled into the alley, sloshing rainwater and sending ripples through the puddle where Poole had awakened. �The loud mechanical click of metal sliding against metal, a round being chambered, echoed off the walls.
� �"Poole," the Voice yelled. �"There's nowhere to run. �Don't make us drag you out."
� �Footsteps drew closer, and then the joe was there, filling his vision. �He was huge, bovine, his nondescript gray suit seeming ready to burst with the penned up muscle and energy that moved in that slow, steady frame. �In his hands was a big, square-muzzle .45 semiautomatic pistol, matte black with mahogany grips. �The barrel drew level with Poole's head, the bright red dot of the targetfinder drawing a steady bead just above his left cheek.
� �"Don't move, motherfucker," the joe growled. �The big man squatted down, careful to keep the gun level with Poole's face, then patted him down.
� �"Subject found, sir. �No weapons," the joe called over his shoulder, his words clipped, low, with ex-mil nuances. �He stood, and for an instant the target dot dropped away from Poole. �"Should I proceed with the plan?"
� �The blur was fluid, a liquid blackness trailing the bright, biting glint of razor-sharp steel, and for a moment, the joe was still standing. �Then the thin inverted cross that serrated his torso from groin to sternum, hip to hip, began to bleed. �The man grunted, his eyes glazing, then clutched his eviscerated abdomen and crumpled into the fetal position as his intestines tried to steam through the deep, bloody slits in his stomach.
� �Gunfire suddenly exploded into the alley, muzzle flashes making everything bright as each shot boomed from whatever his pursuers were firing. �Shots ricocheted off of walls as the woman continued her efficient, deadly dance, then Poole heard the slice of surgical steel as it stabbed through fresh meat. �Another body fell, then all was still.
� �A heavy flashlight sailed into the alley, clattering within Poole's reach. �It continued to roll for a moment, then stopped, its beam throwing light ripples on the walls as it reflected against water puddles. Poole cautiously glanced around the corner of his hiding place.
� �Visibly pale, though surprisingly unhurt, the last man standing was short, thin, his sandy blonde hair greased back by either rain or gel. �His eyes were cold, ice-blue pools, radiating deadly calm. �He wore a simple, two-pieced white business suit. �To his side lay a crumpled, mewling form, and close, very close, hovered a glossy black shadow. �In its hand was something midnight black, glinting red.
� �The man held out his hands, remaining still, as if to prove his noncommitment to further violence.
� �"I'm with Metro." �The Voice was cool, unwavering, no hint of fear in his voice. �"That man back there–his name is Benjamin Poole--he's wanted for murder. �I'm here to apprehend him."
� �The woman grabbed him by the scruff of his collar. Twisting his tie in her clenched fist, she pulled him close, the tip of her dagger millimeters from his jugular.
� �"Metro doesn't do biz this side of town," she hissed. �"Tell me another lie."
� �"No lies. �I'm on special assignment," he replied, never breaking eye contact as he swiftly reached into his coat pocket.
� �The woman slashed, her knife a blur as it amputated a wide swath of suit fabric. �The Voice jerked back as three fingers and a .38 revolver clattered to the ground. �Blood flowed from bright red stumps, and for an instant, he stood there in shocked silence. �The woman tapped his pale chin with the tip of her dagger, trailing blood.
� �"Run," she said, then pushed the man hard enough to knock him off balance. �Backpedaling, the Voice quickly lurched to his feet and sprinted, full out, down the alley, then disappeared down around a corner at some far off intersection.
� �The woman stared after him for a few mintutes, then her shoulders sagged, tension draining as she waited for the inevitable adrenaline crash. �She let out a shaky sigh, then simply stood there, head bowed, letting the rain slowly wash over her. �For a long while, Poole could only hear the endless storm as it slowly, inexorably ground away at SoCal.
� �"Shit," she murmured, surveying her handiwork. �Wiping the blood from her blade, she securely fastened it in its sheath. �"Here's another mess needs cleaning up."
� �After a moment, she dragged a small carry-on bag from the shadows. �Unzipping it, she pulled out a pair of med-level laytex gloves, snapped them smoothly over her hands, then stooped and picked something up from the ground--the Voice's fingers. �Pulling a clear, plastic baggy from the kit, she dropped them inside, and zipped the baggy shut.
� �Skirting the first joe's corpse, she edged close, careful to avoid the blood, then squatted down. �Instinctively, she searched the dead man's body, found his wallet, then rifled through its contents.
� �"What are you doing?" Poole croaked, his throat suddenly parched.
� �"Collecting evidence," she replied.
� �"Why?"
� �"You'll see."
� �The woman frowned, glancing at him with professional concern. �"You doing okay? �You don't look so good."
� �Tiny pinpricks, stark as night, swam in front of Poole's eyes, and for a moment he thought stars were shining through the cloud cover.
� �"I think I'm gonna pass out."
� �"Shit." �The woman was instantly close, checking his pulse, the dilation of his pupils. �He could smell the sweat on her naked skin. �"You don't got tech, do you?"
� �Poole tiredly shook his head. �"No."
� �"Try to swallow this," she said. �The woman put a pill in his mouth, and something cold caressed his lips--a canteen. �Poole took several sips of cool water, then sputtered, coughing. �Everything took on a deeper shade of gray with each painful lung-full of air.
� �For an instant, everything was a dizzy nightmare as the woman hefted him over her shoulder. �Through the coming darkness, Poole noticed a ragged tear in the woman's left triceps. �A thin trickle of fresh blood oozed from the wound, dripping down her elbow.
� �"You're shot," he coughed, spitting up a bloody wad of mucous.
� �The woman grinned, something fierce in her eyes as she started to carry him at a trot down the alley. �"So are you. �What say we get out of here, before more of those goons arrive?"
� �"I don't think I'll make it that far," he gasped, then everything suddenly, inevitably faded to black.
(Edited by Grim at 6:02 pm on May 20, 2002)
(Edited by Grim at 7:38 pm on May 20, 2002)
