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As she headed out, taking her quiet street at a low rumble, she wondered why she’d been called to Amado Bridge when there were at least a dozen witches and wizards on duty right now at the Trib station.
~ ~ ~
Connor had a flame-runner in his sights, an emaciated female with the telltale marks of drug-use blazing on her neck. He could see the tattoo-like flames. Hers were dark red, so he knew which cocktail she’d been using to get her head swimming: blood flame.
Because she was drug-running, he had every right as a Border Patrol officer to put a bullet in the back of her head. All three drug-lords preferred it as well. Prevented snitching.
But he never pulled the trigger unless he knew exactly what he was dealing with. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. Guilt still clawed at him, ripping him apart on a nightly basis, even though the i
ncident was over nine-years-old now. He shuddered as the memory tried to push to the front of his head, but he shoved it back.
He levitated with long practice, his head bent slightly, arm raised as he gazed down his sights. Jesus, the woman was clawing her way up the steep side of the wash, weighed down by a loaded runner jacket. She must not have known the area.
So what was she doing out here? Runners by occupation were sneaky bastards, using tunnels that often collapsed on them to get from the cordoned off area of Five Bridges to Phoenix. The flame drugs, as well as the alter serums that could be added to the drugs, had transformed a fifteen square mile section of North Phoenix into five territories, each partitioned from the next with barbed wire then separated from Phoenix in the same way. The National Guard patrolled the external border of the entire circumference of Five Bridges.
He worked the internal border of Crescent Territory, trying to keep any of the numerous flame drugs from leaving Five Bridges.
That same sick feeling crawled through his stomach again.
He touched his shoulder com. “I’ve got eyes on the runner at Amado Bridge, but she’s a pretty weak female. Shall I bring her in?” Maybe Easton would want a say in this tonight.
When he got no answer on his shoulder com, he tried again.
And again.
He’d been disconnected.
Yeah. Something was off.
The runner was the key. And like hell he was going to serve as some asshole’s assassin, even if it was Easton himself who wanted the woman dead.
He holstered his gun and cursed. He needed to have a talk with her.
Levitating swiftly, he shot through the air. Gauging the distance, he caught her jacket at the back of the neck and lifted her up. She screamed as he carried her flailing to the upper edge of the wash and flung her into the dirt.
“What are you doing out here, runner?”
The woman didn’t move. She lay face down, one hand digging into the weeds. Her head was inches away from a stand of prickly pear.
She mumbled something, but he couldn’t hear her.
“Say again? You sound like you have rocks in your mouth.”
She lifted her head up. “Just kill us. We’ll both be better off.”
“Us?” He drew his gun again, holding it in both hands. He bent his knees and pivoted in a 360. Nothing. Except a witch on the bridge watching him. He stopped the moment he saw the woman. Why was she there?
Then he recognized the familiar dark ponytail. Holy fuck, it was Iris, but what was she doing on Amado Bridge?
He turned his attention back to the runner. “I don’t see anyone else. Who’s ‘us’, Ma’am? You got someone out here running with you?”
“Yes, but you’re looking in the wrong place.”
She wasn’t making sense. Blood flame had no doubt screwed with her mind.
“I’ll ask again; where’s your friend?”
“Here.”
