Viper Moon Read Online Free Page B

the side door, and into the parking lot. Dry sauna heat made me gasp for breath, and the skin over my recently healed burns prickled. My apartment building is a concrete clone of the others on the block. Four-story square boxes painted a hideous, institutional green.
    The garbage truck conveniently forgot to empty the Dumpster at least once a week, and my nose wrinkled at the intense odor of decay. Bare asphalt lots provided insufficient parking spaces and remained a constant source of friction among tenants.
    My six-year-old POS, a dirty gray four-door sedan, was indeed in the parking lot. I could see no major dents added to the considerable collection already sculpted on the fenders, hood, and trunk. I’d patched all the claw holes in critical areas with that miracle of the civilized world, duct tape. I had a grudging respect for my wheels. The POS had carried me through and out of many a volatile situation. When it would start, that is.
    I had my hand on the door handle when a tank of an SUV rolled up and stopped behind my car, blocking me in. If I’d been more alert, I’d have raced away before the SUV’s tires stopped turning. Two muscle-bound steroid junkies jumped out and grabbed me by the arms.
    “Come on,” the one on my right snarled. He jerked me toward the SUV. The behemoth’s dark-tinted windows revealed nothing inside. I jerked back and opened my mouth to yell and a thick, leather-gloved hand clamped over it. I’m strong, very strong, but I was way outmuscled on this one. It took only seconds for them to push, drag, and lift me into the SUV’s backseat, in spite of my flailing legs. The one with the glove released my mouth.
    “You can scream now,” he said cordially.
    “No, she can’t,” snapped the driver.
    The guy riding shotgun turned and grinned at me. The two brutes sitting on either side of me released my arms. Things were looking up.
    “You stop this thing and let me out. Now!” I made a useless demand. They didn’t reply. The SUV headed up Northwest Sixty-second Street, toward uptown Duivel.
    I launched myself forward between the front bucket seats and grabbed the steering wheel. The shift lever jabbed into my stomach, but I held on tight and let my body’s weight tear the wheel from the driver’s hands. Better to wreck the car than go with these goons. The SUV lurched and tires squealed. The guy riding shotgun grabbed my wrists, tried to tear me loose, but I had a good grip. Then one of the assholes in the back leaned over me and grabbed a fistful of my hair. He slammed my face into the console. White light and pain flashed across my nose and cheek where they hit a couple of knobs, so I barely felt anything when they dragged me to the backseat. Something hit my head and everything went away.

chapter 3
    I woke up with a sandpaper mouth and a cool rag on my forehead. I choked in a vain attempt to work up saliva. Someone came to my rescue, pressing a water-soaked sponge against my lips. I sucked the water and tried to clear my vision.
    My abused head throbbed and protested the infliction of a hangover and blunt trauma, all in one day. My abdomen felt like someone had tried to flatten my stomach against my spine with a hammer.
    “Try not to move too fast,” a soft feminine voice said.
    My eyes focused and I risked turning my head toward her. A nurse, complete with white uniform and wire-rimmed glasses. She lifted me up, propped pillows behind me, and offered me more water, this time from a glass.
    Someone had dressed me in a man’s white dress shirt, presumably because I’d bled on my T-shirt. I rubbed my hands across my aching face. The swelling wasn’t too bad, and my nose wasn’t broken, but they’d bandaged a cut high on my cheekbone. A man stood at the foot of the bed staring at me.
    Carlos Dacardi, Duivel’s premier organized-crime boss. Dacardi’s picture graced the Chronicle on a regular basis, usually in association with some Let’s pretend I’m a good-guy