I removed my laser gun 350 from the wall safe hidden in my private office. The safe confidently ejected from the wall when I gave both a retinal scan, DNA via saliva, and a fingerprint confirmation. Not that I felt this kept my prized possessions totally safe. The unsettling thought that my dead body could be used to give all three sometimes kept me awake at night. I placed the sack from Mayor Christensen in the box and that’s where it would stay until I used it all.

The gun had more firepower than the pug...almost too much. Crafted by Smith & Wesson, it punched large, gaping holes in people and obliterated small animals. The laser gun 350 was a bit too big for my hands. I almost never use it, but keep it locked up so that no one could break in and pawn it for silver, drugs or other more lethal weapons.

With the pug in my ankle holster and the 350 in my new shoulder holster, I was feeling all right and protected. Fate smiled on me. I managed to escape the office before the sun fully sank into the horizon. It sprayed the sky with a reddish pink that reminded me of watery blood. With any luck, I would beat the traffic over to Padre's Gym. I glanced once more around the darkened office before locking up. Almost immediately, my thoughts returned to Amanda Christensen as they had done for the last day. I didn't want to think about Montano right now. It could have been a crank call he made from the cradle, or someone who had pieced together his voice clips into a frightening harmonious message to terrorize me.

I had plenty of enemies.

The T.A. had people who specialized in doing that very thing. And if Mr. Schmuckler didn't believe that no meant no, he might succumb to strong-arming me via terror tactics.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to bully me into doing what he wanted. Not that it happened often, but it did happen.

With these cheery thoughts, I entered the elevator and pressed the number one button. No one got on and it did not stop until I reached the first floor. As I exited the building, wind whipped with whistling sounds as I walked across the lot to the only remaining wauto. Mine. A whirlwind of garbage tumbled by like urban tumbleweeds. The odor of urine, grime and trash scented the air. Ah, eau de East Side D.C.

My coat billowed outward because I had only buttoned the bottom three buttons. I wanted to be able to get to the 350 without difficulty in case Montano was out through some big ass loop hole in the justice system.

My eyes watered up from the damn cold, but better to be cold now than dead later.

Nervous? Who me?

Nah, just prepared.

As I reached my vehicle, my skin itched as if someone was watching me. It prickled and the sensation blanketed my arms and legs. I searched the area around me in the fading sunlight as I took out my 350. I climbed into the wauto, and checked the backseats for possible, uninvited guests.

No one.

Nevertheless, I closed and locked the wauto’s doors and flew over to the gym with frequent glances back in the rearview mirror. The 350 rested on the passenger seat, within arm's reach all the way to Padre's. The wauto’s shield iced up with regularity and limited my ability to see clearly. I lessened my speed to only ten over the speed limit to be cautious. I cranked up the heater in an attempt to melt off the ice.

My thoughts slid from Amanda to Mayor Christensen. At some point, it would be necessary for me to get unbiased information about the good ole mayor. Jane usually scoured snitches and the world wide web for information on suspects and clients. She couldn't be trusted with this one. Her "Aunt Belle" was a role model of sorts.

Night came swiftly and with its arrival came bitter cold. March in DC. meant black ice, frigid temperatures, and taxes. The howling wind outside contributed to the ice-cold temperature. I could feel the arctic weather through the wauto's windows like invisible fingers stroking my face with cold tips.

The new year had arrived with the usual ruckus of people making absolute fools of themselves along with the predictable resolution making. This year, I vowed to do more exercise (doesn’t everybody?), and that meant working out six times a week instead of four. I'd been pretty consistent due to lack of really daring, time-hungry cases.

A few blocks from my apartment was a man-made beach. It was more like a pile of dirt and a sunken water hole. Some of the real oceans and beaches had either been swept away over time or were so contaminated that to inhale the air around them would kill you. A short distance off the beach, the city resurrected a park. I guess to allow the neighborhood residents to participate in nature's glory. The park came complete with a little creek and an abandoned trail. The trail snaked upward to the local Trillian Hills, an area of steep hills and woodland. In the summer, spring and warming part of fall, I jogged through the park.

But in the frigid winter weather, I worked out at Padre's gym. A sleek, new arena devoted to the chore of exercise. Padre's membership fee ranked among the ludicrous, but it sure beat icicles hanging from your arms and nose when trying to jog. 

Not that I was vain or really concerned about my looks. Anyone who has seen my wardrobe knew that. No one would ever accuse me of being petite or skinny, no matter how much weight I lost.

For me, exercise wasn’t about weight loss. I stood at five feet ten inches. I had large bones and a well-defined waist. Back in time when food was scarce, I would be considered an ideal mate for I was filled out in all the right places. The African in my bloodline gave me a rear-end that would have been worshiped for its fertility in my ancestors’ lands.

Riiiight.

For me exercise was about strength training and endurance. In this business, I often found myself up against bad guys who didn't think twice about punching, slicing or stabbing a woman. I considered my workouts defense mechanisms. Occasionally, I could outlast and out maneuver a bad guy (or naughty girl).

Padre's took up most of the block between Fifty-first and Summer. They had replaced their indoor pool with a larger one that contained illuminated, underwater lap lanes. Just thinking about it made me speed up. Swimming was a pleasant, full-body workout, and one that I enjoyed immensely.

Outside snow fell softly to the ground creating a hush among the streets. The area resembled a Christmas card, with everything covered in pristine snow. Piles of snow towered along the sidewalks and street parking spaces in city snowdrifts. I sat down my wauto next to this rather new model Honda wauto with sunless tinted windows and nice, shiny blasters, the color of silver.

The 350 went back into my shoulder holster. I didn't want the wauto’s windshields broken by some ack-addict yearning for a fix to break in and pawn it for  district dollars.

Quickly, I pulled up my braids into a ponytail and wound them into a bun with a thick rubberband, leaving the back of my neck exposed. I climbed out of my wauto, determined to sweat or swim away the day's drama. Moments after my door went click, I felt the frosty metal lips of a gun on my neck.

A hand grabbed my elbow, as I went for my gun.

"Tsk, tsk, Cinnamon," said my attacker and instantly I felt my blood pump harder. "Wouldn't want to hurt an old friend, would you?"

"Nothing, I'd like better," I muttered back. The taste in my mouth turned sour. Fear laced my tongue, metallic, thick.

"Hands up!" he barked, slamming the gun into my neck for emphasis.

I clinched my teeth in fury. Slowly, I removed my hand from my coat and held my palms up and out to my shoulders—ready for the crucifixion.

"What do you want, Jarold?" I asked, as I turned to face the demon that haunted my nightmares and forced me to awake in a cold sweat. My voice was thin with panic.

The streetlight showed his face tight with threat. He reeked of marijuana and beer. 

Great. Not only was he armed, but he was high and possibly drunk.

He swayed with the wind, his funky brown hair, curly and short, stood out in odd angles, and his eyes held that glassiness that came with drug usage. A faded, stained sweatshirt and dirty jeans were not trademark issued from the cradle. They looked like they'd been removed from a neighborhood garbage can.

And not the wealthy neighborhood either.

With a grin, he said, "Didn't get my message?"

"No," I said sharply, perhaps too sharply for he laughed again.

Or it could be the wacky weed gave him the giggles?

He pressed his forearm against my throat, while his free hand slid under my coat, searching for my weapon. Once he removed it, he took his forearm away.

He held it high in the air. The moon's silvery light reflected across the area. "This is a big gun for such a fine woman as you Cinnamon. A 350!"

He put my gun in his belt like some western cowboy. The skin around his mouth at the corner began to pulsate, as if he was nervous.

Despite the iciness of the night, he didn't wear a coat.

His grin widened and he slipped his hand in my coat and under my shirt. The feel of his fingers on my skin made me nauseous. His dirty fingers traced circles across my stomach and up and around to my back.

"I'm here to give, Cinnamon," he whispered and licked my face. "Maybe to take…" He pressed closer to me, his hips grinding into me. His phallus grew hard against my thigh, rubbing without pause, forcing me to gag into the cold air.

Repulsion and burning hate propelled my arm and I swiftly took my right hand and shoved his face backward as hard as I could. "Bastard! Kill me and get it over with!"

He stumbled and then regained his balance. With a shaky hand he pointed his gun, a laser gun 325, maybe smaller, at me. "What's the matta? I ain't perfect enough for you?"

Cautiously, he inched closer to me. A drop of sweat slowly ran down his face.

Once he came within arm's reach, he said, "Dangerous, ain't you? I loooove it when you struggle."

"Jarold," I said softly. Forcing myself to stay cool, I puckered my lips and said, "Let me make it better."

His eyes narrowed to suspicious slivers, but he couldn't resist himself. He hadn't been with a woman in what, five years?

Once he leaned in to kiss me, he closed his eyes. A natural habit.

I grabbed a handful of his greasy hair, feeling its sliminess in my hands, and bought my knee upward, smashing his face into it. His eyes flew opened in shock.

Blood spurted out like a faucet from his nose. He wildly pointed his gun back at me. His eyes were black and alive with fiery coals of pain.

"Oh, oww, you broke it you nasty bitch!" he growled. 

The broken nose should have stopped him long enough for me to go for the pug.

But it wasn't.

Jarold's smile, bloody and sinister, widened. His weapon fluttered in his hand like a captured bird.

"Nervous?" I asked.

"No, oh, no," he said dawdling. His face sobered swiftly, like the sands of an Etch-a-sketch. "Anxious, Cinnamon. Do you know how long I dreamed of this? Of my beam piercing those beautiful brown breasts and your heart? Watching you take your last breath?"

He licked the blood from his chapped lips.

My eyes drifted down and the animal still had an erection!

"Jarold, listen, whatever you know, I don't care or want it," I said slowly, giving him my its-your-lucky-night smile. The anger from a few moments before receded and in its place was icy-cold fear. "Can I just go?"

"No, oh no, Cinnamon," he leaned in and pressed the barrel to my heart. His hardness rubbed against my thigh and I had to quell the urge to vomit. My stomach did a flip-flop, and I swallowed hard.

My mind whirled for ideas, strategies for I had been here with Jarold before. He still had my weapon and his…

Outgunned.

Damn.

I did have the pug in my ankle holster. Hmm…he didn’t pat me down.

"Oh, how easy it would be," he whispered, his eyes swimming in their sockets. "But it ain't to be tonight, Cinnamon."

"My name is Cybil," I said, my voice like ice. My rising rage melting my terror. "Either shoot or allow me to leave. I'm late for an appointment."

He frowned. He head did this jerky shake as if he hadn’t heard me properly. He laughed a rich sound that ended with a hysterical, coughs that had him bent over, shaking. His gun remained trained on me, pressed into my chest. I thought about smashing my knee into his face again, but he spat a wad of phlegm onto the street and he righted himself up so fast I missed my opportunity.

"Believe me, if it was up to me, I'd lick your blood as it pumps out after I shoot your lovely ass. But, I got orders to follow."

At the mention of this, he glanced back quickly over his shoulder into the smoky night.

"What? Somebody finally put you on a chain?"

"You could say that," he replied. He pulled back a few steps and without warning punched me in the face.

Spots littered my visions as my head whipped to the right. I shook it off as best I could as I turned back to him. I swallowed and tried to breath through the pain. A left hand hook…closed fist. Bastard. Damn, that was going to leave a mark.

"Now listen, your boy, Trey, is in deep shit. You know where he is?" Jarold's eyes took on that far away look those who are bored get.

"For starters, he isn't my boy. And no, I don't know where he is.” I braced myself for another punch from him. He couldn’t do it for long because we were on a public street. Someone was bound to pop out of the shops and see him.

A romantic couple we weren't.

"You ain't tellin' the truth," he said. A loopy grin appeared on his face and he slapped me.

My left cheek seared with sharp pain. I could feel the inside of my jaw scrape against my teeth. I didn't see it coming and I fell to the ground, overdoing the actual impact of his strike. I lifted my pants' leg, took out the pug, my body blocking my actions as I collapsed to the icy ground.

What was I saying about being prepared?

"Get up, bitch!"  he shouted. “Don’t fuck with me Cinnamon. I’ll beam your ass!”

I caught a quick look at him as he reached down to grab me. I swung around, swinging my left leg outward, knocking his legs from underneath him.

He fell with a loud crack, my 350 scattered across the frigid pavement, out of his waist.

I shot up and stepped on his wrist until he let go of his 325.

"Who sent you?" I asked, my resolve shrinking. I could kill him and have legal justification too. He deserved it if anyone ever did.

But vigilante justice wasn’t my thing. Justice system may be flawed, but it was some sort of attempt to put away the bad people.

Somewhere in the surrounding scenery, doors hissed closed. I heard giggling, but I was too distracted to look up or around.

I kicked his piece far away from his reach. He growled and hissed at me, spittle ran down his chin. “You’re going to be sorry, Cinnamon…”

My ears burned with icy numbness and my fingers stiffened around the pug.

"Who?" I demanded, applying more pressure, rubbing my heel into his flesh. "Talk, Jarold…you seemed so damn eager earlier."

His lips trembled and the blood formed tiny clumps of reddish ice on his face. "Screw you. She'd kill me and it ain't worth it."

"She?" I hissed as I leaned down closer to his face. I flipped my pug around and raised the butt of it up into the air. "She who?"

He moaned, but did not confess his employer, how he got out of the cradle or why he thought I knew Trey's whereabouts. But he was going to tell me, even if it was through broken teeth.

"What are you doing?" called a man in a brown coat and hat. He emerged fully from a coffee shop that looked closed. He resembled the insurance salesman in my building, but from here he could've looked like Elvis.

I looked over to the man.

Dumb move.

Jarold punched me from the side—mind you the same left side—sending me reeling sideways to the unyielding asphalt. I could feel the blacktop strip away flesh as I used my face and hands to break my fall. I rolled over and groaned. My hands seared with pain. My fist still gripped the pug as layers of skin were scraped off my knuckles, hands and face.

I landed awkwardly on the right arm. It tingled and then went numb. The sharp pain drilled into my upper torso.

That definitely was going to leave a mark...Correction, marks.

Jarold laughter was bitter, like broken glass. It seemed to come from way down the block.

"Miss, are you okay?" the man hurried toward me, his steps sloshing in the brown slush of snow.

"Yes, no thanks to you," I said, bitterly. I jerked up and pointed the pug at the man's scarred face. He looked like he didn't get many dates. "Don't come any closer, you punce. Back the fuck up!"

Startled, the man ran away, slipping and sliding, up toward Padre's.

When I glanced back to my wauto, Jarold was gone.