Chapter 2

 

Cafe Kopi was quiet, the music trendy, and the tables tall. Sitting on a high stool, Joe DeLuce looked distinctly out of place, and yet he seemed completely at ease sipping a mocha latte, double sweet. It was quite a disconnect for Micki, and she struggled with even looking at him. First of all, he was too big for the place. Too big for the tiny tables, too big for this intimate little space in the front corner. Hell, he looked too big for the huge picture window that backlit him with warm afternoon sun.

"Nervous?" he asked as he took a long drink.

"What? No! Not at all. Of course not." She clamped her mouth shut before she started gibbering like an idiot.

He just nodded and looked at her with his dark gaze. He knew, of course. She could look her parents straight in the eye and give a bald-faced lie: Yes, Dad, I desperately want to be a corporate lawyer. Yes, Mom, teaching is what I'll do until I can marry a future senator. And, Yes, I know the best way to work with inner-city youths is with a checkbook and an intermediary. Lying to her parents had become second nature. But with Mr. DeLuce, her insides seemed too jittery. Hell, even her feet kept twisting beneath her for no obvious reason. Her new Chinese velvet Mary Janes had felt like heaven when she put them on, but for some reason they now pinched or were too large or something. It was weird. They were really just black flats with a strap across the top. The sole was simple rubber. They were the definition of conform-to-your-foot, but right now they felt awkward. Or maybe she was just avoiding continuing this conversation with the enigmatic school cop.

"Okay, let me have it," she said, bracing her hands around her candy apple red travel mug. "What am I doing wrong?" Then she abruptly took a gulp of coffee rather than look him in the eye.

"What makes you think you're doing anything wrong?"

She was so startled by his question that she forgot to put her mug down; she held it before her lips and stared at him over the rim. "Is this some cop technique? Answer a question with a question? Two can play that game, you know."

He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. He had a weathered look she really liked: tan and used to smiling. Awful on a woman, but on him it screamed rugged, manly stud. "No trick," he said, interrupting her lust. "Sometimes it's important to identify exactly what isn't working."

She shrugged. "That's easy; the kids don't listen to me. Which means they don't learn."

"So, that's your goal? To make them learn?”

She set her mug down and frowned. "That is my job, isn't it?"

"Nope," he said, then took a long draw from his paper cup, forcing her to wait for his explanation. "Your job is to teach English. Is that your goal?"

She rolled her eyes. How many times had she suffered this discussion: What are we really teaching, and is knowing Shakespeare truly vital to an underprivileged child? It was a fun debate in the abstract from the ivory tower. But George Washington High in Indianapolis was a long way from her masters thesis, in both time and attitude. "I'm looking for specific tips here, not an academic discourse."

His eyebrows shot up at her curt tone. She could tell that she'd surprised him, but hadn't a clue why. Then it hit her. "You didn't think I was serious, did you? You didn't think I wanted any real advice."

He shrugged, but she saw the flush of dark red hit his cheeks. "Not many people really want help. They just want to gripe, then use me as an excuse to quit." He shrugged. "That's the real story behind those 'pity coffees.'"

"So you think I'm ready to quit? That I'll resign tomorrow because it's too damn hard?"

He took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes dark and serious. "Nah," he finally admitted. "I guessed you were too stubborn to go that route. If you were going to quit, you'd do it without using me as an excuse."

She frowned.

"So, why ask me out for coffee if you didn't think I'd listen? Why even try?"

He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "Because you're cute?"

He had nice eyebrows, she realized. Nicely arched, bushy enough to be male, but not a tree farm. Nice. And he had just said...

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Your ego needs me to repeat that?"

"Because I'm cute." It took a moment for her brain to process his words, but when it did, irritation cascaded through her. This was all an elaborate come-on? "I get nearly beaten to a pulp in my own classroom, and you use it to try to get with me?" Earlier in the school year, she would have been thrilled. Hell, yesterday she would have accepted any excuse to spend some time with him. But after today's failure with Lucy, she needed honest advice. She got to her feet, grabbing her purse as she turned for the door. "I wanted help, Mr. DeLuce, from a man the kids respect. I thought maybe you had a new perspective. Apparently, I was wrong."

"No, wait!" He made it to his feet faster than she expected. He didn't touch her, but his body was large and effectively blocked her exit from the cafe. It might have been intimidating, except that he looked contrite. "I didn't mean it as an insult. And I do want to help."

She folded her arms, frustration making her curt. "Not interested, okay? I got bigger problems than being dateless. And..." She cut off her next words. Had she just confessed her lack of a social life? God, she was way off today. "Let's just call this a misstep and go home, okay?"

He touched her arm. His hands were large—cop hands, work-roughened and strong—but also gentle as they hovered against her skin. "And what?"

She blinked, pretending to not understand.

"You were going to say something. 'And' something. What?"

She debated a moment about telling him the truth, but apparently there were no restraints on her tongue today. "And you're cute, too. Another time, I would be interested." She had been interested at the beginning of the school year, but he hadn't looked at her twice. And then she'd realized how in over her head she was as a teacher, and all other thoughts had disappeared. "I just want to get through this school year alive. Everything else is secondary."

He cocked his head to study her face. She let him for a bit, but quickly began to feel uncomfortable with his scrutiny. What did this cop see when he looked at her? Incompetent wuss? Underdeveloped waif? At last he shook his head. "No, you're not really afraid for your life. You're afraid you can't hack it as a teacher."

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She didn't know how to respond, especially since he was absolutely right.

"You can, you know," he said. "You can be a good teacher, just not for these kids."

She swallowed, her chest too tight to breathe. In two short sentences, he had just confirmed her worst fears. She wasn't cut out to be a teacher—not to the kids who most needed her. She forced a breath into her chest, then spoke, keeping her voice low and calm. "Anyone can teach future Ivy Leaguers. I know, because I did it for five years. They teach themselves; you just have to lay out the content. It's these kids that need someone." Someone who apparently wasn't her.

He gestured to her chair. "Please sit. We can talk shop."

"I think you've said what you really think. That's about all I can handle for one day."

"But I think now I was wrong."

She almost smiled. "No, you don't. You think I'm an upper-class idealist who hasn't a clue how to handle inner-city kids." Honesty forced her to continue. "You're right about that. I just thought I could learn."

"You still can. You've just started."

"It's March, Mr. DeLuce. I think I've had enough time." She looked over his shoulder at the parking lot rather than admit this to his face. "I've taken the tough-love classes, I've done self-defense and read a library's worth of material on the subject. But my heart just isn't in the hard-line attitude. I still think that leading with the heart is the best thing any teacher can do." She shifted her gaze back to his face, challenge ringing in her voice. "You still think I can teach, what with my bleeding heart?"

He swallowed. After a moment he said, "I think you'll get disillusioned, burn out, and turn bitter. And that'd be a damn shame."

She gave him points for honesty. "Caring is never in vain," she answered. It was the motto she lived by, but by Christmas the words had begun to ring hollow. She wondered if she really believed it anymore. She'd cared. She'd tried. Nothing changed.

"Let me buy you another coffee," he urged. "Please."

She shook her head, but her lips softened at the obvious disappointment in his eyes. And then she found herself agreeing when she was sure her brain had given orders to leave.

"On two conditions," she said. "One: you buy me a brownie. I've had enough coffee for one day. And two: you tell me how you do it."

"Do what?" Wariness crept into his tone, and she could tell she'd have an uphill climb trying to get to the core of this man.

"You were shot by a kid on drugs. It's crippled you, possibly for life." She gestured at his leg. He usually masked his limp, but she knew it was there. Everyone knew it was there. "And yet you work every day in a high school without anger or bitterness. So, I want the full story, Mr. DeLuce. I will sit back down if you tell me how you keep the faith when your problems are so much bigger than a stupid little rich girl who wanted to be a teacher."

He looked at her. "Is that really how you see yourself? As a rich girl who wanted to slum it?"

"We're talking about you here. Or I'm leaving."

They stood at a stalemate, and Micki could feel her disappointment grow. He wasn't going to open up to her, and that made her really sad. She would have enjoyed getting to know him better.

With a sigh, she turned toward the door.

"I'm buying two brownies," he grumbled. "I'm not spilling my guts without more sugar."

* * *

"It was Lucy's brother, you know." Joe watched as Micki nearly choked on her soy latte. Soy. Who knew there were people outside of California who drank it?

She glared at him, and he smiled at the spark in her blue eyes. "You timed that deliberately so I'd choke."

He grinned. "Gave me an extra flash down your peekaboo blouse."

She slapped a hand to the white linen over her cleavage. She needn't have bothered. The tiny buttons had stayed closed, not showing any extra skin. Then she frowned. "This is not a peekaboo blouse!"

No, it wasn't. But that didn't stop a man from imagining. "Not with your hand right there," he laughed.

She slowly removed her hand and peered down at her chest. "There is no cleavage showing, Mr. DeLuce. I think you're stalling."

She was smart, he'd give her that. And a lot tougher than he'd initially thought. He knew better than to dismiss someone based on looks, but she'd seemed so easy to peg. A petite blonde with class, obviously from money, idealistic and fresh out of graduate school. She'd cut her teacher chops in an elite suburb of wealthy Detroit, then for some quixotic reason decided to work with the Indianapolis poor. He hadn't expected her to finish out the quarter, much less the year. And, yet, she was still here, and apparently hadn't given up. But she was close.

He kept his expression congenial, but inside he grimaced. It was his unfortunate duty to push her over the edge into running. A bleeding heart could so easily die on this side of the tracks. "There are messed-up kids in the wealthy part of town, you know," he said gently. "They need you just as much as these kids."

"I know," she said, breaking off a dainty bite of brownie. "But we were talking about you."

He grimaced, adding tenacity to her list of attributes. Flirting hadn't distracted her, though he sensed she wasn't as opposed to him as she pretended. Career advice hadn't derailed her. It looked like he really would have to spill his guts. "Okay," he said as he bit off a huge chunk of triple-chocolate brownie. "So, Wayne Varner—Lucy's brother—got high one night and thought I was Satan come to claim him or something."

"Were you?”

He looked up from his brownie, surprised. “What?"

"Were you coming to claim him?"

"As Satan?”

She laughed. "Did the boy have reason to feel threatened?"

"I wasn't asking him out for coffee, if that's what you're asking." Pain shot up his thigh. It wasn't real. It was a memory, and one he worked hard to suppress.

"Look, Mr. DeLuce. Joe. I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," he snapped. "You said you wanted to know what made me tick. Well, here it is: Wayne was high that night on a new drug—a hallucinogen called Chem that's messing up kids all over Indianapolis. I was tracking a supplier and stumbled onto him. Yeah, I was gonna hassle him. Yeah, I was gonna make damn sure that he ended up in jail for dealing. And yeah, I ended up with a bullet in my knee, Wayne in jail, and still no closer to the drug connection I was looking for."

She let him sputter down into a furious silence. He glared at her, and she didn't so much as blink, just took a sip of her latte and waited in silence. In his experience, women either tried to bury him in sympathy or poke into the inner workings of a drug investigation. Micki did neither. She merely waited. He had her complete attention, though she wasn't pushing for more. And she wasn't judging him, either.

He quickly took another bite of brownie before he started respecting her strengths or something. He barely tasted the rich chocolate. Instead, he shifted his leg in a vain attempt to ease the pain there, then steeled his spine. Time to give her that little push back to her wealthy suburbs. Truth was, she'd been right about the pity coffee. He really didn't think she belonged here, though he admired her courage for trying.

"There's drugs in our school, Micki."

She rolled her eyes. 'Tell me something I don't know, Joe."

"This new drug brings new money, new guns, new violence. I got shot because of it. Kids have died because of it. And frankly, you aren't equipped to either bond with these kids or handle yourself when things become violent. The kids roll over you, the adults don't respect you, and your idealism just won't be enough to keep you alive." He shook his head, wishing to hell it was different, but it wasn't. "I've been school cop here for a year now, but before I made detective, I walked this beat. And before that, I grew up three blocks from Washington High. You're not the first idealist to wander through."

"Naive, starry-eyed teacher," she said. He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or not. "God, do you really think I'm that young?"

"I think you're admirable," he said. Enough that he'd noticed her the very first moment she'd walked into the school. Beautiful, compassionate, and destined to disappear in a few months. He'd seen it dozens of times. Most were smart enough to leave before they got into serious trouble, but one in particular had left in a body bag. He'd been the detective who caught that case. He'd also been sure it was Damian's gang, but was unable to gather any evidence. That was the hell of it. Everyone else thought Damian was another surly teen on a power trip, but he knew just how dangerous the little psychopath was.

But that was tomorrow's problem. Today's task was to make sure Micki didn't wind up as another one of Damian's victims. "The truth is that you can't understand these kids. And if you can't do that, then you can't help them."

He watched the blood drain from her face, and her hand shook slightly as she raised her empty coffee mug to her lips. But she didn't leave. Instead, she set her mug down and met his eyes. Almost. "So, you were shot in the leg and then, instead of taking a desk job during the extensive rehab phase, you chose to work in the very school that spawned the problem you're trying to fight."

"Where else would I go?" he muttered.

"You can understand these kids." It wasn't a question. "Ergo, you can help them."

He almost laughed. "Nah, I'm not that idealistic. I'm just tracking the drugs, Miss Becker. And if I keep some kids alive while I'm at it, all the better." He dumped a packet of sugar into the dregs of his coffee. "They're our future, after all," he half-sneered.

She was silent a long time. She hadn't even finished her brownie, but her coffee was long gone. In the end, she nodded and smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, Mr. DeLuce. I appreciate your candor."

He blinked, startled. Worse, she was standing up again. "Have I just been dismissed?" he asked, his tone harsher than he intended.

"I got the impression that you were dismissing me." She lifted her chin. "Look, I know it's hard. And I know you think I belong back in the land of Richie Rich. But the truth is, I want to be here. I want to show these kids that someone cares, even if it means I get intimidated in my classroom, laughed at by other teachers and..." She sighed. "And I end up a bitter, old woman who tried too hard. If that's where I'm headed, so be it. But I won't reevaluate until I start getting mean." She held his gaze for a long moment, then added, "Mean like you."

And with that, she turned and walked out.

He was on his feet and moving after her as fast as his bad leg would allow—which was decently fast—but she had no interest in talking to him and was quickly out of sight. Truthfully, he didn't blame her. He'd come on pretty strong. But it bothered him that he'd been exactly what she'd accused him of—mean—and still had not accomplished his goal. He hadn't nudged her away from anything but himself.

"Micki, wait!" He hadn't a clue what he was going to say to her, but... He frowned, peering at the parking lot in the cold half-light of the overcast afternoon. The lot was tiny, hemmed in on all sides by straggly bushes and tall, dirty buildings. Nothing unusual for this side of Indianapolis, but something was off. Nothing he could see. A sound? He only heard cars. Smell? Coffee, exhaust, and...cologne? A fancy kind, favored by some rich folks. Rich folks plus Damian Ralston, hell-spawn of Washington High.

Where had Micki gone? She'd turned left and then... There! She was walking down an alleyway to her car, and sure enough, there was Damian cutting in behind her. And where one reprobate went, the others were sure to follow.

She didn't notice, of course. The woman had no survival skills. Joe quickly considered his options. Normally, he'd just charge up and warn the gang off. He might even be able to do it hard enough to keep Damian and his crew off her for the rest of the school year. But that would only give Micki a false sense of security. Eventually she'd challenge the wrong gangbanger and end up dead. He had to give her a good scare. And what better way to do that than by letting Damian and his gang at her? Not for long. Just long enough to make her appropriately terrified. Meanwhile, Joe was here to make sure it didn't get out of hand.

He followed about seven steps behind, slipping behind cars and generally feeling like an idiot. He wasn't low profile enough to be really hidden, and not out in the open enough to be acting normally. He stopped at the corner of the building, hugging the brick wall as he crouched behind a bush. Micki had almost made it to her car—a ridiculously chipper yellow Beetle—when Damian stepped around to confront her. She jumped, obviously startled. Her shoulders tightened and she shied backward but there was nowhere for her to go. She butted up against a delivery truck.

Joe couldn't hear what was said, though he tried. The group's body language told him exactly what he expected: Damian was being threatening, Micki was scared, especially as a couple more thugs slid around from the other side of the truck. None of them looked out of control—not even Micki—so there really wasn't any danger to her. Damian was just trying to scare the teacher who had embarrassed him. It was something gang leaders did. And yet...

He couldn't do it. He couldn't watch this happen, even if it was the best thing for Micki in the long run. He pushed out of his crouch and stomped up to Damian. "You got a special interest here, Mr. Ralston?"

Micki visibly relaxed, and Joe felt a brief surge of male pride that his presence could reassure her. But Damian turned, a shit-eating grin on his face. That was never good. "I knew you were around here somewhere. Joey wouldn't let a fine woman like Miss Mouse wander alone." Then the bastard reached out to touch Micki's face.

He only made it halfway. "Touch her, Damian, and I'll kill you." Joe spoke the words quietly, but everyone froze at his tone. Even he was startled by the vehemence in his voice.

Damian smirked, but he drew his hand back. "Got a thing going here, Joey?"

Joe raised his eyebrows and tried to stare Damian down. It didn't work. Damian was hopped up on something, but it didn't seem like drugs. No, this kid got off on something entirely different: power, pain, maybe even blood. Whatever it was, Joe didn't want Micki right in the middle of it.

"You're pushing it, Mr. Ralston. Be on your way."

"Aw, no, I ain't." Damian lounged back on his heels, the smirk back. "I came here specifically to see you."

"Then you got no business with Miss Becker." He glanced at Micki. "Go on. Get in your car."

Her eyes widened, but predictably she shook her head. She wasn't leaving him. Joe grimaced. Very soon now, he was going to have to explain to her the difference between being a help in a fight and a liability. Meanwhile, Damian gestured to his friends. "I found someone, Joe. Someone who says he belongs to you."

Joe frowned, but Micki gasped in shock. From behind the truck, another couple of punks dragged out a boy beaten to a pulp. Stevie Crames—a kid who had come to Joe once to warn that Damian was power-mad and going to get someone killed. Joe's breath squeezed tight as he quickly scanned the kid. Stevie was conscious—which meant he was alive—but all that blood!

Joe started to move around Damian, but Micki got there first, wrapping her arms around the kid. "What have you done?" she cried. "Oh my God!"

The thugs released Stevie to Micki, who staggered under his sudden weight.

"Call 911," Joe said. His voice was tight, the guilt threatening to eat him alive. The boy was beaten up, but not dying. In truth, he looked like he was conscious and pissed off. Good. He wasn't as bad as he first looked, which meant Joe's priority was to get control of this situation. A quick scan told Joe he faced one gun—on Damian—and four knives. Not good odds, given his bad knee and two civilians who needed protection.

"Found him over there," Damian continued, waving vaguely toward the school. "Said he's been talking with you, Joe, and some people don't like that much."

Joe narrowed his eyes and put on his best confused frown as he scanned Stevie again. "Who is that?"

"It's Stevie Crames," Micki said from around her cell phone.

Joe blinked and stared. "I haven't been talking to Stevie Crames!" he lied. Then he stepped up to Damian, not needing to fake his fury. "You beat up a kid for no damn reason! Jesus, Damian, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Damian lifted his hands, his grin still in place. "I don't know what you're talking about, Joey. We jes' found him, right, boys?"

Right on cue, the other kids' heads bobbed up and down. "That's right! We just found him!" They spoke with so much enthusiasm that Joe knew they were terrified. Which meant that Damian really had gone off the deep end. That happened sometimes: a kid got delusions of grandeur and made all sorts of bizarre mistakes. The problem was keeping the innocents out of the crossfire while a gang leader self-destructed. Innocents like Micki, and Stevie, who had just lifted his head. He was down on one knee, but struggling with Micki's support to make it to his feet. "I told you," he growled to Damian. "I ain't talked to nobody."

"What kind of leader are you?” Joe pressed. "Were you bored and just decided to beat up one of your followers?" He let his gaze wander to the other boys. "Damn, I'd be scared just hanging around a psycho like you. No telling who you'll turn on next."

It was a calculated risk. Stirring the pot when outnumbered five to one wasn't the safest move, but anything he could do to erode Damian's power base was a good thing. And from the way a couple of the boys shuffled their feet, he had scored.

"Nice try, Joey," Damian sneered, "but I got reliable information. Stevie's been blabbing."

Joe put all his sincerity into his voice. "Not to me, he hasn't."

Doubt flashed briefly in Damian's eyes. It was a split second of hesitation, but that was all that was needed. Not for Joe, who was busy trying to think of the next thing to say. As much as he wanted to smash his fist right through the gang leader's face, it was best to defuse the situation. He never guessed that Stevie would roar suddenly to life.

With a strangled bellow, the kid flew out of Micki's arms and straight at the gang leader. Joe tried to intercept. The last thing he needed was more of Stevie's blood on his conscience. But the kid was too fast. The best Joe could do was lunge for Damian's gun as the gangster tried to quick-draw. He didn't get a hand on the gun, but he managed to grip Damian's forearm. A shot rang out, but it went wide; then all three of them—Damian, Stevie, and Joe—tumbled to the ground in a heap.

Stevie was on top, his fists flailing as he tried to bash in Damian's face. Joe was struggling to gain control of the gun, which was waving every which way. Damian was screaming, "Get him off me! Get him—"

Joe had enough focus to see the other thugs draw their knives. Shit. Then he saw Micki leap forward as well. Double shit. He needed to get that gun! Almost...

Stevie must have seen the gun. Pretty amazing with all the blood flying, but he managed a backhanded blow that struck both Joe's fingers and Damian's forearm at the same time. The strike was fast and wild. Joe's fingers went numb, Damian's arm snapped back and the gun flew out of his hand.

Joe twisted as fast as he could. The gun clattered against a tree and dropped near one of the gangsters. No way could he get there first, but Joe still tried. He rolled toward it, reaching as far as he could. He missed by a mile as one of the boys—Bobby McCoy—picked up the weapon. Worse, the kid obviously knew how to handle it. He gripped it like an expert and was bringing it to bear on Stevie.

"No!" screamed Micki, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"Don't do it, Bobby!" Joe called, his voice as loud and authoritative as possible. It wasn't going to work; Bobby had too much adrenaline in him. His eyes were wide and his leader was still getting pummeled. The best Joe could do was throw himself forward and pray. He was already shoving himself upright, his bad knee screaming all the way, when a black blur rushed past.

That's all he saw at first—a black blur—as Micki kicked the gun away. It took Joe a moment to realize he'd seen her feet, and her sensible black shoes, leap forward in a perfect kung fu kick. He blinked, but didn't have time to gape. The other boys were entering the fray, and Stevie was tiring. His blows were less wild, his screams more like gasps. In a moment, Damian was going to flip the boy over and start killing him.

There was no time! Joe managed to shift his weight enough to stop one gangster, but the other two were already drawing their knives.

"Don't be stupid!" he bellowed, and was gratified to see them hesitate.

Which was when the tornado hit. Micki flew in between him and the nearest boy, drawing her arm down on the gangster's forearm hard enough to break it. Joe was sure he heard a snap. He heard a muffled, "Oh! Sorry!" from her; then she moved on. And it all happened before the kid even managed a scream.

"Micki—," Joe began, but she wasn't listening. Running past him, she leapt into a perfect karate lunge, leg extended as she flew over Damian and Stevie and caught the next kid square in the chest.

"No! No!" she cried. "This isn't right!"

The kid fell backward with an oomph, but Micki wasn't done yet. Still in the air, one foot planted in the boy's chest, she backflipped and clocked the last kid in the face.

"Oh my!" she cried. "That's not what I meant!"

The first kid was falling. His butt hit the ground, then his head, landing hard enough that Joe could feel the impact a full seven feet away. The other kid simply spun and went down.

Joe managed to gasp while Micki landed like a cat on all fours. Her eyes were huge. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" she gasped, sounding exactly like a woman in hysterics. But then she sprang forward. She struck Stevie gently on his side. How she managed to control her motions so well was beyond incredible, but the boy didn't even grunt. He toppled off Damian to land with a groan on his back, right in front of Joe.

When Micki dropped again, she was eye-level with a furious Damian. His nose was bleeding and his eyes were swelling shut, but his fist looked huge as it slammed forward right toward her face. She caught it neatly in her palm. The impact sounded like a splat of a rotten tomato, and then she spun her wrist, twisting Damian's hand. He went down with a scream.

Micki pulled back and looked Joe in the eye. All around, the gangbangers were screaming in pain. Well, not the one who had been knocked unconscious.

"How...? What...?” Joe sputtered, unable to form a coherent thought.

Micki blinked, and he saw the tears that had formed in her eyes. Her lip trembled. "I don't believe in violence!" she whispered. He took a step forward, but she abruptly tensed. Faster than he thought possible, she slipped forward, picked up the gun and neatly dropped it into his hands. But she didn't stop moving. She kept running, right by him, and within seconds she had disappeared down the street.