Naked (2 page)

Sure, they weren't brutal rapists. But they had other faults going for them. Unreliability. Dishonesty. Cruelty.

THE SUN WAS THREATENING TO
show itself.

Scum Exodus

Gaia kept praying the night would last just a little longer. Somehow the days were worse than the nights. People usually complained that the opposite was true; after all, there must have been a thousand sad, lame, cheesy songs about “lonely nights.” But Gaia found the sunny days
so much more depressing.
All those kids screaming and laughing in the playgrounds. What the hell made them so happy that they had to scream? Was it the melting black sludge that lined the sidewalks—the last remnants of snow? Or the litter? The torn coffee cups and discarded syringes? The filth that seemed to ooze from every stinking corner of this city?

That was the problem with the days: You could see every miserable detail so clearly. Yet somehow the real garbage—the
human
garbage—managed to stay indoors.

Night was different, though. At night the scum of New York scurried out of their little holes and crevices and wrought havoc. Just like cockroaches. Turn out the lights, and they all came out to party. Turn the lights back on, and they all vanished. Judging from the deep blue of the predawn sky, Gaia had only another half hour or so
before the sun came out and
the scum exodus began.
She still hadn't cracked any heads.

As long as there were psychos and sickos to pummel, Gaia had a hobby to occupy the meaningless and seemingly endless hours of solitude. Sleep had become a nonissue. Sleep was for the weak. Actually, she had simply been incapable of sleeping for the last few nights (four, five, six?). Which was why she was roaming Avenue D and Ninth Street at five-thirty in the morning again. Looking to kick the asses of the bad guys.

Alphabet City seemed to be mapped out specifically for crime. The farther down the alphabet you went, the more crime you found. Avenue B was worse than Avenue A, Avenue C was worse than Avenue B, and so on. And after midnight. . . forget about it. You might as well wear a sign saying, “Sell me drugs or mug me, please.” Perfect for Gaia.
Question: What do you call a young blond girl, alone on Avenue D after midnight? Answer: Bait.

There had already been one attempt to mug her. One very lame attempt. A guy had pushed her into a dark alley, hoping to do God knows what. Gaia hadn't even had to engage the poor idiot in combat, though; after she'd disarmed him—kicking the knife from his hands with a left jump kick—he'd taken off into the shadows. But there was usually more action—

“Get back in the car, bitch!”

Gaia swung her head around.

Not twenty feet behind her, a pudgy, balding guy in one of those
neo-mafia-style jogging suits
had forced a woman in a tight red dress against the hood of a beat-up car. A flicker of adrenaline leaped through Gaia's body.
Finally,
she thought, unable to keep from smiling. It was about time.

“I don't think the date's over until I say it's over,” the guy hissed.

“Stop it,” the woman cried, desperately struggling to wriggle away from him. “You're drunk!”

Gaia could hear the plaintive note of fear in the woman's voice, wondering even as she broke into a sprint what it must be like to feel
afraid
. . . afraid of this ridiculously overbuffed oaf. Energy surged through her veins as she rocketed toward them. Now the guy was forcing himself on the woman, leaning into her and slobbering all over her with sloppy kisses.

“Stop it!” she shrieked, squirming. “Stop—”

“Shut up and stay still! You're just making it worse.”

No, you are,
Gaia retorted silently. She threw the full weight of her body against him, grabbing his shoulder with one hand, spinning, tearing him away from his victim.

“What the hell?” he shouted, eyes blazing.

His gaze locked with Gaia's. For a moment he just gaped at her, breathing hard. Then he smiled.

“Cool,” he muttered. “A threesome.”

This poor man. Gaia almost smiled again. He was still living under the delusion that he had control over his life—control over Gaia, control over this other woman. He still believed that he could force his will upon the world. Another hopeless sap,
a sagging mountain of testosterone gone awry.
Was the old cliché really true, that men were really all the same? Certainly the men in her life didn't rate much higher than Pudgy Jogging Suit here. Sure, they weren't brutal rapists. But they had other faults going for them. Unreliability. Dishonesty. Cruelty.

Kicking this guy's ass would be a pleasure. A way to take revenge upon all the slimeballs who made the world a more foul place, her father included. Yes, maybe this was her purpose in life: to teach the men of the world a lesson—that they were all swine, each in their own unique fashion.

Gaia's eyes flashed to the guy's victim. She was frozen, eyes wide, uncomprehending.

He took a step forward. “Come and get some, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Don't mind if I do,” Gaia said. She grabbed his wrist, yanking him off balance. His eyes widened. Before he could react, she'd used the momentum of his fall against him, whirling and flipping him on his backside. All two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh slammed to the pavement, hitting with a smack.

“Shit!” he howled. “What the—”

A swift kick to the ribs silenced him. He writhed helplessly on the sidewalk, looking less like a human and more like some kind of animal, a giant seal, maybe. She kicked him again.

“Help!” he gasped.

Normally Gaia took the minimalist approach to a battle, just as her father had trained her. It was a lesson from the
Go Rin No Sho:
Strike only where and when necessary. Defend yourself, but do no more.
Put an end to the struggle—and your opponent will think twice before he attacks again.
But tonight there was another feeling creeping up on her, an added and unexpected impulse. . . one that commanded her to increase the pain, even though the competition was a joke. She had just a little less control....

She stared down at him in a fighting stance. She barely noticed the woman in the red dress running away down the street. The second kick definitely wasn't called for. He was terrified now, struggling to crawl away from her on all fours. Why had she given him more than necessary? He was a total nonthreat. Kid stuff. Maybe it was her new philosophy? That nothing mattered at all—that there was no sense to any of it, no point to any of it, so why not give them everything you've got? No mercy.

Maybe ...

But the feeling ran deeper than that.

Gaia's legs began to go wobbly. It was expected, yet another phenomenon she did not understand—utter exhaustion after a battle. Given the brief and effortless nature of this particular fight, however, Gaia was confident she could make it home without actually fainting. Yes. Already she could feel strength returning. She blinked a few times, then turned and strode down the street, back in the direction of her apartment. The sun finally began to creep up from behind the projects lining the East River—marking the official end to another
sleepless night of wandering
and makeshift justice.

Not surprisingly, she didn't feel any better.

Best-Laid Plans

LOKI HAD YET TO TAKE CREATURE
comforts for granted. He'd only been out of prison for a week, so he could still appreciate a good croissant, a steaming cup of latte. As had become his new morning ritual, he sat alone at the glass table in the dining room of the spacious Chelsea
penthouse, picking at his breakfast and staring at the magnificent view of the Hudson River.

And as usual, he whispered a simple mantra.

“Tom is dead.”

True, his brother's demise wasn't a reality—not yet. But picturing the body, saying the words. . .
somehow these little rites brought the reality a little closer.
Loki had suffered long enough. He'd borne more than a man should ever have to bear: a brother who'd stolen his one true love, who'd fathered the daughter that should have rightly been his—who had delayed the greatest work of Loki's career with that unfortunate incarceration.

But that was behind him now. It was time to move forward.

Sighing, he tightened the sash on his bathrobe and booted up the sleek laptop beside his breakfast china. He was anxious to see the morning's status reports from his various contacts, anxious to see the plans that were once more falling into place. But thoughts of his brother lingered.

Once you are dead, Tom, Gaia will be free. Free at last to know who she truly is and all she is meant for.

A wistful smile grew on his face as the computer whirred and hummed, springing to life. The original plan was to kidnap Gaia. He should have known better than that all along. Yet Loki was sure his brother must have brainwashed the girl—filling her head with
all kinds of lies about “Uncle Oliver” and what an evil man he was. So naturally, he'd assumed he would have to capture Gaia—to deprogram her, in a way. But it looked like Tom had taken care of that for him.

His smile broadened. Once again his brother's naive, shortsighted devotion to duty had cost him his family. And created the perfect opportunity for Loki to step in. It would only be a matter of time before Gaia would come back to him of her own volition. She needed her flesh and blood. Loki knew that. He couldn't believe how consistently foolish Tom had proven himself to be. Didn't Tom realize that every abandonment only pushed Gaia closer to his brother? Was he really that stupid?

Yes. Of course. Because—

Loki's eyes flashed to the screen. His smile disappeared.

To:
L


From:
QR4


Enigma has shed surveillance. Backup unsuccessful. Please advise.


Reflexively Loki pounded his fist on the delicate glass table. The china rattled. How could Tom possibly have escaped surveillance? There were four men on him. Four men.
Monitoring one fool.
Enigma
indeed. Any idiot ought to be able to overcome Tom's tragically outdated cloaking tactics. This was an unacceptable glitch. Loki couldn't keep Tom out of the way if he couldn't find him.

He slammed the reply icon and tapped out his response, speaking every word through clenched teeth as he typed.

To:
QR4


From:
L

Completely unacceptable. There will be consequences. Check
all
contacts for a possible leak. If Enigma is out-of-pocket, then he is searching for information. If leak is discovered, do nothing. Report to me for further instructions.


Contact J for briefing. I want a full report from J confirming that the messenger is still in hand.


Do not fail again. You are expendable.


Loki minimized the memo program and quickly clicked open a secure instant message board. If Tom had shed his surveillance, he might very well be planning something for Gaia. Some further impediment to Loki's operation. And that particular notion only served to double Loki's deep frustration. If only he could just dispose of Tom right now. Just remove
him from the equation altogether, once and for all.

But at this moment the essential concern was Gaia. Only Gaia.

Instant Message Board 19
QR6-8 Status: Secure 05:25


L:
QR6—Report location


QR6:
Location—Ninth Street, Avenue D


L:
Report on subject


QR6:
Subject is repeating pattern for fifth consecutive night.


Loki's smile returned. Yes, he had no doubt that she would return to him soon, and of her own free will.

“BEEP
BEEP,
MAN! COMING THROUGH,
coming through! Keep
moving,
man!”

Standing Still

Ed Fargo somehow managed to lean out of the way just before the bike messenger lopped off his arm. But in the process of leaning, he lost one crutch—and then, in the process of grabbing for that crutch, he lost the other crutch. And then he fell on his
ass in the middle of the sidewalk.
America's Funniest Recovering Paraplegics.

Only Ed wasn't smiling.

Bike messengers. The scourge of New York City. There seemed to be no greater thrill for a bike messenger than to terrorize pedestrians while speeding down sidewalks at forty miles an hour. Ed watched the guy vanish in a sea of legs, fighting to grab his wayward crutch. Nobody bent to help him. Not that he was particularly surprised.
After all, these people were New Yorkers.
They had places to be. It was Monday morning in Greenwich Village. There was no time for the meek and injured.

At these times—meaning the times he had to force himself to his feet in a humiliating frenzy of red-faced pain and grunting—he had to remind himself that he was truly lucky. Screw that: he was probably one of the luckiest guys in the world. The experimental surgery had worked. He'd regained use of his legs. True, the word
use
was a little generous at the moment. But the doctors were confident that he'd be able to walk without crutches in a matter of months.

So why do I feel like shit ninety-nine percent of the time?

Actually, he knew the answer to that question. He'd known it the moment he'd jumped from his wheelchair to save Gaia Moore's life over a week ago. Because if the shock of that near-death experience had
taught him anything (besides the fact that standing within a ten-foot radius of Gaia Moore was extraordinarily hazardous to one's health), it was that he'd made a trade-off. A very confusing one.