hand of hate 01 - destiny blues Read Free

and pulled down the legs of my culottes, hoping for some air movement, but no luck. Between the relentless weight of the stuffy air and the eerie silence of the men, I had that hinky feeling real cops sometimes get when all hell was about to break loose.     
    My gorge rose again, and I forced myself to swallow. The line of black and whites exited the lot as I fired up my scooter. Ten seconds later, all six patrol cars hit lights and sirens, and six powerful engines thrummed up Seneca Avenue. A silent alarm, or maybe another body. I hoped not. Things were bad enough with the FBI running the show now. Any other day, I might consider following them, but not today. Nothing was going to keep me from my teratosis extermination appointment with Merle.    
    Focus Mattie . I waited, tapping my fingers against the handle grips for a last tardy civilian to pass by, before I eased the trike out of my parking space. My route today covered the northeast part of the city, and the sooner I reached my quota, the sooner I’d be out of this heat. After my appointment, I might mosey over to McGill’s tonight for the Dart ‘N Drown tournament. Every cop in town, and most of Parking Control would be at the bar. I’d hang with the gang and get the four-one-one then.    
    I’d cruised to within twenty yards of the exit of the lot when I spotted a large brown toad emerge from the landscaped shrubbery and begin to crawl across the pockmarked asphalt. The kudzu summer weather brings them out. I did a double take when I caught sight of the three-inch fangs.  
    I shuddered. That was no toad, that was another stinkin’ djemon. What I was seeing was impossible. I already had a djemon. Once you had one, you couldn’t get another. I looked around, but there was no one else nearby. I shouldn’t be able to even see this guy.    
    Angry frustration tore through me in an instant, and raw adrenaline shot through my veins. White-hot fury surged, kicking me into action. I goosed the gas on the three-wheeled scooter and veered directly for it.  
    I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but the smug expression on the thing’s ugly face goaded me like the flag on an expired parking meter.    
    “Eat this, grease spot!”    
    My cell phone began to ring. I ignored it. My grip on the handlebars slipped, but didn’t deter my resolve to squash the disgusting creature flat. My chin dropped, my arms braced rigidly against the handles, the throttle wide open. The scooter whined in protest, but we were approaching warp speed now: nothing could stop me.    
    I didn’t see the pedestrian until almost too late. My life flashed before my eyes as I jerked on the handlebars to avoid him. Idiot! The front wheel hit a pothole and the steering wobbled. Queasy prickles of uncertainty stung my cheeks. The scooter wasn’t made for quick maneuvering. The left rear wheel achieved lift-off, and the machine started to tip. I slammed my weight back, but the momentum was too strong. Unable to let up on the throttle, I was no longer in control of the scooter. Images of bumpers, metal rims, and tires flew by as I careened unchecked across the parking lot, accompanied by the shrilling of the darn phone. This was not going to be good.    
    The trike smashed headlong into a fire hydrant. With a crunching jolt, I was airborne, and continued on my trajectory, weightless and screaming toward inevitable disaster. Instinctively, I put my hands up and braced for impact as I slid over the trunk of a parked car. I hit the street hard, rolled and tumbled to a stop in the westbound lane, the demon breath knocked clean out of me. My phone gave a final ring and was silent.    
    I crouched on hands and knees, gulping for air in the roadway, fighting like a landed eel, all my cocky bravado melted to a puddle of mortification on the asphalt. My heart raced with unspent adrenaline and I shook uncontrollably. The realization of my own idiocy descended with the weight of impending doom.